MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND

THE TRUE SUPER BOWL

2012-02-06T00:43:00.000-05:00

The granddaddy of all football games is starting in a couple of hours. I'm sure it would be exciting to attend but I'm sorry to say, I haven't been to a live, professional football game in almost thirty-one years. Even worse, I've only been to four, ever!

SUPER BOWL XLVI, PITS THE GIANTS AGAINST THE PATRIOTS. I'LL WATCH THE GAME AT VEGA44'S HOUSE BUT I DON'T CARE WHO WINS BECAUSE THEY ARE MY SECOND AND THIRD LEAST FAVORITE TEAMS. THE ONLY SCENARIO WHERE I WOULD EVER ROOT FOR ONE OF THEM WOULD BE IF THEY WERE PLAYING THE MUCH HATED COWBOYS...(aka, THE JUNKEES OF THE GRIDIRON). THEREFORE, IF THE COWBOYS WERE PLAYING THE MARTIANS...I'D ROOT FOR THE MARTIANS.

It's hard to imagine but in my entire life, I've only attended one playoff game...but it was baseball. I remember the circumstance well. I was at Brooklyn College (BC) with a friend and his two friends. An hour before game time, we heard there were still "good tickets" available and impulsively decided to cut class.

DESPITE MISSING A CRUCIAL REVIEW IN UNDERWATER BASKET WEAVING-101, I STILL GOT THE "C," AND EVENTUALLY GRADUATED BC...ON TIME.

The Mets were playing the Cincinnati Reds, (October 9, 1973) in the National League Championship Series. That day, we could have eliminated the much heralded, "Big Red Machine," with a win. So it was shocking that with so much riding on that single game, (the other major storyline was, Pete Rose had beat-up a Mets player the day before), that we could walk-up to the box office and get seats. The Mets were heavy underdogs and of course, when I went, they annoyingly lost, on a Pete Rose homer in the twelfth inning, (but won the next game and went to the World Series).

The three things I came away from that game were, the Mets did better without me in attendance, Pete Rose had a haircut like Moe from, "THE THREE STOOGES," and despite 50,786 fans in Shea Stadium...the twenty-four, half-inning breaks, were enough to keep the lines for the men's room manageable.

On the other hand, the lines to the bathroom are never manageable at football games. I learned this lesson early when my school trip in third grade, (December 14, 1963...three weeks after the Kennedy assassination), was to the antiquated Polo Grounds, (the New York Jets lost to the Buffalo Bills, 19-10). It would be the last pro game played there before that old rattle trap was torn down.

LOCATED AT WEST 155th STREET IN MANHATTAN, THE POLO GROUNDS WAS BUILT IN 1890, AS A...GROUNDS FOR POLO...DUH! THEREFORE ITS ODD CONFIGURATION WAS CRAZY FOR BASEBALL...AND BEST KNOWN FOR ITS CAVERNOUS, 505 FEET TO CENTER FIELD. NO HOME RUN EVER MADE IT THAT FAR BUT MOST OLD-TIMERS REMEMBER WILLIE MAYS' SENSATIONAL, OVER THE SHOULDER CATCH OFF VIC WERTZ IN THE 1954 WORLD SERIES...IT WAS A CRAPPY FOOTBALL VENUE TOO .

During the preceding summer, I had been to the Polo Grounds, (Mets games), twice with my dad. I was eight, so for security reasons, he always escorted me to the men's room. But on the school trip, I was left to my own devices. So during the only break in the action, (half time)...I joined a polar stampede version of, "The Great Oklahoma Land Rush," to the urination station. A mere 6,526 people attended the game because it was nineteen degrees, the field was frozen and the Jets stunk. Nevertheless, it seemed like every one of them, went to pee at the same time.

IN 1963 THE HOME ATTENDANCE FOR JETS GAMES TOPPED OFF AT 22,000. LINEBACKER LARRY GRANTHAM ONCE SAID, "THE CROWDS WERE SO SMALL THAT IT WAS EASIER FOR THE FANS TO INTRODUCE THEMSELVES TO THE PLAYERS."

The Polo Grounds had another feature that required my dad to be my wing man. From beneath the stands, a narrow, rickety catwalk led to the washroom. The slightest vibration made me feel like I was on one of the rope bridges with wooden slats, from jungle movies. I didn't have a fear of heights but looking down at the spectators below was completely out of the question. So, bravery had nothing to do with my motivation to solo across this span...that's how bad I needed, "to go."

The situation got worse because the line was out the door. I was ready to explode as I inched closer to relief. Then between the huge (adult) overcoat-clad bodies, I caught a glimpse and remembered the immense, white tiled latrine on the floor that I was expected to do my business in.

At the head of the line, elbow to elbow with men, I was afraid that I'd fall into the golden canal. Harsh voices, using angry sounding words that I was unfamiliar with, threateningly "encouraged" me from behind. I tried, but nothing came out. It was a sad case of performance anxiety. I was embarrassed when I failed to launch and soon relinquished my spot. Seconds later, I was dying to go all over again. Luckily, even with the putrid stink, I survived...when a drunk vacated the sanctuary of a lockless stall.

I LOOKED THROUGH 80 GAZILLION GOOGLE PHOTOS AND NONE DID THE POLO GROUNDS' TROUGH URINAL ANY JUSTICE.

I went to two more Jets games, (1965 and 1977). In both cases, I was savvy enough to go potty way before (after) half time.

The last NFL game I went to was on November 15, 1981. My wife Sue and I were living in Las Vegas and we flew up to San Francisco, to see SLW. To spice up our visit, he got us 49ers tickets, for a game against the Cleveland Browns.

*JOE MONTANA LED THE 49ers THAT YEAR TO THEIR FIRST SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONSHIP. DURING THE REGULAR SEASON, THEY WON TWELVE OF THEIR LAST THIRTEEN GAMES, (OF COURSE, WE SAW THE 15-12 LOSS TO THE BROWNS). *MONTANA WOULD GO ON TO WIN ALL FOUR OF HIS SUPER BOWL APPEARANCES WITH SAN FRANCISCO.

Tons of rain hit the Bay Area, in the days leading up to our game. On that Sunday, we woke up to a raw, breezy, drizzly morning. Even worse, we found out that the Candlestick Park parking lot was closed due to flooding. The TV news urged ticket holders to use public transportation.

SLW drove us to a special service bus stop, at a strip mall in San Leandro...in his black, 1959 Volkswagen Bug. When our bus finally came, the dampened three of us shoved our way in and further discomforted the other packed-in sardines.

When we got off, we could see that the empty parking lot was underwater. However outside our gate, makeshift accommodations were made for about fifty side-by-side buses.

SUE WAS NEITHER A FOOTBALL FAN OR A LOVER OF INCLEMENT WEATHER. SO SHE GLADLY RELEGATED HERSELF TO WANDERING AROUND WITH THE CAMERA OR MAKING HOT CHOCOLATE RUNS IN THE FIRST HALF AND BEER RUNS IN THE SECOND HALF.

The 49ers were the hottest team in the league. They were expected to shellac the Browns but the wind, rain and poor field conditions helped keep the score down.

I LEARNED THAT IT WAS BAD JUDGEMENT AT HALF TIME, TO TRY TO GET PICTURES OF THE PLAYERS. ALSO, I'LL HAVE TO ASK SLW WHAT HE'S HOLDING?

Early in the fourth quarter, my beverage intake and the psychological trauma of the liquefied elements took their toll on my bladder. The game was getting exciting so rather than miss any of the building excitement, I made a childish decision to squirm in my seat rather than take care of my business.

The 49ers got the ball back with a minute and a half to go. A sudden squall dropped sheets of sideways rain on us as I jibed Sue, "If they drive at least thirty yards and kick a field goal, we're going to overtime..." It was one of the few times she ever physically abused me.

WHEN SUE MUSSED ME UP, IT WAS TWO YEARS BEFORE RALPHIE IN, "A CHRISTMAS STORY," WAS WARNED THAT HE'D SHOOT HIS EYE OUT, IF HE GOT A RED RYDER BB-GUN. OF COURSE MY MANHOOD REQUIRED ME TO LIE ABOUT MY FACIAL INJURIES AND SAY, "THE 49ers WENT INTO THE SHOT-GUN AND IT BACKFIRED ON ME."

In the closing seconds, Joe Montana indeed led the team into field goal range but another player's stupid personal foul penalty, ended any hope of even trying to tie the game. When the final gun went off, I bolted to the men's room. I think all 52,000 people were ahead of me. I was forced to use, "PLAN-B." Through my yellowing eyes, I told Sue and SLW that I'd meet them outside and ran down the ramp. I remembered the sea of buses outside and made it my mission to find nirvana between them.

AT THE BACK OF THE SECOND LAYER OF BUSES, I FOUND A CONVENIENT CLUMP OF BUSHES. IT WAS IN THE PRIVACY OF THIS EDEN-LIKE SETTING THAT I PREPARED TO END MY DISCOMFORT.

A nanosecond before releasing, "the hounds," someone appeared in my peripheral vision. My mind went into damage control and like a sluice gate clamping down on my urine valve, I painfully shut down my waterworks. At the point of exhaustion without spurting even a drop, I turned to face the expected arresting officer. Instead, it was Sue focusing the camera. After a good deal of friendly two-way profanity, I used the parking lot floor as the true super (toilet) bowl.

PAMPERED, IN DISNEY WORLD

2012-01-30T00:43:00.000-05:00

In May 1974, on our way home from Brooklyn College, RBOY and I went to Grabstein's Delicatessen in Canarsie. I don't remember what he ate but I got a hot dog and a Dr. Brown's CEL-RAY. But we didn't go there to eat, our true purpose was to get change for the phone.

THREE STEPS UP FROM THE MAIN DINING ROOM, BETWEEN THE TWO RESTROOMS, GRABSTEIN'S HAD ONE PAY PHONE. THAT'S WHERE RBOY CALLED THE DISNEY WORLD EMPLOYMENT OFFICE.

We thought it would be cool to have a working vacation in Florida. So when we found out jobs were plentiful, (they made no offer over the phone), we were inspired to take a chance and head down in June.

It should be noted that previous blogs like March 15, 2010's, "TAKING THE SCENIC ROUTE TO HARTFORD HALL," dealt with getting the Disney job or what happened afterwards. Today's column is different because it's about the job itself.

RBOY and I were straggly from our twenty-four hour trip when we stepped off a Greyhound in front of the Disney World employment center. In the nearly full waiting room, every applicant, as well as the staff, fixed on us because our dirty, hippie-like garb didn't constitute dressing for success. The male candidates were wearing jackets and ties while the females were in dresses. Only two people weren't in their Sunday best and those two people (us) stood out even more because we were dragging luggage.

Once we worked out some complications involving reliable transportation and a place to stay, we were hired. Our choice was, flipping burgers or sweeping the floor. In a unanimous vote, we became sweepers, at $2.40 an hour, (minimum wage was $2.25). However, we were offered an additional five cents an hour to follow the horses after each parade...again in a unanimous vote, we turned down the nickel.

A big part of Disney's orientation/propaganda was to instill the concept that it was a privilege to work for such a pristine company that was emblematic of truth, justice and the American way. Our New York street smarts didn't help us...we were just as "swept-up" in the excitement as our fellow, (mostly local Floridian), new employees. Our idealism was so strong that we had no preconceived notions about the actual job and were prepared to work hard.

RBOY was assigned to Frontierland. He had the added responsibility (for no extra pay), of refilling the men's room paper supply as well as reporting toilet back-ups.

Together with a cute blond from orientation, I reported to our supervisor in Fantasyland. He turned out to be such a malingerer that I only saw him three other times in an official capacity, during the month I worked there. His lack of dedication shot-down so much of the orientation spewage that had concentrated on the Protestant work ethic, (it should also be noted that my blond cohort was promoted to a merchandising supervisor after three days...we were told that NOBODY could even apply for a transfer before being on the job for ninety days. So an actual promotion was supposedly, completely out of the question).

On my first day, way before I comprehended the Disney hypocrisy, I absorbed all my responsibilities.

THE PARK HAD A GAZILLION UMBRELLA TABLES. ALMOST DAILY, IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, CENTRAL FLORIDA HAD A SHORT, WINDY CLOUDBURST. THE SWEEPERS HAD TO CLOSE THE UMBRELLAS DURING THESE STORMS, REOPEN THEM LATER AND DRY THE TABLES.

Just before five on my first day, the wind picked up, swarms of gray clouds eliminated the blue sky and it started to pour. Me and Blondie, like lunatics, ran around closing the endless sea of umbrellas. Somewhere along the line, I wasn't careful and the lowering mechanism gouged the side of my hand, took a chunk of skin and made me bleed.

IT ONLY TOOK ONE DOSE OF THE DISNEY KOOL-AID FOR RBOY AND I TO GET SO CAUGHT UP IN THE HOOPLA THAT DURING OUR FIRST WEEK, WE SHOWED UP EARLY AND PLAYED TOURIST.

A few days later, on our lunch hour (unpaid, forty-five minutes), RBOY and I sat with other sweepers. At first, they were seriously telling us that Walt Disney was frozen alive. Then until science discovers a cure for his disease, he's being stored in a liquid nitrogen, cryogenic chamber, in the upper most spire of Cinderella's Castle.

Someone made fun of the "ugly" employees who oversaw Mr. Disney's body. RBOY and I didn't know what they were talking about. Until it was pointed out that all the workers with obvious flaws, in either looks or personality were forced to work "underground," so as to not be seen by the public. Another sweeper said, "When you work for 'The Rat,' (Mickey Mouse), even if you only have a hickey on your neck, you better hide it or you'll never see the light of day till it clears up." I thought it was terrible way to treat people but changed the subject.

To stay somewhat on topic, I complained about Blondie's mysterious disappearance from my section, (and that she wasn't replaced). It was shocking that all these guys knew her and told us about her meteoric rise to lower management. I said, "I thought there were no promotions for ninety days?" One of the others scoffed, "There's one surefire method..." He saw my blank expression of naivete and added, "Special consideration for sexual favors." I was disappointed in the system and moaned, "All that AND I have to close all those damned umbrellas alone?" Someone else said, "You don't really close those idiotic contraptions?" "Well yeah," I said, "that's a big part of the job." Then I showed him the giant band-aid that extended into my palm and said, "Those things are dangerous, I got nipped the first day." He leaned in close and whispered, "As soon as the wind picks up, whether there's thunder or lightning or not, they close the 'SWISS SKY RIDE.'" RBOY said, "So?" Another kid jumped in, "That's where the sweepers goof-off until the rain stops and the wind dies down."

DURING MY FIRST RAINY DAY VISIT TO THE FANTASYLAND SKY RIDE LANDING, I FOUND TEN GOLD-BRICKING SWEEPERS UP THERE. THEY SAT ON THE FLOOR TO AVOID BEING SEEN FROM BELOW AND SMOKED CIGARETTES WHILE LUXURIATING FROM THE WATER COOLER AS IF IT WAS WINE. IT WOULD BECOME A RARITY FOR ME TO MISS THIS EXTRA FORTY-MINUTE BREAK UP THERE.

The center of my territory was the, "CAROUSEL." In front of it, I swept through, "CINDERELLA'S CASTLE," including both ramps on the other side. To the left of the merry-go-round, I was responsible beyond, "MR. TOAD'S WILD RIDE," to the "SWISS SKY RIDE." To the right, my area stretched past, "TWENTY-THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA," to the "GRAND PRIX," race cars.

While on duty, it was a necessity to get out of the sun. Therefore, to fight the monotony within the legal boundaries of my job description, I found it both refreshing and rewarding to sweep the air-conditioned shops. Overwhelmingly, the stores were run by girls. I began a flirtatious relationship with "C" from the stroller rental service, "D" from the perfumery and "M" from the camera shop.

"M" TOOK THIS PICTURE WITH ONE OF THE POLAROIDS THAT SHE SOLD, (DEMONSTRATED). I BELIEVE THAT WAS THE LAST TIME I HAD A 32-INCH WAIST.

Of the three girls, I liked "M" the best. But she lived thirty miles from me and we both didn't have a car. Soon, I was dating "C." She also lived far away but had a car. In the end, the distance and scheduling clashes broke us up. However, "D" lived in my apartment complex, so we spent a lot of quality time together over the course of two weeks...before going our separate ways.

At work, I also gravitated to the shady spots that the ride operators worked in. The two big exceptions were, the Carousel because its repetitive, loud tune drove me crazy and "IT'S A SMALL WORLD," because its music was a hundred times worse.

When my friendship with ticket takers at the other rides blossomed, I became insulted that many of them made me work harder, by throwing the stubs on the floor. The problem ended when I went to sweep up the litter and was asked not to. Then I noticed that they weren't ripping them in two...and when no one was looking, they scooped "the unused tickets," off the ground, for their own use.

THE RIDES WERE PRICED IN FIVE CATEGORIES, (A, B, C, D and E). AN "E" RIDE WAS THE MOST EXPENSIVE, NINETY CENTS.

To the dismay of the ticket takers, I made it a habit of keeping their area extra tidy, (more so on the expensive rides). Soon, I took "C," (the girl from the stroller rental), to the park on our day off. The next day, I realized that I still had a surplus of "free" tickets that I could never use up. When I mentioned that to "C" and her girlfriend from the gift shop, the friend said, "Give them to me. Then come in (to her store) without your uniform and I'll give you a gigantic discount." When my face soured "C" said, "In the 'Tragic Kingdom,' what goes around, comes around. Jeez, when I was dating Johnny from the 'lost and found,'  a lot of times, he called his brother or sister to come in on his break and make claims on jewelry, wallets and expensive souvenirs."

The next morning, RBOY and I came into her gift shop. She didn't flinch when I said I brought a friend and said, "Whatever you guys get, make sure you pick a bumper sticker too." She stopped speaking suddenly as her supervisor (Blondie), appeared from out of the storeroom. I couldn't believe my ears when this innocent looking girl added, "When that ~~fucking~~, psycho-bitch whore leaves, I'll wink when the coast is clear."

I was afraid that Blondie would recognize me. Plus, I was too inhibited to really go nuts. So I hid behind display racks and only picked one tee-shirt, a Happy, (from the Seven Dwarfs), figurine and a bumper sticker. RBOY did about the same. When Blondie left with a much older man in a suit, our connection winked. We could have bought-out the store because she treated us like regular customers...and only rang up the fifty-cent bumper sticker.

At my apartment complex in Kissimmee, at about the same time, I befriended "B" and "R" from rural South Carolina.  Disney hired them after RBOY and I. The only jobs left for them was as after hours, power-washers. Like us, they came down for a working vacation with an emphasis on socializing. When people hired after them got regular jobs with normal hours, they were pissed-off by Disney's double-dealings. They quit and got better jobs, (waiters at the nearby, RED LOBSTER).

From their complaints, I began seeing my job in a different light. It annoyed me that I worked Fantasyland alone. This was proven when a kid vomited and they sent for me during my break as if I was the only person on the planet who could handle such a delicate situation, (the sawdust-like product I used was called ZIP-ZORB. It was effective in masking the smell and drying the mess so it could be swept...but until it kicked in...yuck)! On another occasion, I almost needed ZIP-ZORB for myself when the malodorous machine, (AVAC), that used a vacuum system to flush trash away, got backed-up.

If that wasn't bad enough, on the Fourth of July, I was sent to my supervisor's supervisor.  "G" was a stranger to me. He was pale, hyper-skinny and about twenty-three. When he stood to shake my hand, I could see he was a gawky, six-foot six with a face full of acne and a pronounced Adam's apple.  Through his strong Southern accent, he spoke so slow that he came-off as dopey. While I agonized over every syllable he managed to utter, I imagined that he had to have worked exclusively in the bowels of underground Disney, before rising to this position...and even now, like a leper, he was restricted to,"backstage."

His main point was that this was the busiest day of the season and that he received a report that I wasn't smiling enough. I said something about the natural curvature of my face. He interrupted, "Son." Son? He lost me immediately.  "This is not a written reprimand. Let's just say I have some constructive criticism to help you thrive here in Disney and to help you with whatever future endeavors you might have."

I left angry. Back at my apartment, I spoke with "B" and "R." They made Red Lobster seem like a paradise, (ten minutes of travel, to a 5 1/2 hour day...Disney with travel was an eleven hour day. Waiters made about $50.00 a day...my Disney take home was $78.38, a week). I went to Red Lobster and was hired on the spot.

I went in to see "G" the next day. I politely said I had a better job. He said, "You shouldn't burn down your bridges." Then he urged me to give two days notice. I wasn't starting the new job till the weekend, so I agreed. During that next to last shift, I told my work friends the situation. In the photo shop "M" was surprised by my decision but was supportive. She said, "Let's make sure we have lunch together tomorrow."

I was really having trouble getting through the last few hours and was dreading coming back for another day. In my last twenty minutes, at the "DUMBO" ride, somebody left a white plastic bag on a bench. It was too big for my dust bin so I picked it up with my hand. I couldn't figure out what it was except that it was squishy, warm and felt kind of nice. Then a group of women crossed my path. One lady stopped, pointed at me and started laughing, "You know you're squeezing...Pampers?" Soon all of them were laughing and more people came over to see why. I shrugged, "What's a Pamper?" The woman broke out into hysterics, "It's a disposable diaper, stupid!"

I was mortified.  I cleared out my locker and didn't show-up for my last day.

"B," "R" AND ME. THE KISSIMMEE RED LOBSTER WAS GOOD TO ME. I WORKED A LOT LESS, OPENED A SAVINGS ACCOUNT AND BROUGHT A HUNK OF MONEY BACK UP NORTH, IN SEPTEMBER.

On the downside, friends from New York visited during Labor Day weekend. I still had a ton of free tickets so we went as group to Disney. At the same gift shop, I was prepared to be much bolder. When I saw the girl, I offered her a bribe with all my remaining tickets. I said, "I should make sure we all get bumper stickers, right?" She shook her, "Sorry. My new supervisor is a real hard-ass." Then she said, "What happened to you?" I said, "What do you mean?" She said, "'M' made a going away party for you...she really liked you...and you didn't show up." I felt awful and said, "Is she here today?" "No she went back to school. She was so pissed at you. She brought in a cake and about five of us got you gag gifts and..."

I started to tell her the gory details of how I got "pampered" but she turned away in disgust, to help a customer.

TELEPHONE CALL FOR DR. FREUD, DR. SIGMUND FREUD, TELEPHONE.

2012-01-23T00:43:00.000-05:00

A couple of nights ago, I dreamt that my father's band was coming off stage. I ran up the aisle to greet him as he came down the steps. Dad was pumping his saxophone triumphantly in the air as he turned to me. When we got eye contact, his face blossomed into a warm smile and he "high-fived" me as he went by. I woke up immediately. It was the best dream I've had in a long time.

I'm thrilled that I remembered that dream because so few make it into the old memory bank. But when I do, I have enjoyed some doozies. My all-time favorite dream was incredibly vivid and detailed. It happened when I was at Brooklyn College, (1974-1977).

For the sake of clarification, a "revenuer" is a government tax agent. My only knowledge of the term comes the revenuers who hunt down illegal moonshine stills.

ASSOCIATED, BUT NOT LIMITED TO APPALACHIAN HILLBILLIES, "MOONSHINE,"(aka, WHITE LIGHTNING, MOUNTAIN DEW, HOOCH OR TENNESSEE WHITE WHISKEY), IS LIQUOR, (MADE BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON) THAT IS NEITHER TESTED FOR QUALITY STANDARDS NOR TAXED.

Still operators paid big money to daredevils who were willing to transport the moonshine from the back woods to market. A real go-getter, squeezed in more than one "run" a night and at least doubled his payoff.

IN ADDITION TO LOCAL AUTHORITIES, THE RUNNERS HAD TO DODGE THE GOVERNMENT REVENUERS.

In order to increase their profit, the runners began to customize their cars. One way was to gut the car's interior, to maximize their cargo space.

SOMETIMES ONLY THE DRIVER'S SEAT WAS LEFT INTACT.

Then to assure a faster ride, the car engines were modified to maximize speed. The speed helped to make multiple trips possible but were also important because...in the early days...their cars could outrun anything the police were driving. An off-shoot of all this racing around (almost exclusively down south) gave rise to NASCAR.

MANY EARLY RACERS MADE THEM SELF EASY TARGETS BECAUSE THEY USED THE SAME CAR ON THE TRACK AS THEY USED FOR HAULING "SHINE."

Like a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde or Robin Hood, some high-profile race car drivers were known criminals. To the delight and respect of their family, friends and fans, these speed demons flaunted their avocation despite the risk of imprisonment.

PERHAPS THE MOST FAMOUS MOONSHINE RUNNER WHO SERVED HIS TIME AND BECAME A PIONEER OF NASCAR, WAS JUNIOR JOHNSON.

Now, get ready to dial-up Dr. Freud, because in my favorite dream, I was a revenuer...but for illegal films.

The nighttime scene opens with me walking (alone), towards a palatial theater. It has all the glitz and glamor of a Hollywood premiere. On each side of the marquee, two giant floodlights, mounted on flatbed trucks, scan the heavens.

In sneakers, jeans and a flannel shirt, I pass the box office and enter the fancy vestibule. Bejeweled women in slinky evening gowns and men in tuxedos interrupt their discussion to watch me go by. At the entrance, a uniformed usher smiles as I go through without him asking me for my ticket.

I find a seat in the nearly full balcony. The chatter of the audience dies down as the lights dim. The last vestige of conversation behind me ends as the curtain opens to unveil the blank screen. Slowly, an extreme close-up of a single, bright, yellow banana materializes, (in addition to being an obvious phallic symbol, bananas are my least favorite food...the mere smell nauseates me).

Ever so slightly, the camera pans back. Soon, a second banana attached to the first is revealed. The process repeats itself to include five, nine, twelve bananas. Eventually an entire bunch is visible. The camera continues to broaden its shot as a second bunch, attached to the first, comes into focus. Then a third, fourth etc. A collective gasp of astonishment is heard in the theater as the viewers perceive that the collective banana bunches now form an upper case, "N."

The composition on the screen is still widening as an upper case, "A," also made of banana bunches appears to the right of the "N." Whispering grips the audience as a banana cluster shaped like a "Z," comes into view. Finally, the letter, "I" is seen and the word, "NAZI," constructed of bananas, fills the entire movie screen. Within seconds, the image fades to black and the tiny word "finis," appears. Then the house lights come up.

The exiting audience is a buzz. When I get outside it is daytime.  A rush of my fellow film revenuers charge forward to ask my opinion. After a short exchange with them, they invite me to a diner. I said, "No. It's time to get to work." I flag down an old fashion, yellow, Marathon taxi and get in.

For quite some time, the cabbie zooms through residential streets and screeches each sharp turn. At a narrow alley, the cab makes a left. The roadway is so tight that I sense that could touch the tall, blank, brick walls on each side. After several minutes, the dark, claustrophobic street comes to a dead end. The driver calmly puts the cab in reverse and floors the accelerator. The backwards thrill-ride comes to an end when he backs into the normal street. The cabbie puts the car in drive and passes the street we went down. At the next left, he squeezes into an identical alley.

When the driver gets to this dead end, I get out and walk up a short stairway. At the head of the steps, I find myself at the corner of Kings Highway and Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn. I turn left and walk past the Nostrand Theater. On the corner, I go into a pet shop. In addition to caged puppies, kittens and birds...miniature elephants, (all of them were baby blue except one yellow one), freely walk about the store.

An Asian man behind a Plexiglas window signals me.  The yellow elephant rubs its face against my knee as the man, without speaking, slides a Manila envelope through the transom. Back on the street, I summon a boxy, yellow Mercedes-Benz taxicab. Before telling the driver where to go, I look inside the envelope and find my assignment.

In the countryside, we are soon traveling parallel with a babbling brook. I see an old, galvanized metal trashcan bobbing along in the current. Then I notice another one behind it. I look ahead and in the distance, I see more. I get out of the taxi and go down the incline, to the water's edge. I need to put one foot into the stream, in order to grab a garbage can. I lift the lid and discover, a pile of fluorescent, amber-colored, movie theater-sized film spools.

I want the cabbie to drive me further but the taxi has been abandoned. I take one step up the embankment but the cab makes a U-Turn on its own and leaves me behind. I walk beside the small river for a long time. On the horizon, I see a medieval castle with the stream forming a moat around it. I walk-up one side of the twin earthen paths that rise up towards the entrance. A heavy wooden gate which doubles as a door when up, acts like a drawbridge. I fear that I will fall into the waters below and gingerly tip-toe across, into the castle.

From the shadows, I look straight ahead into the sunlight and see a Feudal-era fair...but there are no people and no sounds. To my left and right, a circular tunnel-like area rims the castle grounds. To my left, I hear a faint moan. I walk through the semi-darkness towards the sound. The right wall has evidence that it was once a horse paddock. Every ten feet, the left wall has vertical slits in the masonry with a well-worn stone platform beneath each one. I picture defending archers shooting their arrows at attacking marauders from these stations.

The sound is clear to me as the sun rays sift through the archers slits. My pace picks up around the next bend when I understand that I am hearing tortured groaning. In one of the horse stalls, I see a slight, barely clothed old man with a long white beard, chained upside down, by one ankle, to the wall. At the same time, I am too startled to speak as I think I hear a young girl's laughter.

The prisoner then murmured, "They are coming back. Run, run for your life." At the opposite wall, I stood up on a stone platform and looked through a slit.  Five, blond, hippie girls in flowing white sundresses and a much shorter dark haired man approach. When they got a little closer, I recognized the man, Charles Manson.

The prisoner's hoarse voice crackled, "Don't be a fool. Save yourself." I couldn't leave him there. I squatted next to him and leaned close to his face. Before I could offer him help, he spit on me and yelled, "Go!" I ran.  Through the darkness, I hurried towards the entrance. Outside, I flew down the ramp.  I was almost at the bottom when a female blared, "There he is. Get him!"

I ran to an enormous pasture. I saw about a hundred golden haystacks and thought if I could make it there, I could hide. I passed by ten piles before angling to the right and stopping. I was huffing and puffing as Manson and the girls neared the first haystack. I watched them sing and dance during their malevolent search for me. When they weren't looking, I scurried to a farther stack.

Behind me was another huge field and on the far side of it was a big hotel. I scrambled back to the last hay pile. I decided to wait until I caught my breath before making a mad, half mile dash to sanctuary. It was then that a little nerdy boy appeared from behind the next hay bale. He reminded me of Poindexter from the, "FELIX THE CAT," cartoon. He was wearing a black and yellow beanie that suggested he attended an English Prep School as well as black Bermuda shorts and long black socks that revealed only his knees.

WHEN POINDEXTER STARTED GIGGLING, I SAW THROUGH HIS COKE-BOTTLE GLASSES, THAT HE HAD AN EVIL EYE.

I put my index finger to my lips as a signal to be quiet...he nodded. Then I peeked around my hay and saw Charlie and his girls twenty feet away. Two of the girls were bored and wanted to leave. Charlie whined, "C'mon, we need fresh blood, it'll be so cool..." Then one of the girls grabbed Manson around the waist and led him back towards the castle. That's when laughing Poindexter jumped into the open, pointed at me and yelled, "There he is!"

In retrospect, I bet you thought one of Charlie's girls was going to stab me to death with a banana...didn't you? Either way, don't call Freud or size me up for a straight jacket or order me a padded cell. Please, please, please believe me, I liked my dream of my dad playing his saxophone much better.

IN 1946 ITALY AFTER WWII, IT WAS SAID OF MY DAD'S SOULFUL RENDITION OF, "THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER," THAT GENERAL GEORGE PATTON WAS MOVED TO TEARS, EACH TIME HE HEARD IT.

More importantly, the next time I dream about my dad, somebody please remind me to ask questions. There's tons of stuff I'm dying to know.

ONE FLEW OVER CUCKOO WRIGLEY FIELD

2012-01-16T00:43:00.000-05:00

1976 was a kinder, gentler time. Fourteen years before that, the times were even more blissful...to the point of innocence.

The novel, "ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST," was published in 1962. At its root, the story is about subtle and coercive methods of oppression, censorship and forced conformity. To make his vision more palatable, author Ken Kesey set the scene within the walls of a hospital's mentally unstable ward. His insights suggest that this is modern society's toxic path...unless a catalyst can trigger our instinctual need, for a free human spirit.

Kesey's title came from a nursery rhyme.

Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn,
Apple seed and apple thorn,
Wire, briar, limber lock
Three geese in a flock
One flew East
One flew West
And one flew over the cuckoo's nest

The book's narrator was one of the patients, (Chief Bromden). He mentioned that as a child, his grandmother sang that nursery rhyme to him. On a broader scale, a cuckoo's nest is a playful name for a mental institution. And one interpretation of "flying over," is a patient going too far, (getting in trouble).

IN THE 1975 FILM, JACK NICHOLSON PORTRAYS R. P. McMURPHY. HE REPRESENTS INDEPENDENCE AND THE HUMAN INSTINCT FOR FREEDOM. HE FAKED MENTAL PROBLEMS TO AVOID PRISON AND IS INSTITUTIONALIZED WITH UNSTABLE MEN, (ACUTES). McMURPHY IDENTIFIES THE SUPPRESSION CAUSED BY NURSE RATCHED AND RALLIES THE MEN'S DEADENED INDIVIDUALITY. UNTIL, HE FINDS OUT THE HARD WAY THAT THE ACUTES HAVE VOLUNTARILY COMMITTED THEM SELVES AND CAN LEAVE ANY TIME THEY WISH...BUT HE CAN'T.

In 1976, the movie's message was fresh in my mind when I had my solo, cross-country trip. During my sixty-eight days on the road, I fully exercised my independence. But on a deeper and more interesting level, I also had the freedom to temporarily become dependent or conform to a given situation.

My modes of transportation were Greyhounds and hitchhiking. In bus depots, the open road, youth hostels, seedy motels, camp grounds, colleges and tourist destinations, I was thrown together with a wide range of derelicts, knuckleheads, freaks, eccentrics, good people and the elite. While some of the extreme cases might've needed psychological help, at no point was I ever in real danger or "acutely" uncomfortable. Instead, many of these folks took me into their hearts, cars, homes and confidence...while sharing travel information, food and our most private thoughts.

ONE OF THE FEW TIMES THAT I FELT UNHAPPY OR LONELY WAS THE NIGHT MY GREYHOUND PULLED INTO SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS. I WAS UNDER THE WEATHER. AND EVEN THOUGH THE ALAMO WAS ONLY TWO BLOCKS AWAY, I CHOSE TO GUT IT OUT AND SLEEP ON THE BUS ALL THE WAY TO EL PASO.

A month later, towards the end of my journey, (Monday, August 23rd), I reached Chicago. It was in the "Windy City" when I felt loneliness again.

THE WILLIS TOWER...WHATCHU TALKIN' ABOUT? THE SEARS TOWER, WILL ALWAYS BE THE SEARS TOWER. LOCATED AT 233 SOUTH WACKER DRIVE, IT IS THE FOCAL POINT OF THE CHICAGO SKYLINE. ITS 108 STORIES MAKE IT THE TALLEST BUILDING IN THE USA...AND THE SEVENTH HIGHEST FREE-STANDING STRUCTURE IN THE WORLD.

Unlike most places I visited, I had no pre-planned Chicago itinerary. I had no direction, no "must-see" points of interest and I even had trouble finding a cheap place to stay. Luckily, the terminal's gift shop lady suggested the Ohio East Hotel. It was in walking distance, on the other side of the Chicago River.

STOCK PHOTO OF THE CORRECT STREET. BUT THIS HOTEL LOOKS LIKE THE RITZ COMPARED TO MY $4.50 PER NIGHT RAT TRAP.

I was led to the section of East Ohio Avenue that was their version of Skid Row. Weeks earlier, I had slept at a similar, "retired gentleman's" hotel in San Francisco's Mission District, for half the price...and by comparison, it felt like I was in the lap of luxury. The Ohio East was more like a welfare, flop-house. It didn't even have a lobby.

From the street, I walked up the interior, unlit wooden staircase. At the rickety landing, I pushed through a heavy metal door and was greeted by a makeshift, "front desk." It looked unnatural, like it was built in an hour and jammed into the second floor hall. Behind the clerk, the dusty room key slots had oddball items in them like, a Bayer aspirin bottle, a bent screwdriver, silverware and a Donald Duck comic book.

The impatient, sixty-ish desk clerk spoke in a sporadic cadence, like he was tripping. The only thing he made clear was; NO loud noise after ten, NO cooking in the room and NO female company. Then he gaped at my wallet as he dangled a fourth floor key, until I paid.

The Ohio East had no elevator, so with the one towel I was given, I trudged up two more flights, to the "penthouse." The first old-timer (guest), I saw on my floor was singing "scat," annoyingly loud. The next few residents I passed were silent. Their facial emptiness made me think that they had already had lobotomies. Who knows, maybe they were real-life, "chronics" from, "Cuckoo's Nest."

My closet-sized room had a moldy, ammonia stink and there were enough water bugs to carry off the bed. I vowed to stay only one night. Then I went downstairs, left the building and headed to the "Loop." It was odd, while wandering around downtown, I didn't see any fellow backpackers. I even went back to the bus station in search of companionship but found none.

At rush hour, amid the hustle and bustle of commuters pouring out of the modern office buildings, I saw a sign, "EARLY BIRD SPECIAL, ALL THE SMELTS YOU CAN EAT, 99c." I didn't even know what a smelt was...but for that kind of money, I was willing to gamble, especially because it would be a treat to sit in a real restaurant.

This hash house looked better from the outside. I stood alone, inside the doorway and looked across the dark dining room's the sea of empty tables. I had just noticed a strip of fly paper (fully occupied), above the cash register when a man poked his head out from the kitchen and said in an Eastern European accent, "Sit anywhere."

A minute later, he came to my table, set down a glass of water and tried handing me a menu. I refused the menu and said, "I'll have, the all you can eat smelts." His neutral expression sagged to a frown as he checked his watch, (it was 5:15 so there was still forty-five minutes left on the special). Then he snarled, "And to drink?" I held up the water and said, "I'm good for now."

SMELTS AVERAGE ABOUT SIX INCHES IN LENGTH AND LOOK LIKE SMALL SALMON. THEY ARE USUALLY EATEN WHOLE.

My big basket of smelts were deep fried. The crisp breading was all I could taste, so they weren't too bad. My second order was much smaller and the third only had about ten. When I signaled the waiter again there were four other tables occupied. Before I could ask for more, he slapped down the check and said, "You've had enough."

Maybe I should have made a statement over the, "all you can eat," clause and caused a ruckus, but I didn't. I rationalized that I was full, that smelts weren't that good and if I pushed too hard, they might spit in a forced refill. When I got outside, there was still three hours of daylight. I soloed around the business district but on a limited budget, it got old fast.

I resisted going back to my dungeon as long as I could. But when I found a copy of that day's Chicago Tribune, I headed back. It was twilight when I returned to the hotel. At the desk, a different clerk was on the phone. He was jealous that the person on the other end was going to the Cubs baseball game, the next afternoon. I thought that was a great idea since I was striking out with everything else. I lingered to ask him directions to Wrigley Field but his intimidating, harsh glare, sent me on my way.

Upstairs, I laid on the thin mattress, read the paper and did the crossword. Before retiring, I walked the length of the corridor to the rest room. On the way back, I crossed paths with a normal-looking kid about my age. My opinion of his normalcy changed when his eyes bugged out as he told me that he had a bullet in his room. I was polite in turning down his invitation to see it. He then followed me back towards my room. I was fumbling with the key when he said, "I'm in 411, if you change your mind...I'll be awake all night."

I made several guesses what "a bullet" might have been a euphemism for, as I tried to barricade the door with the chest of drawers. But it was bolted to the floor.

In the morning, I grabbed my towel and headed back to the toilet. An elderly wino in a tattered, silk smoking jacket and presumably nothing else, was ranting about his missed court appearance, at the pay phone outside 411. I was dreading bullet-boy being disturbed and coming out as I scurried by.

In the bathroom, I double-tested the door's lock. I hesitated for a while until I decided to go through with my shower. Before undressing, I waited outside the shower stall long enough for the water bugs to scatter. After I stripped down, to be certain that the first gush of water wasn't rusty, I waited again. Considering that the water pressure and temperature were decent, that was the shortest shower of my life.

A third different clerk was on duty when I surrendered my key. He barely looked past his Popular Science Magazine as he chomped on a nauseating cigar.

In the clean morning air, I headed towards the Greyhound station. I wanted to stow my belongings and find out that night's schedule, going east to Windsor Ontario. Just before the small bridge over the river, I spotted a letter carrier. I appreciated his smile as he recommended a city bus route to Lincoln Park and then to Wrigley Field. I came away from our meeting thinking that not everyone in Chicago was crazy.

"THE FRIENDLY CONFINES," LOCATED AT 1060 WEST ADDISON STREET, IS BETTER KNOWN AS WRIGLEY FIELD. IT HAS BEEN THE CHICAGO CUBS HOME SINCE 1916. ODDLY, THEY HAVE NEVER WON THE WORLD SERIES THERE, (1908 WAS THEIR LAST CHAMPIONSHIP WHILE PLAYING AT A DIFFERENT STADIUM).

I got to the game early and bought a general admission ticket. During batting practice, to get more in the mood, I bought a Cubs tee-shirt. I toured the iconic ballpark and appreciated the old-school charm of the hand turned scoreboard, the ivy-covered outfield walls and the fact that they didn't have lights, (it wouldn't be until twelve years later that night games were played in Wrigley).

The Cubs were a crappy team that year. So with the dog-days of August almost coming to an end, less than 11,000 people showed up for the festivities. The lack of fans enabled me to get a great seat, about twenty rows back, on field level, between home and first base but closer to home.

When the National Anthem was over, my entire row, ten seats to my right and left remained empty. In the second inning, a regular guy, (dressed neater than me...and I was wearing a brand new Cubs shirt), sat several seats to my right. I still had bullet-boy from the night before on my mind, so when I figured that this man could have sat anywhere, even the four-seat buffer between us, didn't seem like enough.

The Cubs opponent was the Houston Astros. It marked the first time I was at a game that didn't involve my adored Mets or against the hated Junkees. So in addition to having no rooting interest, both teams being bad and neither squad having a big star to marvel at, I was sitting alone at the predictably dull, non-event.

In the middle innings, the man to my right and I shared short comments about the game. In time, I realized that he was a knowledgeable fan and a pleasant person. So when he switched to the seat next to me...it was neither weird nor a threat to my personal space.

While the game dragged on, he said it was still great to get out on such a beautiful day. Our conversation strayed from baseball as I told him anecdotes of my trip. When I told him about my loneliness in Chicago and that I was leaving later that night he said, "To get a feel for the true Chicagoan, you need to be around people." Then he pointed towards the left field wall and said, "McCluskey's is a great bar on Waveland Avenue. Its a tradition to go there after the game. They serve free hot dogs with chopped-up tomatoes on them, the 'THREE STOOGES,' are on the TV till seven and they have Heileman's Old Style on tap."

BACK IN CANARSIE, MY FRIEND SLW WAS A FAN OF OLD STYLE BEER. HE HAD IT ON A TRIP TO THE MIDWEST AND USED TO LOVE MAKING FUN OF ITS BREWING PROCESS CALLED, "KRAEUSENING."

The hot-dogs didn't sell me and overwhelmingly, beer whether its kraeusened or not, is just beer. What truly gravitated me to McCluskey's was the Stooges because the show, due to its violence, had been banned in New York. Of course partying with my new friend was important too.

The Cubs rallied for two runs in the ninth, but lost 4-3. On our way out I said, "I can't wait to buy the first round of Old Style." He said, "I can't go." I said, "Why?" He said, "They know exactly when the games end. I have to get back to the institute." Our chat had concentrated on baseball and my travels so I felt bad when I realized that he didn't get much of a chance to speak about himself.

We were leaving the darkness under the grandstand and back into the warm sunlight as I said, "Are you a doctor?" He advanced to an adult tricycle that was chained to a light pole and laughed, "Doctor? I'm a patient. They let me out a couple afternoons a month." I was stunned as he unchained his ride.

The crowd around us flew east,
I flew west
and he pedaled back to the cuckoo's nest.

THE "CUCKOO'S NEST" BOATING SCENE, DEMONSTRATED THE POWER OF PERCEPTION, WHEN THE PATIENTS, OUTSIDE THE WARD, ARE PASSED-OFF AS DOCTORS.

I did venture over to McCluskey's and it was everything he said it was. But I was still alone in a crowd. At least it gave me the chance to assess the world around me. While scarfing-down free hot-dogs, I realized that chopped-up tomatoes sucked as a topping, the old memory of the Stooges was better than the real thing and even though I was twenty-one years old, that I was still quite naive.

"BABY OTT," MAN OF A THOUSAND NICKNAMES

2012-01-09T00:43:00.000-05:00

When I was fourteen, Ivan Cure, a sixteen-year old in my neighborhood was so driven to become a doctor that he insisted on being called, "I. Cure."

In 1970, Canarsie High had so many students that a split session was necessary. That meant that swarms of incoming sophomores like me, started class at 1:00PM.

A friend of mine, Stewart "Otter" Ott, and I had a routine where he came to my house at 12:30 and we walked the ten blocks to school together. The previous June, Otter and I became friends at the John Wilson Junior High ninth grade trip, (ninety miles away, at the Peekskill Dude Ranch).

Soon Stew started dropping by my house at noon, so we could watch, "JEOPARDY." To spice up the festivities, we developed a system to keep score and compete against each other.

CREATED BY MERV GRIFFIN, "JEOPARDY," HAS AIRED OVER 9,000 EPISODES SINCE ITS DEBUT IN MARCH 1964.

My mother didn't like Stewart. She was an excellent judge of character and didn't think the Otter nickname fit him. So behind his back, she called him the "Piss-Ant." Mom's instinct was pretty amazing because she had no way of knowing about the angst caused by Otter's hated, authoritative and cheap father.

Otter's austere dad was a hunched-over IRS examiner who wore his suit pants and dress shirt in the house until he went to bed. He was probably under fifty, looked sixty and acted seventy. While I was at their house, the man never acknowledged me. On the other hand, Stewart's friendly mom, in her signature beehive hairdo, was attractive, bubbly, and in her mid-thirties. Today, we would call her, a trophy wife.

Mrs. Ott was supportive of Stew. But when dad was around, her hip, butterfly attitude reverted to that of an ugly, irritable caterpillar, as her face contorted to an unnatural, neutral indifference. Even worse, she obediently agreed with everything Mr. Ott said, especially when pressuring Stew to live up to his potential to become a doctor.

My mom was usually in the kitchen (the adjoining room), during Stew's TV visits. So she had a fly on the wall perspective during our conversations. But Otter never brought up his dysfunctional family. My mom saw only the effect, not the cause...so her negativity was based on him being a jerk after he (almost always), beat me in Jeopardy.

He and I never mentioned, "I. Cure's," nickname or Otter's need to lampoon his father, to my mom. So after beating me in Jeopardy again, he bragged about his wealth of knowledge and intellectual mastery over me. On our way out, he informed my mom of his latest victory and proclaimed that he now preferred being called, "Doctor Ott." Mom in turn called him, "Baby Ott."

Otter was short and good-looking so, he took mom's nickname as a compliment. A lot of people called him, "Flea," so I'm guessing he liked mom's name because he perceived a certain level of cuteness from it. But his cuteness only took him so far. When it came to meeting girls, his brash personality usually got him his foot in the door but he was unable to follow through because like his dad, he was insensitive, sarcastic and abrasive. My mom recognized these traits and called him Baby Ott because she thought he was infantile.

When I realized mom was right again, I reflected back a few months to the dude ranch. Otter had said that his mom had lied to his dad...and gave him, her squirreled away "mad" money, so he could go. To rationalize his absence, she told Mr. Ott that Stew was visiting old friends in Nanuet (NY). Unfortunately, this arrangement left him no pocket money on our trip. So like moths attracted to a floodlight, to make a few dollars, Stew gathered a bunch of schoolmates behind our bunkhouse and drank Aqua Velva.

AQUA VELVA WAS INTRODUCED AS AN ALCOHOL-BASED MOUTHWASH IN 1929. IN 1970, IT WAS A POPULAR AFTERSHAVE. TODAY, AN AQUA VELVA COCKTAIL COMBINES, VODKA, GIN AND BLUE CURACAO. IT IS TOPPED WITH SPRITE AND ICE AND GARNISHED WITH AN ORANGE SLICE OR MINT. PLEASE NOTE, ACTUAL AQUA VELVA IS NOT AN INGREDIENT.

At the dude ranch, other kids were smoking pot, breaking windows with a cricket bat and having pantie raids...so I didn't think Stew's actions were that much out of the ordinary. That is until we got back and I heard kids call him, "Stewed," "S. Ott," "Idi-Ott" and "Aqua Velva Man."

He lived up to those names during one of our walks to school. He told me that his Waspy, Nanuet friends got him into drinking mint gin. Then like a commercial he said, "Plus, it's only two bucks, tastes great and makes you feel good." A few days later, at a moment of weakness and curiosity, I let myself get lured into the web of stupidity by his spider-like, multi-example rationale, (in retrospect, I think he only needed me, for my dollar).

Like bedbugs waiting to jump onto a victim, we staked-out the liquor store next to the Boom-Boom Room, (on Avenue N at Locust). Otter finally approached a man wearing a Beetles tee-shirt and asked him to buy us the pint. When he agreed, Stew handed over my dollar bill and his fist full of change, (including pennies).

I'm guessing the man wanted to teach us lesson. He said they were out of mint gin so he got us "almost the same thing," lemon gin. I never had Castor oil but lemon gin was worse than any all-purpose, icky-tasting medicine I ever had forced down my throat...but I swilled it anyway.

Later, at about 2:00AM, we were wasted, sitting on the steps in front of the Seaview Theater. A neighbor spotted me, dragged me home and woke my folks.

Like a hornet's nest in my head, the next day's hangover, vomiting session and lingering dry heaves were nothing compared to my parent's tongue lashing. I never got that messed-up, EVER again!...till many years later.

Otter was now off limits. Like a pesky gnat, he followed me around school and begged my forgiveness. Eventually, I let down my guard. I defied my parents and allowed him back into my trust...even after he lit up a roach on our first walk home. Soon, I found out that mom was still right about Otter.

At the same time, I was dating a girl who confided in me that she once used a handful of sleeping pills to attempt suicide. They rushed her to the hospital and saved her life by pumping her stomach. I told Otter. "Mosquito Stew," stung me again when either out of jealousy, ignorance or disbelief...I'll never know...he asked her about it. When she wanted to know how he knew...he fingered me. I liked her a lot so it killed me to be called a termite when she cut me loose. I asked, "Why?" She said, "Ask 'Mr. Booze-Breath.'"

When he confessed, I went off on him and permanently ended our relationship.

Forty years later, (the other day), a Facebook friend brought up Otter's name. The thing I found most curious was that Otter fulfilled his father's, "Dr. Ott" wish. Apparently, Stewart Ott obtained a doctorate in entomology and has been studying insects...forever. He travels all over the world and at some point in 2011, he was on a polar expedition near the South Pole. It wouldn't shock me to find out that the good doctor was cruel to his trophy wife and makes her bore the holes into the Antarctic's frozen tundra.

Too much time has passed and even from a distance, I'm not interested in tracking Otter down. But if I ever found myself confronted by him, in respect to my mom, I'd have to call him, "Dr. Baby Ott." However, in a strange twist of fate, I researched every derivative of Ivan Cure...and it looks like, he never reached his self-proclaimed, "I. Cure," prophesy to be a doctor, dentist or even an exterminator.

JANUS, GOD OF NEW BEGINNINGS

2012-01-02T00:43:00.006-05:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Yes another year has slipped by. So it's a good time to stop and give pause to what we have learned from the past and use that knowledge to best prepare for the future.

We should take a cue from the ancient Romans who prayed to the god of new beginnings, Janus. Janus is uniquely depicted in statues as having two faces; one looking forward to the future and another looking back into the past.

THIS STATUE OF JANUS IS ON DISPLAY AT THE VATICAN. THE MONTH JANUARY IS NAMED FOR HIM.

A worshiper of Janus would have seen the key to a brighter future as the understanding of fellow human beings and the willingness to embrace their diversity. Through honesty, hard work and respect, we could make the necessary changes to make our ever-evolving existence better.

I believe, down through the years, Janus has been watching and testing me. Because the series of funny events that I am about to share with you, has helped my personal growth, made me stronger and able to deal with the human condition. Oddly, these experiences all seem to happen in January.

In January 1974, "THE EXORCIST," was the hottest new movie. While still in its limited engagement, theaters clambered to show it as often as possible. One frosty, foggy Wednesday night, two friends and I got an impulse to drop the "nothing" we were doing and head into Manhattan to see it."THE EXORCIST," GROSSED $441 MILLION. IT WAS NOMINATED FOR TEN OSCARS AND WON TWO. "THE STING," BEAT IT OUT FOR BEST PICTURE. I SAY, IF THE DIRECTOR LEFT IN THE SPIDER-WALK SCENE, IT WOULD HAVE WON THAT OSCAR TOO.

We drove past the tri-plex at 10:30PM. Through the eerie mistiness, the line of people waiting to get in, stretched down the block and around the corner. It reminded me of a wake for a prominent person. One friend jumped out of the car and found out that the 11:00PM showing was sold-out. He also discovered that the line we were looking at, was for the midnight show. He volunteered to wait for tickets on our behalf while we parked.

Joe Vanilla was not one of my friends in the car. But soon our inside joke of praying to the Patron Saint of Parking Spaces, (Joe Vanilla) was invoked. Of course, without him at the wheel of his hot pink El Dorado, our prayers were obviously not answered. We cruised the east twenties in vain. We finally settled for a spot so far away that if a taxi went by, we would have taken it.

At 11:15, we got back to the theater. Only ten others were behind my shivering friend on line. He pointed out an employee, (wearing a parka), stationed at the back and said, "That usher is telling new people coming up that the last showing is sold-out too. He also said to us that it would be difficult for groups, even couples to find seats together."

The usher was right, the three of us were forced to sit separately. I think sitting next to strangers made the movie spookier. Whatever you might think of the Exorcist...even if you never saw it, you have to believe my audience was captivated...while we got the crap scared out of us.

The throng of people exited the theater in a combination of excited chatter or in a mild form of catatonia. I left through the main entrance and lost my friends in the shuffle. Under the safety of the bright marquee, I looked to the left in anticipation that my friends had gone out through the side doors. When they didn't appear, I began to feel abandoned. A shuddering twinge of fear bolted through my body when the stream of exiters evaporated.

I looked back into the vestibule and saw a solitary, sobbing girl wandering back inside. At the same time that I guessed that she was lost too, I got a soft tap on my shoulder. I turned...and it was not either of my buddies...it was a ragged beggar. I was reminded of the movie's subway scene when a panhandler tried to bum loose change from Father Karras. I was so startled that to this day, I blame the death of my hair follicles on him and his satanic, toothless smirk. Luckily, seconds later while my thumping heart was still in overdrive, my friends whisked me away.

The next day, I proclaimed the Exorcist the greatest movie ever made, (I still put it in my top three). On my recommendation, Joe Vanilla and his girlfriend double-dated with another friend of mine (Woodrow "Woody" Konigsberg) and his sexy, witch-like, bipolar girlfriend, (Pessie Burkalter).

Joe and Woody were my first two friends that were sexually active. Joe was a true to life Fonzie. He was just as cool with girls as he was in finding perfect parking spaces.

Woody despite being a good-looking guy was extremely hen-pecked or as we used to say in mixed company, "Pessie-Whipped."

Joe drove to the same theater on the much busier Friday night. He lived up to his legendary status and pulled his "Eldo," right into a spot, three storefronts down from the theater. They still waited an hour on line but Joe and his girl managed to sit together, in the middle, towards the back. Woody and Pess also sat together but against the wall, about ten rows from the screen.

When I reflect on Woody's relationship with Pess, I'm forced to think that they both had something special to offer in bed. But Pessie had the upper hand. Frequently while we were hanging out, Woody would announce that he was having such a good time with us that if Pess (insert profanity here), called, he wouldn't leave. She knew all our phone numbers and during so many inopportune moments, the phone ringer of doom would toll for Woody.

Once, we were at Canarsie's, Frolic Tavern debating where to watch the Superbowl, when the bartender called out, "Is there anyone here named Woody?" He took the call and argued a strong case to stay with us...but he lost. Woody was ashamed as he left with his head hung low.

In public, she was the ultimate high-maintenance girlfriend. Her demands were constant, difficult and/or expensive to fulfill. She treated him like dirt and would swear on her mother's grave to hold-out sex from him, if he didn't chauffeur her around or perform any other doggie trick she wanted.

This situation didn't change while they watched the Exorcist movie. As told to me by Joe Vanilla, his audience was just as rapt as mine. During the scene when the mom discovered that her daughter was possessed, the dead quiet was broken by Pessie's familiar nasal whine. From more than twenty aisles away Joe heard, "Woody...I want popcorn!" A tsunami of angry shushing pulsated from that section of the theater. After a few seconds of peace Joe clearly heard, "Woody! I don't give a flying f***! I want popcorn...now! Or else!"

Joe guessed that her barbed ultimatum was impaled by the typical carnal lure as he watched Woody slither up the aisle. Soon he accelerated because strangers loudly whispered insults to his manhood as he went by. Woody couldn't hide and ran the last few feet to sanctuary. When he returned, despite opening the door a minimal crack, many entranced viewers were disturbed again. Then even if they weren't certain it was him, his popcorn bucket served as a beacon to identify Woody, so he was targeted with another dose of verbal abuse.

Later in the film, the audience was riveted on the first head-to-head meeting between the devil and Father Marrin. Then the utter stillness was broken by another demand by Pess, "Woody, I'm thirsty!" Like a trained seal, Woody shot straight up. He excused him self as he squeezed through the row of pissed off neighbors and scurried towards the lobby, on his latest mission, amid a barrage of catcalls and obscenities.

In the next five years there would be a lot of changes. For me, I relocated to Las Vegas in January 1979. On the other hand, Pessie and Woody's tumultuous relationship stopped and re-started enough to qualify for the world's most break-ups in, The Guinness Book of Records. They were still together when I moved out west.

In January 1980, I had an apartment behind the Aladdin Casino on Harmon Avenue, (near the present day Hard Rock Casino). On a night off, I was shocked to get a phone call from Janice Burkalter...Pessie's fraternal twin sister. Janice didn't resemble Pessie in looks or personality. She was pleasant but not pretty...someone (not me), once said that she looked like Telly Savalas... with hair.

WHO LOVES YA, BABY. ARISTOTELIS "TELLY" SAVALAS, (JANUARY 21, 1922 - JANUARY 22, 1994), WAS A PROMINENT CHARACTER ACTOR IN MOVIES. HOWEVER, HE IS PROBABLY BEST KNOWN AS TV's, "KOJAK."

I was surprised that Janice wanted to meet me for a drink. I didn't see the harm. Plus, she was only a mile away at the Flamingo, so I agreed to meet her. But Janice conveniently omitted that she was with Pessie. Pess and I were enemies. For as long as I knew her, (since I was thirteen), I recognized that she was evil. I'm sure, we never spoke or even acknowledged each other. However, people mature and during this meeting, she was surprisingly civil as she and her sister quizzed me about where the best discos were and other non-gambling places to go.

In a short time, the conversation dried up. Pessie took me aside. In a mean spirited tone she blurted, "Do you think Woody is gay?" I was shocked! How preposterous! I figured he must have given her, her permanent walking papers and her vanity couldn't handle the finality of a real rejection. She was impatient waiting for my answer. I said, "You came all the way out here to ask me that?" Like the bitch I always knew her to be she said, "Just answer the effing question...is he or isn't he?" I said, "I gotta go."

Change is usually not easy to adjust to. When I left Las Vegas, I returned to New York City in January 1984. Most of my friends had moved away but Woody was still there, living in Manhattan. During our phone calls, I never brought up Pessie's assertion because he made it clear that he was dating.

In January 2009, I joined Facebook. When I reacquainted myself with one of my other old cronies, I was informed that Woody had dabbled in bi-sexuality but was now strictly a homosexual. I joked, "Pessie must have drained the last essence of heterosexuality out of him."

I was surprised but I was neither disappointed nor angry. His sexual orientation was none of my business. Like what the god Janus stands for, we must accept change as we look towards the future.

Last year around this time, Woody became my Facebook friend. I found his overall attitude to be bitter, sarcastic, opinionated and ill-tempered...I didn't enjoy his company any more. I just came to the realization that our friendship had run its course.

Woody will always be a part of my wonderful past but as I look towards the future, I think Janus himself would validate my choice to make Woody, my first Facebook "unfriending" of 2012.

A FEW GOOD REINDEER

2011-12-26T00:43:00.009-05:00

CONSPIRACY THEORIST ALERT !

Suppose I was to tell you that one of the great truths...not only of your lifetime but going back a thousand years...was a lie.

What if I was to tell you that this calculated misrepresentation can be traced back to the actual Santa Claus!

Perhaps the idea would become clear if I also told you...that according to the Farmers Almanac; there hasn't been a foggy Christmas eve at the North Pole, in ten centuries.

Yes, the true story...not the common belief...of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, comes-off like a thousand-to-one shot, ala Rocky versus Apollo Creed...except Rudolph loses.

THE PLOT OF THE 1976 MOVIE, "ROCKY," CENTERED ON A FORGOTTEN NOBODY OF BOXING, ROCKY BALBOA, DEFEATING THE HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD, APOLLO CREED.

We all know what we've been told but Rudolph's real name was Sunny. In his rookie sleigh-pulling season, he joined what we now call "Santa's Team." But he didn't fit in. Sunny was repeatedly disciplined with oral and written reprimands for not respecting the North Pole Toy Shop's chain of command.

When Sunny didn't conform, management aimed their wrath at the other reindeer. The rank and file was expected to apply peer pressure to deal with Sunny's shortcomings. Sunny didn't respond and the other reindeer started to receive an escalating series of punishments, (like having their pine cone sauce eliminated from the food line and their time starts drastically changed).

The overall conditions severely deteriorated. Childishly, Sunny's now exhausted fellow sleigh-pullers, blamed him for the increasingly hostile work environment. The anxiety caused the reindeer to turn on the elves, the elves argued with the snowmen and the snowmen refused to work with the narwhals. Eventually the entire staff ostracized Sunny primarily due to the trouble he caused them, his lack of teamwork and his diversity, (he was Latvian...from the other side of the proverbial forest). Sunny also had a meek personality and possessed physical differences like; an alien accent, being slow and awkward, as well as his famous shiny nose.

Sunny's superiors took their negative report all the way to Klaus von Bowser. Bowser, the sole proprietor and lone deliveryman of the North Pole Toy Shop, was infuriated that such a weak foreigner might jeopardize his personal reputation as well as the fiscal solvency of his esteemed organization. To be on the safe side, Bowser had his underlings follow the designated company protocol but Rudolph remained contemptuous.

The busiest time of year was looming. Bowser felt pressured by the calendar as the ides of December approached. To snap the oddball into line, he ordered a violent, extrajudicial punishment...which in regard to Sunny was euphemistically called, "a Code Red."

TOM CRUISE, JACK NICHOLSON, AND DEMI MOORE STARRED IN THE 1992 COURTROOM DRAMA, "A FEW GOOD MEN, " WHICH POORLY PLAGIARIZED
THE SUNNY INCIDENT.

There were two fatal errors made in administering the code red. First, the two, honor reindeer selected to scare Sunny straight, had a history of masochism. Previously, during a hazing, the over zealousness of these "black ops" reindeer, (Harold and Louden), got out of hand and nearly caused the suffocation death of a woodland sprite, training to be an elf.

The second fail safe that wasn't checked was Sunny's medical dossier. In it, his diabetes and bronchial problems were clearly identified.

Harold and Louden attacked Sunny while he was in bed. Their form of humiliation, torture and torment included shoving a rag down the victim's throat. Sunny began to gasp. Cold sweat poured out of him, his eyes rolled up into his head and he started shaking. After the gag was taken from his mouth, Sunny had a seizure. Harold panicked. He found a syringe in the bed stand and blindly jabbed insulin into Sunny's arm.

Harold and Louden faced the reindeer death penalty when they were charged with murder. At the trail, they implicated their supervisors and ultimately, the megalomaniac at the top. Klaus von Bowser was finally called as a witness. He was accused of tampering with the coroner's report that now called Sunny's death, an accidental insulin overdose.

On the witness stand, during their the fiery exchange Bowser said to the opposing lawyer, "At the North Pole, I save lives all over the world. You want me there because you aren't man enough to haul your ass down a chimney yourself." The lawyer said, "No! What I want is the truth." Bowser yelled, "You can't handle the truth!"

The circumstantial evidence against Harold and Louden didn't hold up in court. However, they were dismissed from the honor sleigh service and demoted to the rank of; reindeer first class...which meant, they were reduced to pulling the sleigh on Christmas.

Bowser was proven innocent and his shriveled soul went unscathed. He even survived two subsequent trails on related charges and was never convicted.

Highlights of the trails, showing Bowser in a positive light were leaked to the press. The actual testimony was covered-up and never made it into the newspaper. But through his publicist and a team of expensive attorneys, Bowser's heroic spin was foisted upon the public. He was hailed throughout Christendom as the savior of Christmas. When those undeserved accolades blossomed in the form of Sainthood, Bowser changed his name to Santa Claus.
YOU'LL NOTICE THAT THERE IS NO SHINY NOSE ON THE LEAD REINDEER IN CONTEMPORARY SANTA PHOTOS.

To hide their shame, Harold and Louden changed their names too, to Donder and Blitzen. And to make the story easier to take, we were told that Sunny was not killed. Instead, he was selected as the lead reindeer, because his beacon-like sniffer helped Santa navigate through the (non-existent), fog. And to make the whole contrivance cuter and more acceptable, Sunny's ordeal was turned into the fairy tale we all now love...and his name was changed to, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

ROUND-UP THE USUAL SUSPECTS

2011-12-19T00:43:00.017-05:00

The dark, claustrophobic and Victorian-themed, Binion's Horseshoe Casino was the most popular meeting place for downtown casino workers, during my Las Vegas years, (1979-1984). Although the decor was different, Binion's ambiance reminded me of, "RICK'S CAFE AMERICAIN," from the 1942 movie, "CASABLANCA." Especially because so many hustlers, low-lifes and even regular guys, conducted shady business in every nook, cranny and remote outpost of the joint.CASABLANCA STARRED HUMPHREY BOGART AS RICK BLAINE. HIS DIRTY PRE-WWII DEALINGS, (INCLUDING GUN RUNNING), LEFT HIM EXPATRIATED FROM AMERICA.

While I was a craps dealer at the Golden Nugget Casino, it was common for groups of us to get a drink after work...across the street at the Horseshoe. The "Shoe's" marketing plan was genius. They'd offer all-day parking for fifty cents...with validation. Of course that meant getting your ticket stamped after your shift, inside their casino.

Once inside, you had to run the gauntlet of the saloon-like, main bar. It was strategically placed in the heart of the table games area and all drinks were fifty-cents. Of those who couldn't resist the cheap liquor, a high percentage were loosened up by the omnipresent gambling and were subliminally encouraged to join in.

If that tactic didn't get you to the blackjack and dice games, the next temptation came in the form of ubiquitous and scantily-clad keno runners. Keno is a simple, bingo-like game that can played anywhere in the casino. Back then for a 40c bet, you could win $25,000.00. Even better, keno at the bar, entitled you to free drink chits.

Another inventive device to keep you and your money in the Horseshoe was inexpensive food specials. For nine bucks, I made a meal out of both, the four-dollar steak and the five-dollar lobster tail...together, on many occasions.

THE MILLION DOLLAR DISPLAY, (100 TEN-THOUSAND DOLLAR BILLS), WAS A BIG GIMMICK TOO. FOR "FREE," THEY'D TAKE YOUR PICTURE IN FRONT OF IT. THEN THEY'D MAKE YOU WAIT AT LEAST NINETY MINUTES, FOR IT TO DEVELOP.

Still another lure, combined the Shoe's wild west atmosphere with a certain level of hip electricity. To some, this excitement translated into an element of cool, danger. It was in that regard that I was reminded of Rick's...you never knew who you were standing next to...a celebrity, mega-high-roller, a criminal or a "narc.

THE HORSESHOE, WITHOUT OFFERING ENTERTAINMENT, DREW GREAT CROWDS AROUND THE CLOCK...EVEN BEYOND 4:00AM.

While I was at the Nugget, my ex-roommate, Ciro was dealing at the Four Queens. When our schedules meshed, we sometimes met after work for cocktails, at the "Shoe."

THE HUB OF DOWNTOWN, THE HORSESHOE, GOLDEN NUGGET, FREMONT AND FOUR QUEENS SHARE THE SAME CORNER, AT FREMONT AND SECOND STREET .

Ciro and I first met at the New York School of Gambling. When we relocated to Vegas, on three separate occasions, we roomed together. In my thirty-four year association with him, his good natured disposition and his poor decision making record, equally earned him the nicknames, "Ciro the Hero" and "Ciro the Zero."

At one of our Horseshoe meetings, he brought along a dealer from his craps crew, Jay. Jay Gatling was on the short side and despite blond hair and blue eyes...was ordinary. Before we ordered our drinks, Ciro lived up to one of his shortcomings and disappeared. I knew he was a wheeler-dealer, so I assumed he was chasing down someone who owed him money.

One-on-one, Jay didn't have much to say. However, I did learn that he was twenty-one, living with his twin sister and that they were brought up Broken Arrow Oklahoma. When someone buzzed by and called him J. J., he said, "My name is Jean Jamal. I was born in Morocco. My dad was French and my mom Lebanese."

Ciro returned. With an array of profanity he said, "That deadbeat Pete Watson, gave me the slip in the Fremont." Then he flagged down Ossie the bartender. Without a word being spoken, the Spaniard delivered Jay and I another Budweiser and a Grolsch, (from a hidden stash), for Ciro.

I was impressed with Ciro's relationship with the barman. Then I was overwhelmed when Ossie said, "A girl with a Scottish accent was looking for you." Ciro said, "Did she tell you her name?" The bartender was scooping ice as he said, "No." Ciro said, "And it was definitely a Scottish accent?" Ossie was taking a biker's order as he looked back and added, "Yeah. And she wasn't wearing a casino uniform."

When Ciro tossed Ossie a five, for our dollar and a half tab I said, "I didn't know they served Grolsch. And what's up with you and the bartender?" Ciro said, "The 'O-Man,' is on my payroll." I didn't understand and changed the subject, "I thought things were going well with your new girlfriend....so, who's this Scottish chick?" He whispered, "It's a code, Ossie needs four lids (of pot), the day after tomorrow, same time, same place." Suddenly, Ciro sprang to attention and said, "Here comes trouble, let's get out of here."

The trouble was Agnes Carmichael. She was a knucklehead who liked Ciro. She was dating a mutual friend of ours, so for many reasons including her chipped tooth, being heavy, pimply-faced, big-mouthed and off-the-wall, he avoided her. Ciro grabbed Jay's elbow and said, "C'mon Dimi, let's get out of this toilet." (Ciro's nickname for me was, "Dimi." It comes from the line in the, "EXORCIST;" Dimi, vy you do dis to me)?

We decided to leave. On the way up to our cars, we were alone in the garage elevator when Jay pulled a small pistol from a leg holster, (above his ankle), and said, "BING, BING! Two to the back of the bitch's head and your problem is solved." Instead of being shocked Ciro said, "Is that the twenty-two you bought off Red?"

MOMENTS BEFORE THE FAMOUS, "RICK, RICK HIDE ME," GUN BATTLE SCENE...UGARTE, (PETER LORRE'S CASABLANCA CHARACTER), TRIED TO IMPRESS RICK WITH HIS TALE OF ACQUIRING VALUABLE, IRREVOCABLE, "LETTERS OF TRANSIT," BY ASSASSINATING TWO GERMAN COURIERS. THE HORSESHOE HAD ITS SHARE OF SHOOTINGS TOO. SO I WAS FORCED TO GUESS THAT JAY WAS ONE OF THE FEW OF THE MANY...CARRYING CONCEALED WEAPONS.

Ciro saw the shocked look on my face and said, "Jay, put that pea-shooter away...no one's killing Agnes." Jay joked, "A shotgun blast couldn't hurt her face." Ciro smiled, "You know Dimi, Jay has a frickin' arsenal." Jay said, "My sister is working, so if you want to see my gun collection, you can stop by now." I had no interest but to be social, I didn't see any harm.

Jay's west side apartment was about three miles from my place. In dawn's earliest light, his adobe-themed complex looked natural at the edge of the desert. When he opened the door of the second floor unit he whispered, "Shit! My sister is here. She must've blown-off work. We gotta be quiet or she'll murder all of us."

In his room, Jay pulled rifles and shotguns from under his bed. In his closet, hidden under piles of laundry, several shoe boxes stored handguns. Ciro grabbed a rifle and said, "This is my favorite." He handed it to me and added, "See that Seven-Eleven on Sahara?"

Out the window, through the semi-darkness and across a block-long vacant lot, I saw the store. He said, "Adjust the scope and aim at the door's key hole." When the lock cylinder was in my cross hairs, it was scary to think what a sniper could do. They thought I would be excited by this, instead I was turned-off.

I heard some stirring in the other bedroom. Jay groaned, "Shit, you guys gotta get out. Now!" We were in the kitchen when his sister came out of her room. She was an unbelievably beautiful, petite blond. She was holding her arms around the waist of her incredibly short, terry robe. My hope for pleasant introductions was dashed when she started scolding Jay for waking her up. Through her hostile rant, I became transfixed on her fuzzy hemline. Jay was flustered. But it looked like he was having a heart attack when a six-foot-five, Polynesian Adonis, wearing only a towel and scowl, obliterated whatever light was coming out of her bedroom.

The Atlas was twirling the girl's white, robe sash as he stared Jay down. He handed her the sash as he advanced towards us. Jay was humiliated as the giant's chiseled forearm shoved him aside. The Polynesian opened the refrigerator without interrupting his harsh glare. He took out the orange juice, his eyes still fixed on Jay and defiantly drank from the container. Jay was mortified. His sister broke the silence, "J. J., get these assholes out of here."

A month passed. I was asleep. At seven in the morning, there was a loud pounding on my condo's front door. I was only asleep about two hours. In a daze, I looked down from the bedroom window but didn't recognize the hyped-up man, banging on my door.

I opened the door a crack, it was Jay. He tried to burst in but I shut the door. I used the chain and talked to him through the slit. In a flurry of obscenities, he accused me of *stealing his gun collection.

*In last week's blog you may recall, that in 1970, I was accused of stealing Lee Richardson's dad's $50,000.00, gold coin collection.

I told Jay he was out of his mind. He said, "If you're innocent, then you have nothing to worry about when I search your place." Jay was angry enough to have pulled a gun on me so I figured his whole collection was robbed. When I was sure he wasn't armed, I showered him with some choice words before saying, "You're not coming in!" He lowered his shoulder and rammed the door. I said something along the lines that I had said to Lee Richardson, "Are you telling me, I'm the ONLY person you showed your shit to?" Jay dropped several F-Bombs as he yelled, "Just let me in!" I said, "Wait right there for ten minutes. I'm calling the cops. We'll let them straighten this out."

After loitering for a minute, Jay left. I assumed he went to round up the usual suspects.

Immediately I called, "Ciro the Zero." He was pissed that I woke him up. After I told him what happened I said, "I'll put two in the back of your head, the next time you give a prick like that my address."

THE PINOCCHIO FACTOR, AT THE CORNER OF SKIDMARK AND SYRINGE

2011-12-12T00:43:00.022-05:00

Gold! What a concept. They knew it was precious in ancient times and today, it maintains every ounce of its luster and allure.

I started collecting coins when I was eight. Due to economic restraints, my hobby was restricted to mostly common pennies, some worn-out nickels, a small amount of silver and zero gold.

My fellow, prepubescent collector friends were choked by similar financial shackles, so I learned at an early age that they didn't want to see my most treasured items and I didn't want to see theirs....unless there was something special...of which I had none. More importantly, people outside the hobby...definitely, didn't want to see my collection.AS BEAUTIFUL AS MY BEST PIECES WERE...IN THE TRUEST SENSE OF THE WORD, THEY WERE ORDINARY.

This general disinterest in my collection stayed constant in my teens even when I injected a trifle more money into it. And since my hobby has laid dormant ever since, I'm positive that no one would be impressed by it now.

WHETHER IT'S PAINTINGS, HUMMELS OR OIL CANS, FEW PEOPLE WANT TO SEE YOUR STUFF...EVEN IF YOU HAVE STRECKER'S HYBRID "RUBIDUS." SO, UNLESS YOU ARE AN AFICIONADO, WHAT YOU SEE (above), IS JUST A BUTTERFLY.

In my sophomore year of high school, I befriended blond, blue-eyed Lee Richardson...who had just moved into Canarsie. In addition to an upbeat and funny personality, he told wild, entertaining stories. Some of them included his father being a detective sergeant who retired after being shot in the chest. He also said that his dad hooked him up as the New York Knickerbockers ball boy. But of all the stories, the one that really fired me up was his collection of gold coins...worth over fifty-thousand dollars.

Midway through that term, we were settling into our algebra class. Lee, (a hyper-skinny kid), lost a lot of credibility when he got into an argument with Ty, a stout, athletic kid from his old neighborhood. Apparently they participated in their "Y's" youth basketball league. Interlaced with high levels of profanity, they argued whether Ty's team, (the Renegades) or another team, (the Skyhawks), were their seventh grade champs. When the muscular kid called him a moron, living in a fantasy world, diminutive Lee pushed the big fellow over.

Ty scraped his head on a desk on the way down and was rushed to the nurse's office. I was blinded by loyalty. Before I knew that the victim was okay...I defended my friend. The other witnesses harshly criticized me for calling Lee's tactics, "fair." However, the court of public opinion swayed me when I was reminded that Ty was hobbled by a broken leg and cast from his toes to his crotch.

Later, some other friends told me that in addition to Lee being a coward for toppling a handicapped guy, he was a compulsive liar too. They told me that Lee's father was an active policeman and his rank was as a regular patrolman. And as for being a ball boy for the Knicks...his detractors demonstrated its implausibility and showered the concept with a chorus of derisive laughter.

These revelations made me shy away from Lee. A week later, he cornered me in the cafeteria and asked, "Why are you avoiding me." I said, "Pushing down Ty was uncool." He said, "The dean tried to suspend me but once my dad got in his face, everyone realized it was no big deal. Jeez, the weasel didn't even get hurt." I nodded but didn't believe him. Then Lee grinned, "Dad had them sweep the whole mess under the rug."

Weeks passed. Lee approached me in the library. He wanted to do something after school. He sensed my reluctance and said, "You still worried about Ty? Well don't be. We patched up our differences and I invited him to see my gold coin collection next week." I didn't believe him. He continued, "C'mon let's get a slice of pizza later." That's when I got an idea and said, "Yeah, we could do that...and after, I can come back to your house and see your gold coins." Lee let out a loud, "Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

IF LEE'S NOSE GREW WHEN HE FIBBED, IT WOULD HAVE SAVED ME A LOT OF GUESSWORK.

Just as I was thinking that Lee was indeed a pathetic phony he added, "I have to make a confession. The gold isn't mine, it's my father's...and he'll kill me if I showed it to anyone." I said, "You're so full of shit, your eyes just turned brown." "No really," he whined, "my dad is really strict..." I interrupted, "Two seconds ago you said Ty was coming over next week." He said, "Yeah but..." I cut him off, "I'm not interested." Lee said, "Okay, we'll get a slice at Dominic's and then we'll go to my house."

Lee lived in the Canarsie Park section of Canarsie. This area is small, tucked away behind the park and up against the Belt Parkway. Therefore most Canarsians never heard of it. I was only there twice, this visit to Lee's house in 1970 and a wake in 1978. Beyond that, the only other time I remember a reference to it, was my crime novelist friend Charlie Stella setting a sexual liaison scene back there in his book, "EDDIE'S WORLD."

After the pizza, we walked four blocks to Skidmore Avenue.

A CONTEMPORARY PICTURE FACING NORTH ON ROCKAWAY PARKWAY, AT THE CORNER OF SKIDMORE AVENUE.

From the opposite direction, Skidmore Avenue is the second street off the highway. Sometimes people hear my accent and ask, "What part of Brooklyn are you from?" I say, "Canarsie." When they ask, "Where in Canarsie?" To be funny, I steal a line from comedian Sam Kinnison and say, "The corner of Skidmark and Syringe." Nearly every time I use that line, people mistakenly relate Skidmark to Skidmore Avenue and say something like, "Oh yeah, my cousin (or whatever), used to live there."
IF YOU SQUINT, THAT'S THE WORLD TRADE CENTER IN THE DISTANCE. IN THE FOREGROUND, SKIDMORE RUNS IN ONLY ONE DIRECTION, WEST (LEFT) BETWEEN THE STRIP MALLS.

Despite Skidmore Avenue's highly visible sign on Rockaway Parkway, it is short, inconsequential and almost uninhabited. On the way to Lee's, he led me behind a church and quipped, "They call it St. Felons on bingo night because they have a two tattoo minimum to get in."

(OCTOBER - 1970). CANARSIE PARK WAS MY HIGH SCHOOL'S JV FOOTBALL HOME FIELD. THAT'S ME, #72 IN YOUR PROGRAM BUT #1 IN YOUR HEART. ALTHOUGH THAT LADY WAS PENALIZED FOR CLIPPING, I STILL GOT IN ON THE TACKLE. PLEASE NOTE, THE "CANARSIE PARK," SECTION OF MY NEIGHBORHOOD, IS IN THE BACKGROUND.

In Lee's kitchen, he used a step stool to retrieve a key from a sugar bowl on the top shelf. He handed me the stool and said, "Follow me." He stopped at the hall closet and took a wire hanger. On the way to the basement, Lee straightened out the hanger as he swore me to secrecy.

We went towards the utility room. To camouflage the door, it had the same walnut paneling as the walls. As I passed through, I noticed that the width of the door was battleship gray, incredibly thick and made of metal. When I put my hand on its girth Lee said, "It's fireproof."

Next to the washing machine, Lee stood on the stool and used the key to unlock a high-tech hatch at the top of the door. He looked down into the hallowed-out chamber and dropped the hook end of the hanger down. He fished around for a few seconds before pulling up a thin, black attache case. Then another and then a third.

Lee set them on the dryer and unlocked each one. I gasped. The golden sparkle was such an incredible sight that my fifteen-year old imagination lit up like a Christmas tree.
EVEN WITH HIS MIDAS TOUCH, AURIC GOLDFINGER WOULD HAVE BEEN GREEN WITH ENVY AND DAZZLED BY THOSE BABIES.

Lee said, "The best are these two, fifty-dollar commemoratives, from 1915. And this batch is twenty-dollar double eagles." I was marveling at the opulence when his elbow nudged my ribs as he said, "The one from 1856 is also worth a fortune." He then sighed, "The rest are just ten dollar eagles."

The museum-quality show was over fast. I never had a chance to even touch one of the individual, clear plastic storage cases. Lee reminded me of my oath, hastily returned the whole shebang to its proper place and led me upstairs. He put the key back in the sugar bowl, condensed the hanger with a series of folds and put it in a brown supermarket bag. He looked at the time and said, "I hope you believe me now." When I nodded, he handed me the bag and said, "You gotta go now. And throw this in the garbage somewhere off my street." I agreed. At the door, he reminded me to never tell anyone about the gold.

Our friendship blossomed for a few weeks. In that time, I asked him about being the Knicks ball boy. He went into descriptive explanation of his duties, pay and relationship with the players. When he added specifics about the tokens some of the players gave him, I said, "I'd love to see his autographed ball, Willis Reed's sneakers and Phil Jackson's jersey." He said, "I can't bring people to my house." He then whispered, "You know."

I told my other friends about Lee's Knicks souvenirs without saying anything about the gold. They all agreed that he was a bullshit artist because he was sheltered by the fact that WOR, (Channel-9), didn't televise home games. So his nonsense couldn't be confirmed unless one of us went to a game. I waffled and figured that sometimes he was a liar.

A few weeks later, Lee accosted me in the hall at school and started cursing me. He frantically accused me of breaking into his house and stealing his dad's gold. I said, "You're crazy!" He said, "Well, if you didn't, then who did you tell?" I recalled how routinely he folded the hanger to fit in the bag as if he'd done it before and lashed out, "No one!" Lee became flustered and I continued, "Didn't you show them to Ty?" He said, "No! He's an asshole, I hate him!" Then I chimed in, "So you're saying, I'm the only person you EVER showed them to?" Lee came to some realization and ran off. I never spoke to him again.

In February, I became friends with a girl whose dad was a cop. When I met her father, I name dropped officer Richardson. He said, "Actually, he's a detective sergeant. They're trying to phase him back into restricted duty because he was out for a long time after getting shot during a liquor store hold up."

A month after that the NBA playoffs started. All the games were nationally televised which meant that the home games weren't blacked-out. And guess who scrambled out on the court to wipe the sweat off the floor with a towel after some players fell to the ground while wrestling for a loose ball?

IF LEE HELD ON TO THAT PHIL JACKSON JERSEY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, I BET IT WOULD FETCH A PRETTY PENNY TOO.

That summer before my junior year, Lee moved away. For a while, I thought I owed him an apology until Ty showed me a tiny, crumpled item from a 1968, East New York community newspaper that congratulated Ty and his Renegade teammates on their championship season.

Forthrightness! What a concept. They knew it was precious in ancient times and today, it maintains every ounce of its luster and allure.

THEY USED TO CALL ME MUDCAT

2011-12-05T00:43:00.011-05:00

The range of topics that come up while standing dead on a craps table are limitless. One night in 1991, our game was open with no players and the subject was nicknames. One of the dealers, Julio, had been a professional boxer. He was lamenting that he might have had more success, if he had an intimidating nickname.

(STOCK PHOTO) JULIO'S FACIAL SCARS AND PUFFY EYES WERE A CONSTANT, GRIM REMINDER THAT AN ADDED GIMMICK, LIKE A FEROCIOUS NICKNAME COULD ONLY HAVE HELPED HIS PRIZEFIGHTING CAREER.

Our floor supervisor, Jacqueline Kennelly not only listened intently to Julio, but she gave off a vibe that she was attracted to him. At forty, Dublin-born Jacquie was about five years older than the rest of us. Due to her casino rank and boisterous manner, she was frequently open about the joy of being single and her sexual exploits. So when she heard Julio complain about the need for a nickname she said, "When I was a teenager, I was called the 'mouth-piece' so much that my mother thought I wanted to be a lawyer."

Joe Table (another dealer) and I laughed. The boxman Jaime and Julio didn't. They were both Peruvian-Americans who spoke English well but hadn't mastered the subtleties of their adopted language.

Joe was Hispanic too...his real name was Jose Mesa. He was of Puerto Rican descent but his paternal grandparents were third generation Americans and his mom's folks were born in Hammonton New Jersey. Therefore the only Spanish he knew, was whatever he retained from high school or learned from living in community with a high percentage of Latinos.

He said, "My Joe Table nickname is obvious. It started when I was about twelve while picking blueberries," He made a gesture like it was raining by wiggling all his fingers and repeatedly bringing his hands down. To improve our visualization, he added a tinny sound-effect that mimicked berries falling into an empty bucket. "In the field," he continued, "some kid from school who barely spoke English thought he was hurting my feelings when he said to the other Latinos nearby, 'Jose Mesa translated to English means joe table,'...and the name stuck."

Jaime then asked me, "What is your nickname?" I said, "I don't really have one but for a short time in Las Vegas, some people called me Mudcat. It started when I went with a group of Stardust craps dealers, to a catfish restaurant called MUDCAT'S.

We got soused at the bar before getting seated. So when I got the menu that featured Southern specialties, I ordered the same thing that LTJEFF got; fried catfish and stewed okra. Plus, every entree came with a side-order of hush puppies.

IF MEMORY SERVES, CATFISH AREN'T KOSHER BECAUSE THEY ARE, "BOTTOM-FEEDERS." I SAY, IF THEY GET AS BIG AS THE ONE IN THIS PHOTO, THEN THEY CAN EAT ANYWHERE THEY WANT.

Drunk or not, I thought the catfish sucked! If I was sober or had half a brain, I should have ordered shrimp creole, red beans and rice or jambalaya.
JAMBALAYA IS A CAJUN DISH SIMILAR TO PAELLA. IT COMBINES, CHICKEN, SMOKED SAUSAGE AND VARIOUS SEAFOOD WITH CELERY, PEPPERS, ONIONS, RICE, VEGETABLES AND TOMATOES. THE WHOLE POT IS BOILED, SIMMERED AND FINALLY BAKED.

I ordered another Budweiser, ate the hush puppies, suffered through the okra and pushed aside the catfish. My friends scoffed at my lack of "sophistication" and hurled playful insults at me. Then they exaggerated the facts and spread my misfortune around at work. Soon, a narrow band of coworkers called me Mudcat.

At first I thought Mudcat was stupid. But I grew to like it because the name gave me a separate identity from the two other Steve's. Plus it was same nickname of one of my favorite baseball players, Jim Grant.

THE PRIDE OF LACOOCHIE FLORIDA, JIM "MUDCAT' GRANT, (NOW 76 YEARS-OLD), WAS A 14-YEAR MAJOR LEAGUER, (1958-1971), AND A TWO-TIME ALL-STAR. IN 1965, HE WAS THE PITCHING ACE OF THE MINNESOTA TWINS AND LED THEM TO THE WORLD SERIES. ALTHOUGH THE TWINS LOST 4 GAMES TO 3, GRANT WON TWO GAMES, (LOST ONCE) AND EVEN HIT A HOME RUN.

Jacquie Kennelly interrupted my Mudcat story and said, "Now that you mention it, my moniker was 'Jacqueline Kennedy' for a while...it felt like royalty compared to being called a tramp...I loved it." She then stared into Julio's eyes and said, "When you get back into boxing, I know a great nickname that will strike fear into all your opponents." Julio said, "I'm too old to get back into fighting." Jacquie smiled, batted her eyes and said, "That's okay, I like your face just as it is. But how do you say the vulture in Spanish?" When Jaime saw Julio's blank expression he said to him in Spanish that; it's a bird, like a condor. Then Jaime said to us, "the vulture is, el buitre." DIFFERENT CLASSIFICATIONS OF VULTURES ARE FOUND IN THE SOUTHWEST USA, THROUGHOUT LATIN-AMERICA, AFRICA AND IN EUROPE. THE ULTIMATE FLYING SCAVENGER, THEY ARE BEST KNOWN FOR FEASTING ON DEAD CARCASSES.

Joe Table said, "Yeah the word 'wee-tray' sounds like it starts with a 'W.' But it's spelled with a 'B.'" The Hispanicos, Julio, and Jaime cautiously nodded.

Jacquie cut in, "Hey Julio, from now on, I'm going to call you 'The Vulture.'" Julio shrugged, "Why? I'm not getting back in the ring" She said, "Because I want to play the vulture game with you?" "Vulture game?" he said, "What's the vulture game?" Jacquie said, "It's fun and easy...I play dead and you drag me back to your man-cave...and eat me."

Julio's nickname instantly became "Wee-Tray" or "The Vulture." It remained in our clique long after both he and Jacquie left the casino, (separately) for better jobs. Even now, whenever we refer to Julio, we call him, "The Vulture."

The vulture incident also created a new nickname for me. Those Latinos sarcastically played-off my nonexistent, cat-like reflexes as a craps dealer and shortened Mudcat to, "The Cat." Then, they translated it into Spanish. So to this day, (twenty years later), Joe Table, Jaime as well as BADLANDS and JS, still call me, "El Gato,"...and I love it!

MY GRATITUDE ATTITUDE

2011-11-28T00:43:00.016-05:00

Ouchies, where does the time go?

Yes, it's hard to believe but true, my thirty-third anniversary as a casino dealer is right around the corner. Unfortunately, it's easy to point out that the gaming industry provides dead-end jobs or to grouse about the harsh hours, lack of dignity from serving the agitated public, the dangerous and unsanitary working conditions or the shallow, but ever-eroding pool of employee benefits. Still, I choose to see my longevity as an accomplishment. Especially when you consider my field has a burn-out rate under five years, due to the reasons above.

Much of my success is due to the countless hordes of players (customers), whose generosity, (tips, a.k.a., tokes), have supported my approximately, 8,250-shift career. Now at Thanksgiving, it is appropriate to voice my appreciation to all those nice people. However, I would also like to pay homage to another countless horde...the disgusting low-lifes, devious knuckleheads and tedious wackos who through the difficulty caused by their eccentricities, short-sightedness and selfishness, have entertained me enough to provide a bounty of fodder to lampoon...and share with my readership.

MY FIRST CRAPS DEALING JOB WAS THE SLOTS-A-FUN CASINO, IN LAS VEGAS. DON'T LET THIS CONTEMPORARY PHOTO FOOL YOU, MY NINETY SHIFTS AT THAT DUMP, (JANUARY-APRIL 1979), WERE PURE TORTURE. BUT LUCKY FOR ME, ONCE I WAS OUT, I COULD LOOK BACK AT IT AND LAUGH.

For some mislead reason, I chose to withhold the overwhelming majority of my odd-ball casino experiences from my father. Even from the safety of retrospect coupled with humorous embellishment, I feared that he would be disappointed that I exposed myself to seedy situations and associated with dubious people.

I couldn't have been more wrong. My stories have a great entertainment value and therefore, dad was short-changed. I am now certain that he would have looked back and laughed with me. When I realized that heinous mistake, I became motivated to chronicle those events for all to read.

I got this revelation from my mother. She read my work and although she may not have loved them all, mom made it clear that my dad would have been my number-one fan. On the positive side, my twenty stories, two screenplays, novel and this, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," blog will be etched into the stone of cyber-space and be an eternal part of my legacy. Plus, my blitherings encouraged my son Andrew to write...much more better than me.

Mom not only encouraged me to write but she was also a springboard to bounce ideas off. She and I had shared a lot of one-on-one time after dad passed away in 1995. Despite the hardships of being a widow, she made it a point to talk about my interests.

These conversations occurred during our little outings. And like my casino career, our adventures seemed to attract low-lifes, knuckleheads and wackos. The three incidents that mom and I liked best were:

"THE BARFLY IN McSORLEY'S." One of the times that mom and I played tourist in Greenwich Village, her body's internal alarm clock alerted her that it was time for her three o'clock coffee. We were fairly close to McSorley's Old Ale House, (15 East 7th Street), so I playfully suggested that we go for a beer. Mom's daily regiment was precise...so her need for a mid-day fix of java was as reliable as the hourly geyser in Yellowstone Park. That is why it was shocking that mom sited the bar's historical significance, mentioned that she hadn't been there since she was a girl and agreed to go.McSORLEY'S HAS BEEN A FIXTURE IN THE EAST VILLAGE SINCE 1854. MY SEPTEMBER 22, 2008 BLOG ABOUT IT, MENTIONED MY GOING-AWAY PARTY BEFORE I MOVED TO LAS VEGAS, (FIRST WEEK OF JANUARY 1979). ALSO INCLUDED WAS, BACKGROUND INFORMATION ABOUT THE PUB AND THE BARFLY INCIDENT.

The second mom and I entered the saw-dust-joint, we discovered that the businessmen who frequent McSorley's don't get there until after five. Through the stinky, thick, bluish veil of cigarette smoke, the rabble we found were the dregs of society. Still we felt safe and without hurrying, enjoyed a draught each. I used the unisex restroom before leaving. On our way out, mom discreetly pointed out a drunken low-life on the verge of passing out. This fat slob motorcycle gang wannabe, looked extra funny because the wad of spittle in his red beard looked like three-week old mashed potatoes.

In the fresh air outside mom said, "That Hell's Angel guy came over to me while you were in the men's room and asked, 'Is that dude coming back?'" Down through the years, I always reminded mom that if she didn't mind paying, she would have had a much better time, if she let him pick her up.

"NEXT STOP, ALBANY." Another one of our jaunts took us to Randazzo's Clam Bar in Sheepshead Bay Brooklyn.RANDAZZO'S ON EMMONS AVENUE, HAS BEEN IN BUSINESS FOR OVER 75 YEARS. IT WAS NO LUNDY'S. (THE ORIGINAL LUNDY'S WAS OUR FAVORITE RESTAURANT...A COUPLE BLOCKS AWAY, BUT CLOSED IN 1979). RANDAZZO'S AS A SECOND CHOICE, WAS STILL GREAT. MOM AND I TYPICALLY ORDERED; MANHATTAN CLAM CHOWDER, STEAMERS AND EITHER CALAMARI OR SCUNGILLI, OVER LINGUINI FRA DIABLO.

On one occasion, before mom and I returned to my car, we were approached by a man about my age. His camel-colored corduroy sports jacket with the elbow patches was a little raggedy but he seemed okay. In a pleasant and polite manner he asked, "Could you give me a lift to Albany?" I said, "We're heading to Canarsie, Albany Avenue is way out of our way." In the most genuine way he said, "No, not Albany Avenue...the city of Albany." Suddenly, it became clear that I was dealing with a knucklehead. So in a courteous tone, I turned him down without mentioning that I couldn't spare the extra nine hours to run him up there.

"'GRANDPA' AL LEWIS SHOULD HIDE IN THE KITCHEN." Our favorite wacko story stemmed from another excursion to Greenwich Village. Mom and I were doing some power window shopping when we decided to find a place to eat. At the last storefront on the street, we mulled the idea of getting matching, mother and son tattoos. But that was forgotten when we turned the corner and saw, "GRAMPA'S BELLA GENTE," restaurant.A COUPLE OF YEARS EARLIER, I PASSED-UP AN OPPORTUNITY TO MEET AL LEWIS. THAT STORY IS INCLUDED IN MY FEBRUARY 1, 2010 BLOG, "SIDE BY SIDE WITH SINATRA."

Grandpa's opened in 1988. Mom said she read that it had a decent reputation so we gave it a try. Our lunch was far from wonderful but better than average. However our visit became memorable while we were waiting for the check. That's when Mr. Lewis and an associate came in and sat at the farthest table, next to the kitchen.

I wasn't star-struck but I thought it would be cool for mom and I to drop by and introduce our self. Mom wasn't interested so I forged ahead without her. I wanted to tell Mr. Lewis how we once almost crossed paths and congratulate him on his career, ( TV's, "CAR 54, WHERE ARE YOU," as well as his much more famous role in the, "MUNSTERS)."

DURING THE 60-EPISODE RUN, (1961-1963), OF "CAR 54, WHERE ARE YOU?" AL LEWIS PLAYED OFFICER LEO SCHNAUSER.

A discrepancy in Grandpa Al's birth certificate prevents the authorities from determining a true age, at the time of his 2006 death, (82 or 95). Up close in the mid-1990's, with all due respect to the man, I thought he took his Dracula persona too far...he looked like a zombie. Regardless of his actual age, (he still had another ten years in him), to me, he looked unhealthy and awful. By the time you add-in his stale, medicine "scent," to his pasty complexion and abnormally long, yellowish fingernails, he was both scary and nauseating.

So while I was excited to make his acquaintance, I changed my mind and cut my audience short when I shook his cold, damp, dead-fish hand. On the way out mom said, "That was fast." I said, "I'm glad I didn't meet him before we ate. When you look like that, you should hide in the kitchen."

Hopefully when the current economic uncertainty turns around, we'll all look back at the terrible situations we face today and appreciate our perseverance...and have a good laugh when it's over. It's the same in the casino environment. Survival is just a matter of understanding the true nature of the job and enduring the tyrannical managers, malignant players and villainous coworkers. If you remain strong and remember that the negativity is temporary, you'll be confident in the knowledge that the agony will fade and be replaced with a lifetime of comic relief.

My point was reinforced over the summer when a foreign man with little command of our language came to my roulette table. Like a pressure cooker, I quietly watched him for fifteen minutes as he bottle-up his increasing wrath while hemorrhaging $800.00. He bought another hundred dollars in chips. Rather than his usual ten number spread, he made two bets. One for sixty and the other for forty dollars.

He hit the $40.00 bet, (and won $1,400.00). As if he lost everything he owned in the world, he aimed his ire at me and emptied a brutal book of profanity, laced insults at me...in suddenly perfect English. Even General Patton would have blushed after hearing it.

His reaction didn't make sense (he won) but I didn't fight back. I caught eye contact with him as I slid his payoff forward. During a pause in his ravings I shrugged, "Everyday can't be Christmas." He arched one eyebrow and said in his heavy accent, "Everyday CAN be Christmas?" I smiled, "No. Every day CAN'T be Christmas." I could see him processing the information. During an awkward lull, I guessed that he was translating my statement into his language and formulating a response back in English. Finally, he smiled and said, "It CAN'T be Christmas every day...that is very funny. Get me a pen and paper, I want to write it down." And he did. More importantly he kept the rest of his insults to himself.

So whether your finances are bothering you, things are tough at work or strange things get in your way when gallivanting with your mother...don't over react and appreciate the fact that maybe not at that second or that week...but some day, you'll laugh at your strife.

Happy Thanksgiving! And don't wait to appreciate the cornucopia of life once a year. Adopt my gratitude attitude and you'll get through just about anything.

IT'S UNLUCKY TO BE SUPERSTITIOUS

2011-11-21T00:43:00.013-05:00

Fiduciary is an odd word.

While helping my son Andrew with his SAT's, we came upon it. It shares the same F-I-D root as fidelity and therefore means, faith or trust...usually in regard to banks, investment firms, insurance companies etc. So when people name their dog, Fido...it implies that the pup is a faithful, trusty companion.

To break up the monotony, Andrew and I saw it fit to lampoon the contrast between fiduciary's moralistic definition and the funny sound of the word. A few days later, I was reflecting on that well-spent time with my boy. Then my mind wandered to two circumstances when "fiduciary" fit into my earlier life.

The first was in 1981, during my brief (okay, very brief), career as a Nevada life insurance salesman. Part of the training reinforced the requirement to act in a fiduciary manner. So much so that the licensing process included an oath, to maintain the best interests of my clients and respect their privacy, (in my case, client...singular...I told you it was a brief career).

The other (far more interesting) circumstance happened in 1976 when MPW (according to the, "Guinness Book of Records," she's currently the only professional on earth without a computer), got me an unusual gift for my twenty-first birthday...tarot cards.

DOWN THROUGH THE EONS, HUMAN NATURE HAS COMPELLED COUNTLESS PEOPLE TO TRY TO ASCERTAIN THEIR DESTINY. THAT'S WHY PSYCHIC ADVISERS, HOROSCOPES, PALM, TEA LEAF AND TAROT CARDS READINGS ARE AS POPULAR AS EVER.

The tarot is a pack of playing cards, (the volume of cards range between 22 and 78). It has many European regional influences. Therefore depending on where you are, it might be called; trionfi, tarocchi, tarock...or something else. Some people also speculate that perhaps the tarot has Egyptian roots.

In the case of a 78-card deck, there are four, fourteen-card suits, numbered from one to ten, plus a king, queen, cavalier and a jack. The names of the suits, (swords, staves, cups and coins), may vary. This section of the deck is referred to as the minor arcane. However, there is a fifth, trump (triumph) suit. The trumps consist of 21-cards. This overpowering suit, plus a single card known as the fool, make up the major arcane.

An early, trump ranking of Italy's Tarocco Piemontese deck:

20) Angel

21) *World (This is the only exception). The world card has the highest number but has the second highest power.

19) Sun

18) Moon

17) Star

16) Tower

15) Devil

14) Temperance

13) Death

12) Hanged Man

11) Strength

10) Wheel of Fortune

9) Hermit

8) Justice

7) Chariot

6) Lovers

5) Pope

4) Emperor

3) Empress

2) Popess

1) Bagatto

THE LAST ELEMENT OF THE MAJOR ARCANE IS THE FOOL, (DEPENDING ON THE GAME), IT CAN BE USED AS THE MOST OR LEAST VALUABLE.

Tarot's original definition, from Arabic to French is; to reject. Starting in the fifteenth century, the cards were used in normal games. Over the years, the use of the tarot cards evolved. By the late eighteenth century, mystics and occultists started using them to divine mental or spiritual pathways.

CONTEMPORARY TAROT CARDS AS WELL AS THE INDIVIDUALLY HAND-PAINTED ONE'S FROM BEFORE THE INVENTION OF THE PRINTING PRESS, UTILIZE ALLEGORICAL ILLUSTRATIONS TO REPRESENT A WIDE RANGE OF PERSONALITY TRAITS.

A "well-trained" fortuneteller can reveal the secrets to a client's future. They accomplish this by understanding the value of each card...with an upside down card having the opposite meaning. The depth of the reading is enhanced by understanding the change in a card's value, in relation to those previously dealt.

ALTHOUGH TAROT CARDS HAVE NEVER RECEIVED MAINSTREAM SCIENCE'S ACCEPTANCE, WORLD RENOWN SWISS PSYCHIATRIST CARL JUNG (July 26, 1875-June 6, 1961) SAID THAT THE ARCHETYPES OF PERSONALITIES AND SITUATIONS REPRESENTED IN TAROT CARDS, ARE EMBEDDED IN THE COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUS OF ALL HUMAN BEINGS.

When MPW gave me my tarot cards, we went through the instruction booklet together. On my own, I read-up on more of the basics. Soon I had a slight memory of the names of the cards, what they represent and a superficial knowledge of their relationship to each other.

For practice, I tried out my new-found talent on my parents. They knew I was blithering, but it was a lot of fun. When my confidence improved, I brought my deck to one of MPW's get-togethers, in the hope that this nonsense would help me pick-up one of her girlfriends.

The cards never helped with the ladies but I kept carrying them...just in case. At Brooklyn College's Boylan Hall cafeteria, I gave a reading to my friend Brent. He knew it was bullshit but he was entertained and wanted me to come to his apartment to do one for his new bride.

Brent's misses was smarter than both of us put together. But she recognized it as silliness and we had plenty of laughs. My tarot deck was still on the kitchen table when there was a knock on the door. It was her dad.

Her father, (Gene) was a hard-working stiff...and not particularly bright. Although he lived in one of the shantytowns along Jamaica Bay in Queens, he spoke in a harsh and stereotypical Brooklyn accent.

I met Gene once before, at the wedding. I knew little about him except for Brent's juicy gossip nuggets that centered on his father-in-law's lack of common-sense. For one, Gene may have been the first mature adult ever kicked out of culinary school, due to a lack of ability. He also lost a chunk of his life savings by investing in a worm farm in Maine and his most recent embarrassing experience, involved a flat tire during a blizzard.

In the 70's without cell-phones, Gene's flat tire forced him to trek on foot through the frozen tundra of the Bronx. He found a pay phone in a bodega. Instead of freezing, he waited inside for AAA to pick him up and take him back to his car. When they arrived, his 1975 Ford Elite was on blocks. All four tires had been stolen, a vent window was smashed and the inside was ransacked.

Another hour passed until the police came. He cursed-out the officer so badly that Gene was ticketed for blocking the intersection. He recognized the cop's spite, so in the name of principle, (not money), he fought the summons, lost and was buried by additional court fees.

You might give Gene the benefit of the doubt and call him a victim of circumstance (or as he would have said, victim of soy-cumstance). But the week before, Gene proved his status as a dimwit by mailing his daughter a St. Patrick's Day card for a nephew. Except all the St. Patrick's Day and nephew references were magic-markered-out...and replaced with a scribbled HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAUGHTER message.

BRENT'S WIFE WAS MORE DISAPPOINTED THAN INSULTED. BUT SHE WOULD HAVE KILLED HUBBY IF SHE KNEW THAT HE SHOWED ME THE CARD..

Gene's eye, as if driven by divine intervention, gravitated to my tarot deck. When he asked some questions about them, his daughter giggled. Brent said, "He just gave us great news about our dream house." His wife said, "Daddy, this is way better than our old Ouija board in the basement."

The smile drained out of his face as he said, "Yesterday, I paid some gypsy twenty-five bucks on Woodhaven Boulevard to look into her crystal ball...and all she said was, 'Come back next week, yuh inna toymoil is cloudin' da ball.'" His daughter said, "As a favor to us, Steve won't charge you." Nervously he added, "I got nuttin' to worry about, right? I ain't got no inna toymoil...do I?"

While shuffling I said, "Please remember, I am not a master." Gene nodded and began fondling his crucifix and the beads around his neck. He took from his pockets, a rabbit's foot key chain, a tattered placard of Our Lady of Fatima, an old half dollar with a golden horseshoe soldered onto the back and a plastic three-leaf clover. In my thirty-three year casino career, I never saw someone with that many lucky charms.

Gene was carefully arranging his hardware in an arc when he looked up and said, "C'mon, use yuh mojo kid. Dese are suma da tings I need tah know; am I comin' intuh a windfall? Yuh see my Aunt Marguerite is on her death bed and I wanna know, is dere gonna be any money left after my vulture cousins get deirs?" When I shrugged he said, "Will my shepherd's pie recipe make me famous?" His daughter rolled her eyes. But her expression turned to shock and she blushed when he asked, "Will I screw Nadine Rourke again?"

A wave of dread hit me when Gene grabbed the salt shaker and threw some salt over his shoulder. He then muttered a prayer and crossed his fingers. The word fiduciary wasn't in my vocabulary yet, but I realized that I wielded an unwanted power over this man and his superstitions. I decided it was my responsibility to not lead him on.

I ignored his questions and said, "A tarot card reading is only for entertainment." He responded to my disclaimer with a blank stare. I decided to rush through and be as non-committal as possible.

It was uncanny that the cards getting turned up were nearly all from the less interesting and less studied, minor arcane. I literally knew nothing of each one. Perhaps if Gene was more worldly, my charade would have been as obvious to him as it was to my friends. My guilt weighed me down. He noticed the drop off in my enthusiasm and blurted, "Is it bad news?" I hated the position I put myself in and didn't respond. Instead, I made my statements even shorter, more general, simplistic and highly positive. Even though I repeated myself a lot and didn't make much sense, Gene was bewitched and rapt on every word.

When I was done telling him nothing, he asked tons of questions. I avoided specifics and bailed out by saying, "It's up to you to decipher the reading...anything else I would say, would only be a guess."

That night, the tarot cards were banished into the farthest corner of my desk's junk drawer and forgotten. Two years ago, (thirty-three years later), I came across them and was reminded of the incident with Gene. This time around, I didn't hesitate to trash them. You might say I was being irrational or apprehensive but not me, I just think it's unlucky to be superstitious.

ELEVEN - ELEVEN - ELEVEN

2011-11-14T00:43:00.008-05:00

On Veteran's Day, we take time to acknowledge the men and women who preserve peace, freedom and American way of life. This holiday was approved in 1919, to respect the end of hostilities in World War I, (on the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, of 1918).
COURTESY OF DEBBEE, THE PHOTO SPEAKS FOR ITSELF.

At first it was called Armistice Day. On May 13, 1938, an act of congress declared it a legal holiday; "a day to be dedicated to the cause of world peace and to be thereafter celebrated and known as Armistice Day." In 1954, the holiday incorporated all our military personnel and was renamed, Veteran's Day.

Veteran's Day is usually observed with community parades, events and ceremonies that honor those who have fallen in battle as well as all who served. One of the great tributes to the service and sacrifice of our military, is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, also known as, "The Tomb of the Unknowns."
THE ORIGINAL MARBLE SARCOPHAGUS INTERS THE REMAINS OF AN UNKNOWN SOLDIER FROM WWI. THE THREE SLABS IN FRONT CONTAIN THE REMAINS OF A SOLDIER FROM WWII, KOREA AND VIETNAM. THE INSCRIPTION READS, "HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY AN AMERICAN SOLDIER KNOWN BUT TO GOD."

The tomb is located in Arlington National Cemetery, just outside Washington DC, in Virginia. Around the clock, every day of the year, this esteemed grave is guarded. It is the highest honor to be serve as a ceremonial sentinel. These select few volunteers are trained in a strict ritual with each gesture being of symbolic significance. Depending on the season or time of day and regardless of the elements, the changing of the guard occurs every thirty minutes, one hour or two hours...and is open to the public.

The Vietnam Memorial in Washington, is another venerated landmark that celebrates contributions made by the vets who fought in Southeast Asia. This aesthetic masterpiece, designed by a Yale University student Maya Lin, combines beauty with emotional power. It's three sections include, a "Three Soldiers Statue" a women's memorial and the best known part, the wall.

The wall is made of a reflective stone. Etched into it, are the 58,195 names of those killed or missing in action. The walls are sunk into the ground. The gentle ramp-effect made me feel like I was walking into an open grave. It is hard not to be touched by this feature nor is it easy to overlook the deliberate, reflective quality of stone which allows the visitor a simultaneous view of them self and the engraved names of the fallen...thus forcing them self to look deeply into them self while linking the past with the present.DEDICATED IN 1982, THE VIETNAM MEMORIAL IS NEAR THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL, IN THE CONSTITUTIONAL GARDENS, ADJACENT TO THE NATIONAL MALL.

Perhaps the most famous of all tributes to our armed forces is the Marine Corps War Memorial, also known as the Iwo Jima Statue. Located outside the gate at Arlington National Cemetery, this massive sculpture by Felix de Weldon was based the, "Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima," photograph by Joe Rosenthal.

Iwo Jima was the first WWII battle that look place on a Japanese home island. From February 19, 1945 to March 26, 1945 some of the fiercest fighting of the war took place. Despite the Americans eventual, decisive victory, a bloody price was paid. On the fifth day of the thirty-five day conflict, the momentum swung the Americans way when the highest peak, Mount Suribachi was taken.

UNVEILED ON NOVEMBER 11, 1954, THIS MEMORIAL HONORS ALL THE MARINES WHO DIED IN DEFENSE OF OUR COUNTRY SINCE 1775. BUT IT'S GENERALLY ASSOCIATED WITH THE AMERICANS WHO STORMED IWO JIMA'S MOUNT SURIBACHI AND INCURRED INCREDIBLE LOSSES.

Ninety percentage of the men who charged up, were cut down. Of the small band of survivors, five Marines and a sailor hoisted the first American flag on Japanese soil. They were; Sgt. Michael Strank, Cpl. Harlon Block, PFC Franklin Sousely, PFC Rene Gagnon, Cpl. Ira Hayes and PM2 John Bradley.

Those men, with the help of Rosenthal's photo were immortalized, declared heroes and rushed stateside. To support morale on the home front, they barnstormed the country and participated in war bond drives and made personal appearances.

Unfortunately, this new-found fame was too much for one of the men, Ira Hayes, to handle. He would be arrested fifty-two times for public intoxication. At a public appearance when asked about it he once said, "I was sick. I guess I was about to crack up thinking about all my good buddies that were better men than me...and they're not coming back. Much less the White House, like me." After President Eisenhower lauded him in a 1954 speech, a reporter asked Hayes, "How do you like all the pomp and circumstance?" Hayes said, "I don't!"

IRA HAYES, (JANUARY 12, 1923-JANUARY 24, 1955), THE REAR-MOST SOLDIER IN THE STATUE WAS A PIMA TRIBE, NATIVE AMERICAN, FROM ARIZONA .

Hayes deserves special recognition because sometimes our heroes return from combat with invisible scarring whether they were physically wounded or not.

Back then the science of mental illness or even simple awareness of it, wasn't what it is today. So I guess it was easy for someone like Ira Hayes to slip through the cracks. Few people if any realized the great toll his war experience left on him. Then once the anguish took over, all that was left was the escapism of whiskey.

Nevertheless, in the midst of his downfall, he portrayed himself in the 1949 John Wayne movie, "THE SANDS OF IWO JIMA." But nobody understood why he shunned his heroic status and avoided the spotlight. No reached out and nobody understood. He was just labeled an oddball. His deep rooted psychological problems went undiagnosed and worsened. Ira Hayes descended to alcoholism and died at age 32, as a result of it.

Since his death, Hayes has also been depicted in art and film. "THE OUTSIDER," starring Tony Curtis in 1961 and "THE FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS," with Adam Beach, in 2006. In it, director Clint Eastwood suggested that Ira Hayes suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome. Also the song, "THE BALLAD OF IRA HAYES," was written by Peter La Farge. It's most memorable cover was by Johnny Cash who took it to #3 on the country western charts, in 1964.
BELOW IS AN EXCERPT FROM GEORGE CARLIN'S, "SHELL-SHOCK," ROUTINE. IT'S A GREAT ANTI-WAR STATEMENT AND SUPPORTIVE OF VETERANS.

In World War I, the term "shell shock" was used to describe battle-related mental difficulties. It was simple, honest and in two syllables, direct.

During WWII, the condition was changed to "battle fatigue." Hidden by four syllables, I guess they thought fatigue was a nicer word than shock.

In 1950, the Korean War went Madison Avenue. They squeezed out all the humanity, went totally sterile and buried the malady in eight syllables with, "operational exhaustion."

Thanks to a lot of lies and deceit, the Vietnam-era saw the very same condition renamed, "post-traumatic stress disorder." Still eight syllables but they added a hyphen to help bury the individuals pain, under the jargon.

I'll bet, if we still called it shell shock, some veterans would have gotten more help.

So on this uniquely numbered day of 11-11-11, when we pay homage to what Veteran's Day has become as well as its origin that marked the end of WWI, (on the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, of 1918).

The bigger picture is, we shouldn't have to wait for holidays to appreciate all the Americans who were ever killed, listed as missing in action or served. However, while we can see the disfigurements and paralysis that our servicemen and women come home with, please help, honor and respect those who suffer mentally and emotionally too.

PAT PAULSEN FOR PRESIDENT...IN ABSENTIA

2011-11-07T00:43:00.012-05:00

Russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov (1849-1936), would be proud to know that every time Election Day rolls around, my mouth waters and the Smothers Brothers come to mind.

The Tom and Dick Smothers were singing comedians. Both were born on Governors Island, in New York City's Harbor, (Tom in 1937, Dick in 1939). They grew-up in California. Their first professional performance was in 1959. They also made several successful record albums before appearing on TV's, "JACK PAAR SHOW," (January 28, 1961). In 1964, they debuted in a dramatic (comedic) role as hoarders on, "BURKE'S LAW."

THEIR SCHTICK MIXED FOLK MUSIC WITH COMEDY. TOM (left) ON ACOUSTIC GUITAR, TOOK ON A SLOW-WITTED PERSONA. DICK (right) ON STRING BASS, WAS THE SMART, STRAIGHT MAN. THEIR PERFORMANCE WAS TYPICALLY INTERRUPTED BY AN ARGUMENT AND ENDED WITH TOM'S SIGNATURE STATEMENT, "MOM ALWAYS LIKED YOU BEST." THEY WERE SUCH GOOD ACTORS BECAUSE, I ONLY RECENTLY LEARNED THAT IN ACTUALITY, TOM (the older one) WAS CLEARLY THE LEADER, HAD SHREWD BUSINESS SENSE AND POSSESSED MORE ARTISTIC CREATIVITY.

In 1965-1966, they got their own TV program, "THE SMOTHERS BROTHERS SHOW." To their dissatisfaction, their strong point (music) was never included. Instead Tom portrayed an angel who came to earth to oversee (interfere with) his brother, a swinging bachelor.

Despite that situation-comedy's short life, CBS in 1967, gave them another opportunity with the, "SMOTHERS BROTHERS COMEDY HOUR." It started out as a hip version of the popular variety shows of its day. Headed by a team of comedy writers that included; Steve Martin, Don "Father Guido Sarducci" Novello, Rob Reiner, Bob Einstein and his brother Albert Brooks, Leigh French and Pat Paulsen...the show had a skyrocketing appeal to the younger (15-25), generation.

Soon, the CBS censors placed restrictions on the humor when sponsors deemed some of the material to be controversial and not in their best interests. However, satirizing race, the president and the war in Vietnam was the show's defining content.

Similar pressure limited the lyrics and themes of their musical guests like; George Harrison, Joan Baez, Buffalo Springfield, Donovan, Janis Ian, Peter, Paul & Mary, Steppenwolf, The Who, Simon & Garfunkel and Pete Seeger.

To protect their financial interests, CBS insisted that all scripts must be reviewed ten days prior to air. Depending who your source is, the show either worked in earnest to fit their art into the network's professional integrity standards or they were outright rebellious...and only wanted to see how far they could push the envelope. Therefore, words, concepts and entire songs were eliminated by CBS. This scrutiny also happened to comedy skits. The network even put the kibosh on a whole episode.

To baffle the censors, the writers were forced underground. To the delight of their target demographic who felt that the encrypted double-entendre punchlines (mainly from the hippie/drug culture) were for them only...and better yet, went over their parents' heads. I was too young and never picked-up on any of the coded jokes...to me, the Smothers Brothers were just funny.

EDITOR'S NOTE - For more in depth information about how the Smothers Brothers became folk heroes and their struggles for free speech, check-out the documentary, "SMOTHERED."

LEIGH FRENCH (center) HAD A MAJOR ROLE IN THE HIDDEN COUNTERCULTURE WORD PLAY. SHE PLAYED SPACED-OUT, GOLDIE O'KEEFE AND SOLOED IN A SKIT CALLED, "SHARE A LITTLE TEA WITH GOLDIE." IN THE PSYCHEDELIC 60's, THE TERM, "SHARING TEA" WAS A EUPHEMISM FOR SMOKING POT. EVEN HER NAMES, "GOLDIE" AND "KEIF," WERE NICKNAMES FOR MARIJUANA. FREQUENTLY, SHE OFFERED HOUSEHOLD HINTS LACED WITH INSIDER SEX AND DRUG REFERENCES LIKE; THE BEST WAYS TO DEAL WITH YOUR, "ROACHES."

One of the other writers, Pat Paulsen also became a common on-screen character. He was discovered and given his big break into show business when Tom and Dick spotted him performing in a San Francisco nightclub. They hired him because he sold his songs cheap and agreed to run errands.

Paulsen, (July 6, 1927-April 24, 1997), was first cast as an editorialist due to his deadpan expression and skill when delivering double-talk, on contemporary issues. The logical next step was to have him do a mock presidential election campaign. In 1968, this recurring skit injected him into national consciousness.
LIKE A PAVLOVIAN CUE, EVERY ELECTION DAY, I SALIVATE AND THINK OF THE SMOTHERS BROTHERS AND PAT PAULSEN. EVEN AFTER THE SHOW ENDED, HE "RAN" FOR PRESIDENT AGAIN IN, '72, '80, '92 AND '96. IN EACH ELECTION, HE RECEIVED A SURPRISING AMOUNT OF PROTEST VOTES.

Paulsen's anti-establishment platform was purely comedic. But over the course of twenty-five years his sarcastic zingers against mainstream politicos and relevant social problems got voters to think in new ways. Although his comments and criticisms were based on seriousness, it was obvious that his clowning was exaggerations, lies and tongue-in-cheek raillery. Some of my favorite Paulsen-isms are:

A good many people feel our present draft laws are unjust. These people are called soldiers.

(Campaign chant) We can't stand pat!

I'm neither left wing or right wing. I'm middle of the bird.

If either the left wing or the right wing gained control of the USA, we'd fly in circles.

I will never lose my appreciation for Pat Paulsen, the Smothers Brothers or their writers. But I feel that the whole concept of him running for president was stolen from, "MAD MAGAZINE."

"MAD MAGAZINE," STARTED THEIR, "ALFRED E. NEUMAN FOR PRESIDENT CAMPAIGN," IN 1960. HE NEVER RECEIVED THE VOLUME OF PROTEST VOTES THAT PAULSEN GOT BUT TO ME, HE'LL ALWAYS BE THE ORIGINAL AND BEST FAKE CANDIDATE... OOPS, I LIKED RONALD REAGAN TOO.

Ironically, the same humor that played a role in, "THE SMOTHERS BROTHERS COMEDY HOUR," getting cancelled is still considered politically incorrect, (they were actually fired after only 72 episodes, on April 4, 1969). This was proven when this "poster show for the first amendment," was re-run with plenty of bleeps, in 1993, on the E-CHANNEL.

When you consider that the Smothers Brothers and "Mad," both scoffed at the same things, I think if Paulsen and Neuman were on next year's ballot, I'd vote for Alfred E. Neuman. My reason is, "MAD" has been going strong since 1952 and because they don't cave-in to their sponsors, (they don't allow advertisements), I doubt Mr. Neuman was ever censored. But far more importantly, even though Pat Paulsen has not been with us for fourteen years...he's a perennial...which means he left a lasting impression on many people.

I'm sure Pavlov would again be proud to know, next November at election time, the mere thought of Paulsen's name will result in some disgruntled Americans having their mouth water...as they cast a write-in vote for him. And I bet its a landslide compared to what Neuman gets.

THE MOUNT SCARY LODGE

2011-10-31T00:43:00.016-05:00

Can anything be more frightening than the disintegration of things we like?

In late October 1991, my wife Sue and I went to a Halloween-themed, adult, couples-weekend, at the Mount Airy Lodge, in Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains.

The accommodations, food, decor and hospitality were state-of-the-art. Plus, the added dimension of organized, spooky events made our stay...a hoot!

The Mount Airy Lodge sat on a beautiful 1000-acre tract of land.

IN 1898, THE LODGE OPENED WITH EIGHT ROOMS. IN THE 1950's THEY EXPANDED AND BECAME THE LARGEST RESORT IN THE POCONOS. THE 890 ROOM FACILITY PEAKED IN THE 1960's AND 70's.

After checking-in, we saw a piece of the lodge's storied tradition as an entertainment mecca of Northeast Pennsylvania. The wall space around the Crystal Theater entrance showcased photos of past headliners like; Bob Hope, Milton Berle, Connie Francis, Red Buttons, Tony Bennett, Nipsey Russell and Paul Anka.

We then visited the friendly concierge. She informed of the meal schedule as well as the impressive daily social agenda. Sue was handed pamphlets describing the pools, skiing, golf, snowmobiling, ice-skating, hiking, biking, archery, tennis and twenty more activities, facilities and services.

On Friday night, we participated in several Mount "Eerie" Lodge social events. Hosted by three cute and perky female employees in costume, (Mary the witch, Meg the skeleton and Maureen the sexy devil...complete with an extra short skirt and a purposely exposed, plastic derriere).

The "Ghastly Golf Putting Contest" and "Berserk Bingo," seemed farty. But because our hostesses inter-spliced a wine tasting session (from a local vineyard), between the events, we not only went with the flow but had a good time...especially watching the less sophisticated fellow-guests quickly get soused and lose their inhibitions.
STOCK PHOTO. I'M NOT A WINE DRINKER BUT I STILL SAMPLED THE CHABLIS AND ROSE. WHEN MARY SAW THE CONTORTED FACES I WAS MAKING, SHE UNCORKED A BOTTLE OF PINK CATAWBA AND SAID, "THIS WITCHY BREW IS A DELIGHTFUL SPARKLING WINE...THAT MEANS IT'S THE SAME THING AS CHAMPAGNE, BUT NOT FROM FRANCE." I THOUGHT IT SUCKED TOO.

That night's highlight was the horror movie/TV show trivia contest. Mary was the moderator, Meg played mood music cassettes with rock-n-roll songs like; "WEREWOLVES OF LONDON," "TUBULAR BELLS" and "PSYCHO KILLERS." She also had a tape with a collage of sound effects that included; macabre harpsichord music, crackling thunder, sinister laughs, screeches, screams and shrieks as well as chains being dragged and a howling wolf.

Maureen operated a movie projector and mingled with the contestants. She also served spiked gummy worms, Jack-O-Lantern candy and other ghoulish treats from coffin-shaped trays . However, she didn't appreciate several drunks, including a couple of women, pawing her exposed, plastic butt.

WHEN I GAVE-UP ON THE WINE, I STILL MANAGED TO MAKE A MEAL ON CHEESE, CRACKERS AND OTHER HALLOWEEN TIDBITS.

Mary announced that the trivia winner would receive a bottle of Chablis but if someone got all ten questions right, the special prize was Pink Catawba. Meg was quick to add, "But I put in a 'hundred buster!' If you know that extra hard answer and get all the others right too, then you deserve the bonus."

We watched a montage of horror movies snippets during the quiz. I needed to make a calculated guess on a, "DARK SHADOWS," question but the rest were easy like; Eddie Munsters' middle name, the city that "PSYCHO," opens up in and the actress that played the bride of Frankenstein.

Meg interrupted the proceedings after the ninth question, to ask the one she carefully researched. What a pleasant coincidence it was when she asked us the title of, "ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS," theme song. Just a few days earlier at work, FRANKIERIO had told me that factoid."ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS," WAS A *HALF-HOUR, TV ANTHOLOGY OF DRAMAS, THRILLERS AND MYSTERIES. CONSIDERED ONE OF THE TOP HUNDRED SHOWS OF ALL-TIME, IT'S 363-EPISODE RUN LASTED TEN SEASONS, (1955-1965). *THE LAST THREE YEARS FEATURED HOUR-LONG PRODUCTIONS. THE TWO INDELIBLE TRADEMARKS OF THE SHOW WERE, HITCHCOCK IN SILHOUETTE WALKING TO, AND FITTING INTO A SKETCH OF HIMSELF AND THE OPENING THEME, "FUNERAL MARCH OF A MARIONETTE,"
COMPOSED BY CHARLES GOUNOD, IN 1873.

Many of us got the first nine questions right. But I won because I knew the hundred-buster. Maureen presented Sue and I with our major award, (I'm guessing that all the ass-grabbing and fondling had gotten tedious because she had changed into jeans).

EDITOR'S NOTE: Somewhere in the clutter of the most remote alcove of my garage, I'm certain that that unopened bottle of Pink Catawba crap is still in my possession.

On Saturday night, we missed the horse-drawn hearse, "HAUNTED HAYRIDE." But we came down in time for the big scavenger hunt. They divided us into five groups, our three-couple team was called the, "HOUNDS OF THE BASKERVILLES."

Mary gave us added incentive by declaring that each couple from the winning squad would receive a $25.00 certificate, good for hotel services. At that moment none of us took into account that we were all checking-out in the morning. So the "generosity" of the payoff was not only superfluous but unusable, (unless you came back in the next six months).

AN ORDINARY HOTEL MIGHT HAVE STOPPED WITH VIRTUALLY USELESS GIFT CERTIFICATES...BUT NOT MT. AIRY. THEY LAVISHED THE WINNERS AND SECOND PLACE FINISHERS WITH REAL "KEEPERS"... SOUVENIR RIBBONS.

Mary, Meg and Maureen gave the same clues, in different sequences, to each team. I'm guessing it was because I was the only sober man that a redneck from Roscoe New York anointed me captain.

My team found the "raven" in the bird cage at the duck pond and "Igor's Lavatory," wound up being the men's room door, next to the arcade. Towards the end, we were stumped trying to find the, "39-STEPS." On a hunch, I led the team to the indoor tennis pavilion and started counting the stairs. The Roscoeman's girlfriend LuAnn was singing the, "MONSTER MASH," when he belched, "Shush, El Capitan is counting!" Somehow, I was able to maintain my concentration and find the final, winning clue...just ahead of the, "PHANTOMS OF THE OPERA."

In the morning, after a big breakfast, we packed and came down to check-out. We met the Roscoe couple on line. We agreed that the whole weekend was great. I said, "It's too bad the scavenger hunt prize was such useless bullshit." The man said, "LuAnn hoped to get a facial out it but we can't wait around till after noon." She pointed down the corridor towards the bowling alley and said, "But we got full use out of our certificate." He said, "On the way back from the beauty salon, we weren't thinking of food when we passed the snack bar." LuAnn said, "But I took a shot and asked if they take those stupid certificates...and they do." He said, "We have a long drive home. We got four sandwiches...to go. Plus, four sodas and some fruit...we'll have a picnic lunch in the car." Sue and I followed suit and felt like we actually won something.

We liked the Mount Airy Lodge so well that we returned two years later. The hotel was pretty boring because we had already done everything. Or what we wanted to do, like use the Jacuzzi, steam room or sauna, was no longer available. The only thing new was outside the theater, a "Starving Artist Sale." Even the concierge desk was gone. It was replaced with a "help yourself," rack of brochures for other local destinations. That's what inspired us to horseback ride and spend the next afternoon at the outlet center.EVEN STILL, OUR SECOND MOUNT AIRY GET-AWAY WAS GOOD. PERHAPS MORE SO FOR SUE...DUE TO THE 102 STORES OF THE "CROSSINGS OUTLET MALL," 1000 ROUTE 611, IN TANNERSVILLE.

I never thought I'd see the Mount Airy Lodge again but in March 1997, they advertised such an inexpensive deal that we thought it would be fun to give my three-year old a change of scenery.INDIRECTLY, THIS VISIT TO MOUNT AIRY HAD A HALLOWEEN THEME. THE HOTEL WAS SO EMPTY, IT REMINDED ME OF THE, "SHINING." EVERYTHING HAD GONE DOWNHILL. THERE WERE VIRTUALLY NO SERVICES. THE HEALTH CLUB WAS CLOSED, THERE WERE NO LIFEGUARDS AT THE POOL, THE HIGHLY PUBLICIZED INNER-TUBING MOUNTAIN WASN'T MAINTAINED WITH ARTIFICIAL SNOW...AND IT WASN'T EVEN STAFFED. FAR WORSE, ON SATURDAY, OUR ROOM WAS NEVER MADE-UP. THE HEIGHT OF OUR WEEKEND WAS TRYING TO FIGURE-OUT HOW TO USE THE BIDET...OH WAIT, THAT WASN'T WORKING EITHER.

This time around there were no headliners, the cute social directors and the holiday themes vanished and they fired the all the masseuses. The only added "amenity" was a fund-raiser bazaar for the Mount Pocono volunteer fire department, in the theater. To encourage customers to come, area businesses gave away key-chains, water bottles, pads, pencils and other chintzy advertising. We lasted ten minutes, (fourteen years later we still use our Cumberland County Bank jar opener).

Later, a gossipy woman told us that the Mount Airy Lodge had been cited for several health code violations...including an infestation of bed bugs, fire hazards from exposed wiring and failed kitchen inspections, (Kind of makes you wonder why she came). Then in an annoying nasal whine she concluded, "Even if you find someone to complain to, they all act like zombies."

The hotel was plummeting fast but wouldn't hit rock bottom for a couple more years. The escalating popularity of cruise ships and Caribbean tourism had a lot to to with their demise. But the final dagger in the heart was the new national fixation...gambling. So the allure of Las Vegas and Atlantic City made the less than sexy lodge, (still clinging to the memories of Bob Hope, Nipsey Russell and Connie Francis), teeter on obsolescence.

We got lucky because I'm not as tough as I seem. If I had seen nauseating creepy crawlies in our bed like that woman suggested, I would have gone bonkers. I would have been put in a straight-jacket and hauled off to an insane asylum. Instead, we were only exposed to cracked tiles in pool, horrible buffet-style dining and an acute lack of premium hotel activities and facilities.

After 1997, people all but stopped coming to the Mount Airy Lodge. The quality of the food was significantly cut. The chambermaid staff was greatly reduced and groundskeepers were almost eliminated. Then more terrible rumors about the lodge's safety and cleanliness surfaced. Finally in 1999, the Mount Airy Lodge closed it doors and went into foreclosure.

It's terrible to see the things we like die. But like a phoenix who rises from its own ashes, the self-imploded Mount Airy Lodge was demolished...and a new hotel/casino was built in its place. That might sound interesting but for a guy like me with thirty-two years of gaming experience...the new casino...is enough to scare me away.

THE STONEHENGE OF BRIGANTINE

2011-10-24T00:43:00.013-05:00

One of our family traditions is taking our dog Roxy to Brigantine Beach. Before and after the summer, it's a thrill to take off her leash and watch her thrash around in the surf.

Two weeks ago we had a stray eighty degree day and once again, my puppy had the time of her life. What was even better was, she was attentive to when I called her. So we never stressed about her annoying strangers and we didn't have to chase her.
IF YOU ARE A TRUE ROXY LOVER, YOU'LL NOTICE THAT THIS PICTURE IS OVER FIVE-YEARS OLD. BUT THE DEEPER POINT IS, I NEEDED TO BRING MY CAMERA THIS TIME...BUT DIDN'T.

During our jaunt, I bumped into my long time friend JS. We walked together along the water's edge and he told us about a recent trip to his homeland, Peru. OUR CONVERSATION WAS DOMINATED BY WHAT HE CALLED, THE THREE TOP TOURIST ATTRACTIONS IN PERU.

This was an important trip for JS because it marked his lifetime goal of visiting Machu Picchu.
SET HIGH IN THE PERUVIAN ANDES, (7970 FEET ABOVE SEA LEVEL), MACHU PICCHU IS ONE OF THE NEW, "SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD," ALSO KNOWN AS, "THE LOST CITY OF THE INCAS," THIS PRE-COLOMBIAN SITE IS BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN BUILT FOR EMPEROR PICHACUTI, (1438-1472).

JS boasted, "No single picture could tell you its beauty. And you'd have to actually be there to appreciate its inspirational power...and in my case, the pride in my ancestors."

He also mentioned that Machu Picchu was so remote that the Spanish Conquistadors couldn't plunder it because they never found it. Once the Incas abandoned it, it was forgotten until native descendants led archaeologists to the ruins in 1911.

Roxy roamed over a dune as JS changed the subject to another tourist destination, Lake Titicaca. She was sniffing at a bunch of forgotten beach toys that were nearly buried by the sand. I called her name and she returned to my side.

JS said he had been to Titicaca many times as a kid.

JS SAID AS A TEENAGER HE JOKED, "THE VIEW OF TITICACA IS PRETTIER FROM THE BOLIVIAN SHORE BECAUSE YOU SEE TITI ON THE DISTANT PERUVIAN SIDE...WHILE STANDING IN CACA."

I lost my concentration on his description of the lake when I saw a second, fuller set of pails, shovels and other novelties that were left behind. These toys were carefully set, perhaps measured, in an intentional arc facing the sea. Something about the two plastic boats that spanned across the top of pails gnawed at me for the rest of the day.

ONLY NOW THAT I AM WRITING THIS COLUMN DO I REGRET NOT PHOTOGRAPHING THOSE ABANDONED BEACH TOYS. BECAUSE IT WASN'T UNTIL THE RIDE HOME THAT I CAME UP WITH MY BIG CONCLUSION.

Before we went our separate ways, JS told me that he's never visited Peru's third most popular tourist attraction, the Nazca Lines.

RE- DISCOVERED IN THE EARLY 1930's BY ANONYMOUS FLIERS IN AN AIRPLANE, NAZCA LINES ARE GEOGLYPHS THAT WERE ETCHED INTO THE SOUTHERN PERUVIAN DESERT FLOOR (440 A.D. -650 A.D.). THEY INCLUDE HUNDREDS OF INDIVIDUAL FIGURES, (MOSTLY ANIMALS), LIKE THE CONDOR ABOVE, (SOME ARE AS LARGE AS 660 FEET WIDE). MOST SCHOLARS ATTRIBUTE A RELIGIOUS SIGNIFICANCE TO THEM, (i.e. RITUALS TO SUMMON WATER OR FOR FERTILITY).

JS said, "The Nazca Lines can not be appreciated from the ground." Therefore, the bigger controversy is how did the native people dig-out such intricate artwork without the perspective of seeing their accuracy from above. Although my research found that mainstream scientists using the same primitive techniques could indeed re-create these wonders...many truly believe that extraterrestrial influence was needed.

When JS referred to Eric von Daniken, (1968 best selling author of, "CHARIOTS OF THE GODS?" ...62 million copies sold plus other, less popular books on the subject), he said that the Nazca Lines were ancient runways for alien spacecraft. When JS saw my surprised reaction he said, "The mystery of Nazca makes it the Stonehenge of South America."
WORLD RENOWN STONEHENGE, IS A PREHISTORIC MONUMENT IN ENGLAND'S WILTSHIRE COUNTY. IN THE MIDDLE, EARTHWORKS ARE SURROUNDED BY A CIRCULAR SET OF LARGE STANDING STONES, (see above).

More enigmatic than Nazca, archaeologists estimate that it took 500 years to build and complete Stonehenge, around 2500 B.C. The site apparently served as an astronomy observatory, a religious site and as a burial ground. The monument was produced by a culture that didn't have a written language therefore its mode of construction is highly debatable.

Unlikely as it might seem, scholars believe that humans with the technology of that period could devise the idea, find the materials, engineer a way to import them to the proper area and position those enormous and heavy pieces...even across the top of others...into celestial accurate spots. Others like Eric von Daniken propose that those ancient people could not have possibly imagined, developed or constructed such an incredible project without supernatural intervention.

On our car ride back from Brigantine, Roxy calmly laid on the floor while my wife Sue texted the world about our outing. Alone with my thoughts, I couldn't get the shape of the beach toys left in the sand out of my head. That's when I remembered what JS said about Stonehenge.

My mind wandered to all the scientific speculation of Stonehenge's specifications. I bet that place has been measured millions of times and the data has been fed into computers tens of thousands of times...and the inconclusive results...reveal a gazillion possibilities.

My mind wandered even deeper when I imagined spacemen, (in flying saucers made of rock), so advanced that they quarried the Stonehenge stones. Then delivered them to the construction zone and assembled them in such a sturdy way...on top of each other...that they stood the test of time and the barrage of two millenniums of weather, to remain what we see today.

Then my mind latched onto next year's end of the world prophecies. My thoughts wandered far deeper than ever before. I considered, what would happen if the earth indeed was destroyed by such a cataclysm that it took twenty-thousand years for civilization to rebound to our current level of sophistication?

My mind's eye took me back to Brigantine Beach. I envisioned a future generation of archaeologists rummaging through the desert wastelands of the former, ocean front property. Suddenly a college intern gasped. Buried in the cement-like sand, a tiny bit of a bigger, smooth, fluorescent amber object glistens in the sunshine.

Workers chisel around the area, toss aside clumps of earth and brush away finer particles. When the dimensions were clear, an ancient representation of a smiling sun, forged from a baffling foreign material is fully visible. Experts are certain that this bauble is the personification of a beneficent God. But the greater enlightenment is that this detailed artisan's rendering proves that an advanced culture once inhabited the Earth. Within months, this five by five foot area will be fully excavated.

Scientists will win awards by linking this find to the evolution of mankind. But a lifetime of intense research won't give them a definitive answer of how the toys got there or their purpose.

Astronomers plot the formation and find similarities with the constellations in the night sky. Archaeologists refer to the earthworks as being surrounded by a semi-circular set of blue, red and green beveled pillars, (fatter at the bottom that taper to a flat top). In two places, facsimiles of boats straddle the top of the pillars. Other odd-shaped objects suggest to anthropologists a spiritual overtone. These questions will be studied for another hundred years without a meaningful conclusion made.

Meanwhile, this Stonehenge of Brigantine will be measured, the data fed into computers and no satisfactory explanation for the non-biodegradable, shiny, smooth material dubbed, "plastique" will be reached. It will never be found again in nature or artificially replicated in a laboratory. However a small faction of kooks, believe the descendant of Eric von Doniken. To hype-up his latest book...he theorizes that extraterrestrials manufactured this substance on their planet when in 2012, they wiped-out 99.9% of all earthlings, eons ago.

THE NINE LIVES OF WILLIE POTATO

2011-10-17T00:43:00.016-05:00

Willard Francis Potaki, a.k.a., "Willie Potato,"was punished for poor judgement and brought to my shift (nights), in 1987. My first impressions of him were, that he consistently spoke too loud, reeked of tobacco and came off as dopey. Still, up against everyone else in the casino environment, he was a decent enough fellow.

During his first week, he was overseeing my craps crew when we were severely brutalized, for hours, by a pair of out-of-line low-lifes. In appreciation of our team effort under acutely harsh conditions, the pit boss wrote "comps" for two free drinks for us and our supervisors.

At the bar, I wound up sitting next to Willie. Immediately, he was chain-smoking, as he chased two, double Jack Daniels with two Heinekens (twice the free allotment)...while I was still nursing my first screwdriver.
WILLIE PULLED A 1956 BILLY MARTIN BASEBALL CARD FROM THE BREAST POCKET OF HIS DRESS SHIRT. HE HAD BOUGHT IT AT A SPORTS MEMORABILIA SHOW THAT AFTERNOON. THE PRICE SEEMED EXPENSIVE FOR A CARD THAT WAS BADLY BENT. HE SAID, "IT MUST'VE GOT MESSED-UP IN MY POCKET. BUT THE GUY THREW IN THIS OTHER CARD FOR FREE." I SAID, "HE 'BILL HALL' LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU." WILLIE THOUGHT I WAS CRAZY.

Willie slipped the bartender a bribe, hidden in a matchbook and ordered himself more free drinks. Then...not because he was intoxicated but because he was an anti-Einstein... he mispronounced and used the wrong words while telling me that a female pit boss on day shift recently went to the adjacent casino on her break and won $20,000.00 on a slot machine.

This was a time when Atlantic City casino workers weren't permitted to gamble in town. So when she had to show identification, she confessed her illegal situation. Despite her efforts to circumvent the law, the slot department representative offered her the courtesy of two choices. The first was to accept money and run the high risk of losing both her job and state gaming license or decline the winnings.

To the joy of the casino, she turned down the jackpot and returned to work. Willie then made a stale Polish joke at her expense. I said, "Potaki, isn't your name Polish?" His response was, "No! My people were European!"

I told that story a few days ago. Five friends of mine from that now defunct casino, had what turned out to be, an impromptu meeting of the Thirty-Year Gaming Veterans Club. Once we sat down, it was brought to my attention that Willie was already dead ten years. Then similar to the 1984 movie, "BROADWAY DANNY ROSE," we had a round table discussion about the old days but Willie Potato dominated the conversation.

THE OPENING OF THE MOVIE WAS SET IN THE CARNEGIE DELI WITH COMEDIANS REMINISCING. EVENTUALLY, THEY STICK TO ONE TOPIC, THE WORST THEATRICAL AGENT EVER...BROADWAY DANNY ROSE.

Everyone in our forum agreed that Willie Potato was legendary for "lighting a candle on both ends," and for having an odd fascination with baseball player/manager Billy Martin. However Willie's high octane lifestyle eclipsed his idol and brought about a far too early death. Upon deeper examination, Willie Potato was lucky to have lasted as long as he did.

Willie's downward spiral and ultimate downfall included chain smoking more than two packs of Pall Mall a day, alcoholism, regular use of recreational drugs, a gambling problem and a load of psychological complexes such as; persecution and Napoleonic.

Before understanding the party animal Willie Potato, we must first understand Billy Martin.

Alfred Manuel "Billy" Martin Jr., (of Portuguese and Italian ancestry), was born in Berkeley California on May 16, 1928. Despite being small in stature, his aggressiveness helped him to become a major leaguer with the Yankees, in 1950. During his seven so-so seasons in New York, he was dwarfed by stars, all-stars and future Hall-of Famers. However, he forever etched his way onto the team's all-time icons list, by performing well (.333 batting average), in his 28 World Series games and being named the 1953 World Series MVP.

In 1957, Martin's undoing in New York was his 29th birthday celebration at the Copacabana Night Club. He was already on ownership's version of "double secret probation" due to his excessive drinking and rowdy behavior when teammates, (most notably Hank Bauer, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra...and their wives) became embroiled in a highly publicized brawl.

Some drunkards were hurling racial insults at the headlining entertainer that night, Sammy Davis Jr. When the offensive gentlemen refused Hank Bauer's request to tone it down, the ensuing fight resulted in plenty of embarrassment to the Yankee front office.

THE MAJORITY OF THE PRINCIPALS PRIOR TO THE COPACABANA FIGHT.

The reports I read on the Copa incident agree that Billy Martin had no role in instigating the melee. Nevertheless despite being manager Casey Stengel's, "boy," Martin was scapegoated. He was deemed a bad influence on stars like Mantle and Whitey Ford and was immediately traded to Kansas City.

A Yankee at heart, Martin never achieved much success with other teams. In 1961 he retired with a .257 career batting average and was an all-star once, in 1956. Eventually he became a successful manager. However, whatever coaching greatness he attained was blighted by the same detrimental behavior that scarred his playing career, fighting.

FURTHER EVIDENCE OF HIS DYSFUNCTIONAL MENTALITY, THE HOT BLOODED MEDITERRANEAN ACTED IN COLD BLOOD WHEN HE EXTENDED HIS LEFT, MIDDLE FINGER WHILE POSING FOR THE 1972, TOPPS, #33 BASEBALL CARD.

Martin's polarizing personality resulted in the absurdity of managing the Yankees on five separate occasions, (that means he was also fired five times). I saw my favorite Martin-ism live on TV when he removed Reggie Jackson from a game in mid-inning. Tempers erupted and the face-to-face verbal clash which nearly came to blows is a classic.

During the ceremony when his number (1) was retired Martin said, "I may not have been the greatest New York Yankee to put on the uniform but I am the proudest." That statement also appears on his tombstone.

In a Johnson City New York hospital, on December 25, 1989, Billy Martin died from injuries that occurred in a slow-speed, one-car accident. Despite much speculation, a forensic examination of the tragedy proved that although Martin was drinking, he was the passenger. It was his friend who skidded on ice and crashed outside Martin's home in Port Crane New York.

For some reason, Willie Potato decided to not only emulate Billy Martin's shortcomings but to surpass them.

In 1952, Willie was born in Weehawken New Jersey. He was ashamed of both sides of his Portuguese and Polish ancestry and worked hard to avoid the subject.

Willie dropped-out of high school but rose up through the casino ranks and crested as a craps floor supervisor.

Like Billy Martin, Willie was short.

WILLIE WAS 5 FOOT 2. HE WORE MOTORCYCLE BOOTS WITH A LARGE HEEL AND WAS RUMORED TO ALSO USE "LEG LIFTS." DURING OUR ROUND TABLE DISCUSSION WILLIE'S CLOSEST FRIEND, "B," REMINDED US THAT TO "HONOR" HIM, THEY USED TO CALL THE CHILDREN'S URINAL AT WORK, THE "POTAKI."

Willie was forced to compensate and frequently demeaned underlings and undesirable customers. While he took himself serious, most of his colleagues viewed him as a clown or an ass.

The reason he was sent to my shift was because after two burly security guards wrestled an irate patron to the ground, Willie jumped into the fray and got in a few sucker punches after the accused perpetrator was subdued.

Everyone at my table agreed that it was hilarious that Willie misused big words especially when unsuccessfully hitting-on unapproachable women.

IN AN UNCOMPLIMENTARY WAY, WILLIE WAS COMPARED TO COMIC-ACTOR LEO GORCEY, (1917-1969). GORCEY WAS ONE OF THE BUSIEST MEN IN HOLLYWOOD FROM 1937-1956. IN THAT TIME, HE APPEARED IN 69 FILMS AS THE DIMINUTIVE, PUGNACIOUS, MALAPROPISM SPEWING LEADER OF, "THE DEAD END KIDS," "THE EASTSIDE KIDS," AND "THE BOWERY BOYS." HIS PROTOTYPICAL YOUNG PUNK CHARACTER WAS PORTRAYED UNDER SEVERAL DIFFERENT NAMES LIKE; ETHELBERT "MUGGS" McGINNIS AND TERENCE ALOYSIUS "SLIP" MAHONEY.

Willie routinely stood out to all hours. At night, he drank until he passed-out and after a few hours of sleep, used amphetamines to get ready for work.

Another former coworker "W," said that Willie regularly gambled on his breaks. He'd leave his suit jacket at the hotel's front desk, remove his tie and put on a Yankee cap and sunglasses. Then he'd go next door for twenty minutes and play a few hands of blackjack while swilling as much alcohol as he could. To prove his stupidity, despite his high-tech attempt to mask his identity, he risked his livelihood much like the female pit boss that he spoke so condescendingly about.

I could understand why he felt tortured by Polish jokes when he was young. But as an adult, it was obvious that he wasn't bright enough to see that he'd become the personification of that type of humor.

Everyone was laughing when "B" said, "Losing his casino license would have been nothing to a guy like Willie. It's like he had a death wish or something because I think he used up more lives than a cat." "T" cut him off, "Remember his boating accident? He and his neighbor were all drunked-up when they saw bad weather coming fast. The casino skyline seemed so close so they didn't head back. In no time, the wind and waves picked up. The storm made them lose control. Even if Willie was sober, he was still an inexperienced boatsman. They smashed into a buoy, the boat took on water and overturned. The two drunks panicked. If a random fisherman didn't happen by and save their butts, they both would have drown."

STOCK PHOTO. WILLIE'S BOAT, "THE BILLY MARTIN #1," CAPSIZED IN THE BAY, A HALF-MILE OFF BRIGANTINE.

"R" blurted, "In the 90's, he was always broke and sponging money." "A" interrupted and said, "Being broke was why his ex ran him down with their car. It's hard to believe that he only broke his collar bone...because she really tried to kill him." "That's right," "W" said. "Their relationship was so messed-up because they were so co-dependant on each other...that he didn't even file charges. They divorced a year later but that was because she cheated on him." "T" said, "As soon as she moved out west, he became more of a dead-beat loser by never paying that whore any more alimony."

We were were all smiles when "B" reminded us, "The dude survived brain cancer." We had a spontaneous moment of silence. I was imagining him having a golf ball-sized tumor cut out of his head when "T" changed the mood, "Don't forget the gang-bang with Nadine, the pit clerk. Remember, he was with her when the husband burst in the bedroom. Willie led a charmed life because that moron would have murdered him for sure. But Willie only sprained his ankle when he jumped from the second floor balcony."

"T" said, "Don't forget the riot Willie started in the casino softball league. He was pitching batting practice to the other team and a couple of shots came close to hitting him. He always thought everyone was out to get him so he MFed the batter and accused them all of a conspiracy against him. The umpire actually had to break-up the cursing match before it became a free-for-all."

"A," said, "The tension mounted when the other team got under Willie's skin by giggling and pointing at him from their dugout. A few pitches later, Willie took a line drive off his chest. All hell broke-out and I remember Willie on the bottom of the pile getting his head stepped on with spikes."ONE YEAR WHEN THE ONLY SMALL-SIZED TEAM SHIRT CAME IN WITH #20 ON IT, (INSTEAD OF THE BILLY MARTIN INSPIRED #1), WILLIE GOT SO ENRAGED THAT HE CUT-UP THE #19 SHIRT. HE SLOPPILY SEWED A BLANK PIECE OF MATERIAL OVER THE NUMBER AND THEN SEWED A THIRD LAYER WITH THE #1 FROM THE 19 ON TOP.

We all laughed as "R" said, "Once everything calmed down, the umpire said if there's one more problem, he'll declare a double-forfeit. It shouldn't have mattered to us, we always lost. But I'll never forget Willie pitching that game with a bandanna under his Yankee cap with blood oozing through it."

"B" changed the subject, "I think when he lost his job...it killed him." He had been caught smoking pot on the property and was fired. Willie hopped from one part-time dealer job to another. He hated being the low man on the totem pole and got into many arguments...and like Billy Martin, kept getting fired.

"B" continued, "He convinced a bank to lend him some money and bought a small, one-man operation business on the cheap." "A" said, "But he didn't know his ass from a hole in the wall. All he knew was casino work." "B" said, "That's right. He was such a schmuck. He was drunk or high most of the time and couldn't be bothered by his own customers." "R" said, "I heard he used business money to score coke." "B" said, "Yeah. Then he couldn't handle the pressure of creditors in his face every day. Maybe dying from a heart attack was the easy way out."

We all left the table shaking our heads. It was hard to believe that the likes of Billy Martin lasted till 61 and Willie Potato only made it to 49...

IT'S NOT ALWAYS SUNNY IN PHILADELPHIA...THE REAL PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH...TREAT

2011-10-10T00:43:00.014-05:00

On Thursday evening, April 24, 1991, I experienced quite a coincidence.

A friend of my wife Sue gave us primo New York Mets tickets, for a game at Philadelphia's Veterans Stadium. A few days earlier, a former employee of mine, DENG, got tickets to the same game from a client. To complete this oddity, another friend, KURUDAVE had tickets to that game left at the will-call window, by one of players.

In addition to the later coincidence, I thought this was funny because KURU wasn't a sports fan. Even though he had his benefactor's name written down at home, he couldn't remember the ticket-bearer's name, when KURU and I spoke. Even funnier, he had no idea which team the player was on. To be on the safe side, I reminded him that he was taking a big chance of being embarrassed in front of his new girlfriend, if after the long ride, the guy was a bullshitting impostor.

The true coincidence may have never happened because the sky that afternoon was shrouded by thick gray clouds. During the hour drive to Philadelphia, the floodgates opened. At five o'clock, while crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge, the storm forced me to use my hyper-speed windshield-wipers. Although the ballgame was jeopardized by a rain out, Sue and I clung to our original dinner plans and headed to Philly Cheesesteak-Heaven.AN AUTHENTIC CHEESESTEAK CONTAINS; FRIZZLED BEEF, GRILLED ONIONS AND MELTED CHEESE, ON A LONG ROLL. BUILT TO SUIT, VARIED INGREDIENTS GIVE THIS DELECTABLE COUNTLESS VARIATIONS. I LIKE MINE WITH PROVOLONE, SAUTEED MUSHROOMS AND TOO MUCH KETCHUP.

In South Philadelphia, not far from the Italian Market, on the corner of 9th and Passyunk, two giants of the cheesesteak world are situated across the street from each other. The person who gave me the directions picked one over the other solely on the basis that they invented the sandwich, in the early 1930's. However, he was quick to point out that they had pretty much evolved into the same thing...he wouldn't know just how right he was.

At our destination, it was still drizzling. Sue and I stood in the street, under a portico surrounded by empty, litter-filled picnic tables. We were intoxicated by the aroma of grilled onions as we advanced to the transom to place our order. I was holding a twenty-dollar bill as I glanced up at the menu and asked the clerk, "Where's the bathroom?" He pointed behind me at a fenced in, open field and said, "Go in the park!" I wasn't peeing outside and was insulted by the idea. Sue and I took our business across the street. You'd think it would be impossible for the same attitude to be duplicated but we got the exact same, "Go in the park," treatment.

THERE'S ONLY ONE WORTHWHILE CRACK IN THE "CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE." SO I DIDN'T NEED TO HEAR ANY MORE FROM THESE TWO GENIUSES.

A little further up the street, we found an unheralded and less independent purveyor of cheesesteaks, (I wish I remembered their name because they deserve the free advertisement). Despite cleaning his ear hole with his pinkie while we spoke, the representative behind the counter had people skills that were light years beyond the other two dimwits. This place also had a welcome mat in front of their restroom and clean, indoor seating. Our outlook brightened. We enjoyed our meal and were further pleased to learn that the rain had stopped.

At the stadium, the chilly, damp weather combined with the game's early season unimportance and the Phils inferior squad, to minimize the crowd. I joked that with so few fans, they could save time if the players came into the stands and individually introduced themselves to everyone. Later, they posted a paid attendance of 15,214, but I'm sure most were no-shows.

Luckily, we never needed our umbrella. But Sue and I snuggled in our sweatshirts, on field level, directly behind home plate, in seat one and two of row "J." The big coincidence occurred when we spotted DENG amid the sea of vacant seats, a few sections away, up the right field line.

While the Phillies were batting in the second inning, KURUDAVE and his date were ushered to their seats behind third base. I was able to yell out his name and got his attention. Through a series of gestures, he was able to pantomime that Mets pitcher Wally Whitehurst had given him his tickets.

In the fourth inning, there was a public address announcement of a contest. To this day, it is unclear what the prize was. But we perked up when we heard that the winning seats were on our level. We actually got interested when the search was narrowed down to our section. When they said row "J," Sue and I reflexively looked to our left. The entire row was empty except for the last two seats. Then the announcement for seat 22 and 23 was made.

The final crescendo from, "STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER," blared on the sound system as ushers, a couple of men in suits and cute girls in Phillie windbreakers, carrying maroon and white balloons, hustled down the concrete steps. After some fanfare, the smiling lucky stiffs waved bye-bye and the entourage whisked them away. They never returned to their seats.

Even though we watched the second half of the game from the first row behind home plate, the Mets won and I saw my friends at the game, I still had the taste of sour grapes in my mouth as we started the second half of our journey.

Instead of going home, we continued west for an over night in Lancaster County...a.k.a., Pennsylvania Dutch Country.

PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH, REFERS TO DESCENDANTS OF IMMIGRANTS FROM SWITZERLAND AND GERMANY WHO SETTLED IN FARMLANDS AROUND PRESENT DAY LANCASTER COUNTY. TOURISTS ARE DRAWN BY THE OLD WORLD CHARM OF THE AMISH AND MENNONITE PEOPLE WHOSE CUSTOMS HAVE CHANGED LITTLE DOWN THROUGH THE YEARS. PLEASE NOTE THAT THE WORD "DUTCH" IS DERIVED FROM DEUTSCH, THE GERMAN WORD FOR GERMAN...FOLKS FROM THE NETHERLANDS, AREN'T PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH.

At midnight we got a room in Souderburg, on the Lincoln Highway (Route-30). The next morning was beautiful. While getting back in the car, it was so nice that even though our motel was surrounded by pastures...and the noxious methane odor associated with cows, we loved it.

On the road, we saw the famous horse drawn buggies. I had visited this area a few times in my youth but it was Sue's first time. I took her to a restored village where they show how the Amish live while teaching visitors of their beliefs.

Our next stop was the Strasburg Railroad. Along the way, we thought it was funny that in an area known for being conservative, many of the tiny municipalities had sexually suggestive names, like; Intercourse, Blue Ball, Mount Joy, Lititz, Bareville, Bird-in-Hand and Paradise, (I'm guessing these erotic names are a coincidence too, because even Google didn't have a definitive answer).

Since 1832, the town of Strasburg has boasted the longest continually run railroad in the USA.THAT'S EIGHT-YEAR OLD ME IN THE MIDDLE. SOMETHING TELLS ME THAT SINCE 1963, THEY'VE HAD ENOUGH LAWSUITS THAT THEY NO LONGER ALLOW THEIR LOCOMOTIVES TO BE USED AS JUNGLE GYMS.

Sue enjoyed the train excursion through the countryside.ON MAY 23, 1997 , WE TOOK MY SON ANDREW AND GRANDMA ON THE SAME TRAIN RIDE. BY THAT TIME, THE CARTOON "THOMAS THE TRAIN," WAS MEGA. SO IN THE SHADOWS OF THE STRASBURG DEPOT, AN INGENIOUS ENTREPRENEUR OPENED A HUMONGOUS "THOMAS" STORE.

We still had two stops left before going home. The first was Intercourse...just to say we were there, take pictures and buy souvenirs. Then for more of my own personal nostalgia, we returned to 2811 East Lincoln Highway, to the town of Ronks, for dinner.

Miller's Smorgasbord (buffet), opened in 1929. My parents made it a point to take us there every time we visited. I still have a few seconds of poor quality, 8mm home movies (they have been transferred to the equally obsolete VHS format), taken inside Miller's dining room in 1960. Unfortunately, there are no photos.

Miller's prided them self on everything being home made and delicious. And that night twenty years ago would be no exception. I bellied-up to the steam tables and gorged myself.

While trolling for more entrees, I breezed past the deserts. A little sign that read, Chocolate Pecan Pie caught my eye. I was still concentrating on my dinner so I set aside this enticement, took stock of the five portions there and ate more braised beef and fried chicken.

When I returned to the scene of the crime, the cupboard was bare. I must have had a dumbfounded look on my face because a young hostess dressed in a pinafore dress and an Amish-like bonnet asked, "Are you okay?" I was embarrassed because I had opened my belt and must have looked like a glutton as I said, "Are they bringing out any more chocolate pecan pie?" She smiled, "I'll get you some." A few seconds later she returned empty-handed. She said, "They don't have any more in the kitchen but if you give me a minute, I'll go across the street to our bakery and bring back a bunch."

I watched her through the window. In the dark, I could see the epitome of another coincidence. The bakery was in a building surrounded by a fenced in open field. When she came back with the best pecan pie I ever ate, I couldn't help but be reminded that this Pennsylvania Dutch treat would NEVER happen in South Philly, unless I got it myself.

THIS LION WILL ALWAYS BE KING

2011-10-03T00:43:00.011-05:00

Reading Pennsylvania is the former, "Outlet Capital of the World." Before discount meccas became widespread, Reading was regal. Fifteen years ago while it still maintained its title, the city boasted an incredible amount of inexpensive stores in a condensed district. So with the economy solid and decent gas prices, it was worthwhile to drive two and a half hours, get a motel and have a mini-vacation, (one of my wife Sue's employee perks got us half-off at the nearby Hampton Inn).

We were lured to Reading by the Vanity Fair Factory Outlet Store. Their two, colossal five-floor warehouses (the red building and blue building) were the focal point of a huge discount complex, on Hill Avenue.THE FACE OF THE RECTANGULAR BLUE BUILDING (above) SHOWS THE SHORT SIDE OF THE STORE. THE MIRROR-IMAGED RED BUILDING RUNS PARALLEL TO THE LONG SIDE. AN INTERIOR BRIDGE CONNECTS BOTH SO SHOPPERS DON'T HAVE TO BRAVE THE ELEMENTS TO SWITCH BUILDINGS. BETWEEN THEM OUTSIDE, A PRETTY, TREE AND BENCH-LINED COMMON AREA, PROVIDES A PARK-LIKE ATMOSPHERE.

We'd get into Vanity Fair around noon. Sometimes we wouldn't leave the store all day and only give a minimum of time to other places. VF specialized in all aspects of clothing but other vendors are also there. Our chief concern was to build-up my son Andrew's toddler wardrobe. But I was assured at least a bag of socks while my wife Sue, power-shopped for herself and hunted down gifts.

I liked the basement best because they had a few more shops and hosted a vast food court. While its true that I looked forward to lunchtime, my day was usually crowned with a nice dinner. The first time around, before we were savvy enough to research old world Italian restaurants or more upscale eateries in neighboring towns like Wyomissing and Shillington, we wound up, two blocks away, at the Penn Diner, (on Penn Avenue). Please take heed, it was one of our worst eating experiences of all-time. So just in case that crap-eteria is still there, DON'T go !

In October of 1995, Andrew was only walking for two months. So while Sue enjoyed some private mommy-time and intensely browsed on her own, I was left with entertainment duty. Regardless of how clever I might have been, my twenty-month old eager beaver, didn't cotton to idle conversation. Nor did he want to be strapped into our pack mule-like stroller. He wanted to run free through the never-ending children's department's maze of racks, aisles and displays.

I was chasing him for quite some time until something caught Andrew's attention just inside the main entrance's vestibule. He sat on the floor, started shouting with excitement and pointing to the ground. I had heard from Sue that Andrew had this new talent but I was witnessing it for the first time.

Assembled into the floor, incoming shoppers were greeted with a mosaic rendering of the Vanity Fair logo. This insignia featured a prominent "V" and "F." At a time when Andrew couldn't speak well, he was impressing the passersby with his crystal-clear knowledge of these two letters. I soon found out that he knew the whole alphabet. I exploded with parental pride as I placed Andrew back into the stroller. I wanted to find his mom and report my findings.

Along the way, I was distracted by a television with an unfamiliar cartoon on. We stopped and both watched. I soon noticed that all the merchandise in that section included characters from the Disney mega-hit movie from the year before, "THE LION KING."

We had missed seeing that movie because my boy was too young. So this glimpse of it was our first exposure. I was immediately immersed by the cute animals, state-of-the-art visuals, the familiar resonance of James Earl Jones leading an all-star voice-over cast and the terrific sound track. When the scene shifted, I was caught off guard. The king lion was betrayed by his brother and set-up for an "accidental" murder. The dastardly deed went over Andrew's head but negatively affected me in two ways. My dad's death (seven months earlier), was still fresh in my mind. Plus, I stressed about the possibility of my own demise and worried about not always being there for my son.

My sensitivities were touched by that short scene in a way that I didn't care for. I had a tear in my eye, a lump in my throat and a prejudice against the film that would last for three years as I pushed the stroller towards the lingerie department.

Andrew was five when a friend suggested that I put the past behind me and rent the movie. When we saw the whole fast-paced, humorous package of deception, disgrace and redemption, I declared the, "THE LION KING," the best children's movie ever made. In addition to catering to our entertainment needs, the tale reassures its audience, without getting too complicated or juvenile, to have faith in our loved ones and the value true friends. Since then, I've seen the technology for producing kiddie films improve...and I saw some other great flicks...but my opinion of number-one, never wavered.THE SECRET OF MAKING THIS LION, KING AT THE BOX OFFICE, WAS MAKING THE ENTERTAINMENT SOMETHING THAT COULD BE SHARED BY CHILDREN AND ADULTS. FOR INSTANCE, BY WORKING ON SO MANY LEVELS, THE DEPTH OF ITS COMEDY TOUCHES EVERYONE IN DIFFERENT WAYS. PLUS, ITS THEME OF A UNIVERSAL SOLIDARITY PACKS A POWERFUL MORALITY PUNCH THAT IS EASILY UNDERSTOOD.

Once our VCR became obsolete, all our VHS tapes, including, "The Lion King," went into storage. While its true that I still quote from it, the movie itself was forgotten. In support of this notion, Andrew's taste had grown too sophisticated to go backwards so I was never spurred enough to find a DVD and force it on him.

In 2006 when Andrew was in sixth grade, he was the Reeds Road School's, first orchestra flute. When I heard about the last piece of the school's spring concert, my thirst for, "The Lion King," was resurrected.

Weeks earlier, my guy was handed a pan flute and was honored with the opportunity to play it in the show. Some of the subsequent important information didn't filter down to me because when he failed to master this instrument, I thought the mission was scrubbed. So when I was sent in to videotape the production, a pleasant surprise fell in my lap.

The show went well. Then they made the announcement that the grand finale was, "The Circle of Life," from "The Lion King." The emcee added that rather than using a professional recording to accompany the fifth grade songstress, the school imported two teachers from the middle school. After they were introduced, I was shocked to hear that my son was the flute soloist.

The woman from the middle school stood at an upright microphone and a set of chimes. The man positioned himself behind fancy bongos. When the audience quieted, the teachers did a great job capturing the essence of the famed instrumental intro, complete with African chants. Then the girl brought down the house. When she paused, Andrew stood alone with his grandfather's flute and soulfully accentuated the performance. Then the rest of school's orchestra joined the girl and Andrew for the last stanza.

Maybe it's because he's my son or maybe it's because wonderful memories of my dad were stirred. But that performance, especially Andrew's two-minutes, made me so proud that just thinking about "The Circle of Life," is guaranteed to make me smile and hearing our recording of it, is guaranteed to make my eyes well-up. In any event, afterwards, I didn't seek out the "Lion King," movie.

Two years ago, we vacationed in Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon. Sue found out that the Mandolay Bay Casino was selling-out the theatrical, "Lion King" in their showroom, (we were lucky to get last minute seats). While the costumes, music and dancing were awe inspiring...I guess I didn't love it as well as Sue and Andrew.MAYBE THERE'S STILL SOME ADOLESCENCE BURIED IN ME, I PREFERRED THE CARTOON...IT WAS FUNNIER.

When we got home, I still didn't run out to the video store to see the original. The movie and I would remain separated until last month when kismet was on my side. I saw a TV commercial, advertising a limited engagement (two weeks in mid-September), of a 3-D version of the "Lion King."

Sue and I jumped on it. We were delighted by the pure eye-candy, 3-D aspect and loved the movie all over again. We recommended it to Andrew. The next day, he went with his crowd and they all loved it too. Apparently the public liked it too. The Disney marketing strategy worked perfectly because, in the fourteen days that it was shown, the film grossed $60 million.

If you missed it, the 3-D DVD is coming out next month. So don't drive up to Reading and expect to find it in the five-dollar bin at Vanity Fair. That means before you exclaim, "Life...isn't fair," or have a bunch of hyenas laughing at you for missing it again, make sure...whether you've seen it already or not... that you check-out, the king of children's movies.

WHAT, ME WORRY ?

2011-09-26T00:43:00.004-05:00

The 1963, three and a half star movie, "CHARADE," was a captivating yet implausible, romantic mystery. Starring Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn and Walter Matthau, the plot centers on a band of thieves who murder one of there own after he steals from them, all the proceeds of their quarter-million dollar heist.

To recover their loss, the "victims" evil intentions turn to their ex-partner's widow. Unbeknown to her (and everyone else, including the audience), the loot is hidden in plain sight. More importantly, she doesn't know who to trust because the revolving door of strangers rushing into her life is full of contradictory allies and homicidal adversaries.

Beware...SPOILER ALERT !MY PATERNAL GRANDMOTHER TOOK MY SISTER AND I TO SEE THIS MOVIE AT THE PALATIAL FOX THEATER IN DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN. I WAS EIGHT, SO THE FILM'S ADULT THEMES WENT OVER MY HEAD. BUT A FEW YEARS LATER...THE LITTLE I PICKED UP ON, INSPIRED ME TO COLLECT STAMPS.

A less-than-cool kid on my street, Sammy, got me into philately when I was twelve. I was further encouraged by my dad, as well as my Uncle Mickey and my Uncle Hymie. During my two-year run, the hobby gained far greater social acceptance when I joined forces with my life long friend and established stamp collector, HJ.

MY DAD TICKLED MY ADOLESCENT FANCY WITH STORIES OF THE ULTRA-RARE, "INVERTED JENNY." THROUGH HIS CONNECTIONS, AS WELL UNCLE MICKEY, I HAD A STEADY FLOW OF NEW STAMPS. BUT IT WAS UNCLE HYMIE WHO SUPPLIED ME WITH MY FIRST STAMP COLLECTOR ALBUM, ("SCOTT'S MODERN," WHICH I STILL HAVE).

Stamp collecting helped teach me geography as well as an appreciation of foreign cultures. Plus, you might say I also learned but never mastered neatness, organization and responsibility skills.YOUNG COLLECTORS, SUCH AS MYSELF, ARE FASCINATED WITH THE MOST EXPENSIVE OBJECTS IN THEIR HOBBY. ABOVE, "THE SWEDEN, 3 SKILLING, YELLOW ERROR," IS REPORTEDLY THE WORLD'S MOST VALUABLE STAMP.

In "Charade," before Audrey Hepburn's husband was killed, he converted the stolen money into extremely valuable stamps. To assure that the fortune wouldn't fall into the wrong hands, he used them as postage on a nondescript parcel and mailed it to his wife, (the stamps were from three different countries and sent from one address in France to another. If that isn't implausible enough, the highly sought trio were cancelled...which further ruined their value).

While I was collecting stamps, HJ also introduced me to, "MAD MAGAZINE." The first article he showed me, from September 1968, pertained to stamps. It was hilarious. I instantly became a long time, "MAD" fan.

"MAD," IS A HUMOROUS MAGAZINE, (1952-PRESENT), THAT SPECIALIZES IN SATIRIZING; EVERY DAY LIFE, POP CULTURE, POLITICS, ENTERTAINMENT AND PUBLIC FIGURES. DESPITE ITS GOOFINESS, MY PARENTS PUSHED ME TO READ IT...BECAUSE, I WAS READING...SOMETHING !

For forty years, mixed in with my box of stamps, a few issues of "Mad" laid dormant in my folk's attic. These days when I look them over, I'd be shocked if one, out of my ten-thousand stamps, was worth more than a dollar. Oddly, I also uncovered some non-negotiable stamps which to the right person, might be a true collector's item. ALFRED E. NEUMAN IS THE FACE OF MAD. IN 1960, THE MAGAZINE STARTED A RECURRING, MOCK POLITICAL CAMPAIGN, AT PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION TIME...NEUMAN OF COURSE WAS THEIR CANDIDATE. IN ONE ISSUE, A SHEET OF FIFTY STAMPS, (LIKE THE ONE ABOVE), WAS INSERTED IN THE MAGAZINE AS A BONUS. AFTER ALL THIS TIME, I STILL HAVE THIRTEEN LEFT ON MY SHEET. I BELIEVE THAT THESE STAMPS ARE RARE BECAUSE I COULDN'T FIND A PICTURE OF THEM ON ANY SEARCH ENGINE...NEXT STOP, EBAY?

The article HJ showed me was written by Al Jaffee. Interestingly, it now ties stamps, EBAY and "Mad Magazine" all together.

ORIGINAL "MAD" MEMORABILIA, ESPECIALLY THE 1960 ALFRED E. NEUMAN FOR PRESIDENT ITEMS, FETCH A HIGH, ON-LINE AUCTION PRICE. EVEN BETTER, NOBODY WAS SELLING MY STAMPS.

Al Jaffee's piece lampooned the 1962 Dag Hammarskjold, four-cent stamp fiasco. This stamp was designed to commemorate the former Secretary General of the United Nations. Hammarskjold died in the Congo during a plane crash, a year earlier. Along the way, the United States Postal Service accidentally produced a small amount of error stamps. THE TOP STAMP IS THE CORRECT VERSION. THE ERROR OCCURRED WHEN SOME STAMPS WERE FED INTO THE PRINTER UPSIDE DOWN. THE RESULT IS A WHITE "HALO" AROUND THE BOTTOM STAMP'S U. N. BUILDING. IT IS ESTIMATED THAT 270 THOUSAND ERRORS WERE MADE AS OPPOSED TO THE 121+ MILLION NORMAL ISSUES.

A "lucky" jeweler from New Jersey bought the fifty-stamp "discovery sheet," for two-dollars. He stupidly reported the discrepancy. He even took the precaution of getting a court order to prevent the USPS from printing more errors. But his paperwork wasn't filed quickly enough. When Postmaster J. Edward Day learned of the situation, he immediately and deliberately ordered 40 million more error stamps to be reprinted. Day's rationale was, "The post office isn't running a jackpot operation." So whatever windfall might occurred, evaporated.

The "Mad Magazine" article ridiculed the jeweler for losing out on perhaps millions. I enjoyed that level of wry humor so much that I believe that it is the root of the sarcasm that has become so ingrained in me.JAFFEE'S RENDERING, HONORING THE NEW JERSEY JEWELER.

Forty-nine years later, you can buy the Hammarskjold error for fifty-cents. Therefore, I'm positive that Hollywood won't be remaking "Charade," featuring a treasure hunt for it. After all, it's so common, even I have one.

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

2011-09-19T00:43:00.004-05:00

I was shocked! My wife Sue was nauseated...and therefore pissed-off...and my son Andrew, thought it was funny. During moments of great domestic travail such as this, I am forced...despite the potential for grave physical and mental anguish...to go well above and beyond my comfort zone to deal with the problem.

This problem was the size of "Super-Sharpie," magic marker. It destroyed our family tranquility by laying across my foyer, near the front door. While the mind struggled to absorb this impossible data...a slug inside my house...Sue snapped me out of my funk by declaring, "What are you going to do about it?"

WE DO NOT GET "PRETTY" BANANA SLUGS IN NEW JERSEY. OURS ARE DIFFERENT SHADES OF GREEN OR GRAY...MY HOME INVADER WAS A DEEP FOREST GREEN WITH A DULL, CIRCULAR STRIPING PATTERN.

A slug can grow to eight inches long. They can best be described as a snail without a shell. A threat to gardens, their destructive tendencies include chewing through decorative leaves and boring into fruit. They come out at night and hide in cool dark places during the day. Their tell-tale slime trails may be thin and watery or thick and sticky. However, they are all gross, slimy and squishy.

I HAVE LIVED IN THIS HOUSE FOR 22-YEARS. SLUG SIGHTINGS WERE ALWAYS A RARITY UNTIL THIS SUMMER. NOW OUR GARDEN IS INUNDATED WITH THEM. BACK IN JUNE, SEEING THEM AT NIGHT ON THE GARAGE DOOR OR THEIR SHINY TRAIL ON THE WALKWAY TO THE FRONT DOOR WAS ENTERTAINING. IT SOON BECAME COMMON AND BORING. BUT NOW THE UNTHINKABLE, A GRANDPA-SIZED DEVIL IN THE HOUSE. THAT CAN NOT BE TOLERATED!

The solution was simple...but I had two choices. First, one of my old poker buddies CAL was a tree-hugger. He treated all crawling and flying pests like brothers...well at least like pets. When an unwanted bastard broke through his high-tech security system, (a. k. a., no screens on his windows), he used the "capture and release" method. To some, this idea might seem noble.

I needed a more direct approach to appease my revolted and panic-stricken wife. Her unhappiness was not helped by my little (six-foot-four) son hysterically laughing. That's when I opted for choice two; burial at sea.

I hurried to the recycling bin and tore off a piece of cardboard. I tried to scrape the varmint up but because he (it) was so close to the wall, I had to push it on with my pinkie. I'm not certain which was more important to me, flushing the menace down the toilet or washing the disgusting mucousy wetness off my finger or amputating my whole, defiled hand.

When things calmed down, I told my son that I didn't appreciate that his laughter made a small inconvenience into an emotional experience for his mother. He went into typical teenage deception-mode and said, "Did you know that the, 'BEATLES,' song, 'THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD,' was originally called, 'THE LONG AND WINDING SLUG TRAIL?'"

BEETLES ARE ESPECIALLY NASTY BUGGERS BUT OF ALL THE DIFFERENT VARIETIES, THE DUNG BEETLE IS THE MOST KNOWN AND MOST REPULSIVE.

I told Andrew not to change the subject but he replied, "No really, John Lennon had a fetish for little creeping creatures." I said, "I might have been born at night but it wasn't last night." He said, "I can prove it. The group and many of their songs were inspired by insects. For one thing, for the name of their band, they just changed an 'e' in beetle to an 'a,' to make it more musical." ANDREW IS KNOWLEDGEABLE ON BEATLES TRIVIA BUT I WASN'T FALLING FOR HIS TRICKERY.

I told him that the Beatles name was influenced by 50's rock-n-roller Buddy Holly and his group, "THE CRICKETS." He countered by claiming that if you read between the lines of Lennon's lyrics that , "NORWEGIAN WOOD," has a termite theme, "HELP," is about exterminators and "YELLOW SUBMARINE," symbolizes a yellow jacket infestation.

Sue interrupted the debate and called our discussion nonsense. Then she repeated herself, "What are you going to do about it?" I said, "You saw me flush the plague-ridden pestilence to hell..." She cut me off, "Who cares about one...I don't want to EVER see another one of those ickies in my house again!"

I got on the case immediately. I checked our threshold and I saw that there were no cracks or gaps for these slitherers to squeeze through. I researched several solutions and found out that a slug's natural predators are; ducks, snakes, fireflies and toads. This was a dead-end because we already have a native population of a gazillion toads...that are apparently doing a poor job of thinning-out our great slug herds. Nonetheless, I feel it would be counter-productive to import snakes, fireflies and ducks to do the job.

The computer lists many non-poisonous ways to get rid of slugs. Unfortunately, I don't want to hunt them down and individually toss them into soapy, salt water. There are also slug traps for sale or you can rig your own. Interestingly, one suggested bait was beer. But it still seemed like a lot of work.

Some people place overturned flower pots in their garden. During the day, they pick up the pots and dispose of the slugs who settled there. There are even old wives tales that include spreading pennies in the garden because slugs receive a shock when they come in contact with copper and are repelled from the area.

I hate to admit it, I'm going for the most hands-off solution...poison. First, you need to minimize the mulch and debris where the slugs hide. Then spray the garden and forget about it.
"SLUGGO!" THINK ABOUT IT, HAS A PRODUCT EVER HAD A MORE PERFECT NAME?

Wish me luck. Because if my wife sees another long and winding slug trail in my house, she'll make me eat the Sluggo...and then my son will really have something to laugh about.

THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING

2011-09-12T00:43:00.009-05:00

On September 11th, ten years ago, we all lost our innocence. But to the unfortunate victims who paid the ultimate price or were acutely harmed by those cowardly attacks, I give pause for remembrance, honor and respect.

In the true spirit of the American way, this column chooses to remain open and retain its usual light-heartiness.

Hopefully, in today's carefully selected topic...our children are our future...you will read between the lines of glibness and be further inspired to persevere when all seems lost.

My tiny prize is old (I have it, over twelve years). It's broken, dented, faded and has a trace of rust. At it's best it was worthless, but now, to nearly everyone but me, it is a treasure. I cherished it immediately and wore it proudly at work, for all to see. When an erudite individual would notice it, recognize it and appreciate it, my prize made a great conversation piece.

About six years ago, my employer banned extraneous personal items from our uniforms. Although my bauble was removed from public sight, I decided to keep on my person. It may seem relegated to my work pants pocket but it more importantly, it remained with me. Plus, it was handy to show people and tell this story.

Since then, the only time it has ever seen an extended period in full view was on February 24, 2007 when I wore it, (with the help of a magnet), on my lapel, at my son Andrew's Bar Mitzvah.

GRANDMA AT THE CANDLE LIGHTING CEREMONY. IF YOU SQUINT OR USE A NUCLEAR-POWERED MICROSCOPE, YOU CAN SEE THAT BLUISH DOT ON THE LEFT SIDE OF MY SUIT JACKET ISN'T A BORSCHT STAIN, IT'S MY PRIZE.

It all started at the, "KIDS FAIR," in Atlantic City's Convention Hall. Designed as an inexpensive, indoor family destination to break-up the winter malaise, the Kids Fair, was jam-packed with games, demonstrations, shows, free samples and other gimmicks. Sponsored by area and national vendors, this annual, all-day event filled the huge space with education, adventure and fun.

(MARCH 1, 2002). IN ANDREW'S DAY, THE KIDS FAIR, IN CONVENTION HALL, HAPPENED IN LATE FEBRUARY OR EARLY MARCH. IT HAS SINCE MOVED TO SANDCASTLE STADIUM, IN LATE APRIL.

Andrew and I only missed one year between 1998 and 2002. We went alone, with friends and took grandma there once. The last two times, we added to the excitement by taking the train in from the Absecon station.

Once inside, this bigger than three football fields space is eye-candy for children and adults. Lined up like streets, one booth after another captured the little one's imaginations with a wide range of entertainment. Andrew liked handling animals like iguanas, goats and crabs. He also climbed in fire trucks, military vehicles and a helicopter, (going up to the ceiling in the power company's bucket truck was only thing he ever refused).

My boy participated in dance contests (one year, he taught the teenage volunteers a couple of Macarena steps). He also took part in various sports, did projects with hammers and screwdrivers, used musical instruments, painted, did over sized puzzles and met and interacted with the real Miss New Jersey and McGruff the Crime Dog...as well as several other cartoon characters in costume. However, for some odd reason, the first year, Andrew was afraid of Capt'n Crunch...go figure.

In the back, temporary bleachers surrounded a stage. Then announcements were made when shows started. We usually waited until we were getting tired to go there. One year there was a Nickelodeon TV Network presentation of a game show. Child and parent teams played against each other but along the way, the heavy-set bald dad (not me, we tried but weren't picked) got a pie in the face and was attacked with water guns.

Another year, a Ronald McDonald impersonator on a unicycle, told jokes and clowned with the audience while he juggled running chainsaws that were on fire...wait...I think it was bowling pins...NOT on fire. Another year, girls from the Disney Network did a tumbling exhibition.

Before leaving, Andrew and I would get something at the snack bar as we began to wind down. By that time, the empty, plastic goodie-bag that he was given when we came in was filled with promotional items. I think if we turned my house upside down, we would find a few pencils, an Atlantic City Surf baseball bat or the caterpillar cage my boy built. But of all those remnants, only one is significant and only one has any sentimental value to me...and I've know exactly where it has been, for over twelve years...my work pants pocket.

In March 1999, Andrew and I were heading out from the fair. A dab of ketchup was on my five-year old's nose as he picked at his last few French fries. Then up ahead, someone in a Johnny Bravo costume summoned us. Back them, our cable-TV package didn't include the Cartoon Network so we were Johnny Bravo-illiterate. But because of the absurdity of his look and the magnetism of his charisma, we gravitated to him.
"JOHNNY BRAVO," AIRED ON THE CARTOON NETWORK FROM 1997-2004, (67 WHOLE EPISODES, 178 SEGMENTS AND 2 SPECIALS). JOHNNY WAS A DULL-WITTED, STEROID-STUFFED, SKIRT-CHASING BEEFCAKE. HE SOUNDED LIKE ELVIS PRESLEY, ALWAYS HAD SUNGLASSES AND WORE A POMPADOUR HAIRCUT. ALSO FEATURED ON THE SHOW WERE: HIS NERDY FRIEND, CARL CHRYNISZZSWICS AND HIS SOMETIMES TOUGH, SOMETIMES DOTING "MOMMA," BUNNY BRAVO.

Andrew was really laughing after Johnny shook his hand and mussed-up his hair. Then we were lured to the CARTOON NETWORK booth. Inside, the curtained walls were adorned with photos of their biggest stars. A perky young lady led my boy to an unsophisticated roly-poly game that looked like they built it ten minutes before the doors opened.

This "skill" game was so juvenile that my boy balked at the opportunity. When he hesitated, the encouraging lady said, "Everyone wins a prize...some people get two prizes and the luckiest kids win three." On the far side of the apparatus, other giggly winners were at a table filled with dozens of little trinkets to pick from.

My Mr. Too-Cool took the small bouncy ball from her. Without even pretending to aim, he rolled the ball down a ramp that led to a series of holes. The biggest holes had a yellow flag with a number-one on them. The smallest ones had green flags with a three and the medium holes had red flags with twos on them.

Andrew's shot went into a medium a hole. The young lady made a big deal of his two-prize victory...Andrew was indifferent. She led him to the Utopian prize table and said, "You can take two." Andrew looked at me with a blank expression. I looked at the toys and guessed that they were so chintzy, he didn't want to dignify any of them by accepting it.

The lady might have recognized his dilemma and sweetly tried to glorify her favorites. Andrew took a closer look. I was momentarily distracted by Johnny Bravo doing his schtick on another kid. Three seconds later Andrew got my attention and said, "Can we go now?" I said, "Sure but what did you choose?" He shrugged and looked back into his loot bag. With a sigh, he handed me a pin, (the size of a quarter), with the cartoon character Wally Gator on it. He started poking around inside the bag and came out with a similar pin, of Droopy.

THE CARTOON NETWORK RAN RE-RUNS OF DROOPY. IT WAS A THEATRICAL CARTOON SO ONLY 24 EPISODES WERE EVER PRODUCED, (1943-1958).

Andrew must have seen the brighter expression on my face and said, "Hey dad, you like Droopy...right?" I said, "Yeah." He said, "Why don't you take him and I'll keep this one, (Wally Gator). What might have been chintz to him was gold for me. My next day at work, I pinned it to my uniform.

A FEW MONTHS AGO, I CAME ACROSS THE WALLY GATOR PIN. IT WAS IN PRISTINE CONDITION. BUT I COULDN'T FIND IT AGAIN, TO BE INCLUDED IN THIS ARTICLE. IT SHOULD BE NOTED THAT DESPITE BEING BLACKBALLED FROM HOLLYWOOD DURING THE McCARTHY-ERA, WALLY RETURNED TO SHOW BUSINESS, WELL PAST HIS PRIME AND STILL MANAGED TO EKE-OUT A DECENT CAREER. AND YES, HE WAS ONE OF THE FEW ANIMATED STARS OF HIS TIME THAT DID HIS OWN SWIMMING STUNTS.

I had no problem finding the Droopy pin, it was exactly where it was supposed to be, in my work pants pocket.

I THINK THE BRUISED PATINA GIVES MY PRIZE AN ADDED ELEMENT OF TIMELESSNESS. THOSE BLEMISHES SCREAM OUT THAT NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS OR WHERE WE GO, IT WILL SYMBOLIZE MY ETERNAL RELATIONSHIP WITH MY SON AND THEREFORE, ALWAYS BE WITH ME.

I hope when Andrew gets married, I uphold this tradition and remember to wear it on my jacket during his wedding. Then when he becomes a father, I look forward to having it with me each time. Finally, when I'm a hundred and one...I would be honored to wear this gift that keep on giving...on my lapel again...when I'm buried.

BLAME IT ON LINGUINI

2011-09-05T00:43:00.009-05:00

Tomorrow, September 6th, is my thirty-third anniversary of starting dealer school. So I would like to pause and give recognition to the skills I learned as well as the ease with which I was placed in a job. Because even though I faced some harsh valleys, the truth is the New York School of Gambling shaped my future and catapulted me to my continuous, successful and on going career...as well as helping to make me, the man I am today. If that wasn't enough, let's not forget the countless characters and adventures (more so in Las Vegas) that made my coming-of-age exciting, interesting and educational. ...but it all came so close to not happening.

In August 1978 at about 2:00AM, fate shined down on me while I endured what would be a thirteen inning, rain delayed, marathon loss by my beloved New York Mets. I couldn't put my finger on it but at that moment, but that loss was a wake-up call that I was wasting away, unemployed and living at home. DANNY DEVITO (right) WAS A LOVABLE LOSER AS, "LOUIE DePALMA," ON THE HIT SIT-COM, "TAXI." WHEN HE FINALLY GOT A GIRLFRIEND HE SAID TO HER, "MY FAVORITE THING IN THE WORLD USED TO BE SITTING IN MY UNDERWEAR, EATING ICE CREAM AND WATCHING THE METS ON TV. BUT NOW, MY FAVORITE THING TO DO IS...SITTING IN MY UNDERWEAR, EATING ICE CREAM AND WATCHING THE METS ON TV...WITH YOU."

If the Mets had come from behind and won that game perhaps my angst would have never come to a head. But their last ditch rally ended when their last two hopes struck out (looking). I was too frustrated to get out of bed and turn the TV off.

I was starting to nod-off when a commercial caught my attention. At that hour, re-runs for beauty, clerical and truck driving schools fill the air. But this one was different...it was for a casino dealer training academy.

This ad wasn't the same old tripe for computer or pastry chef careers. This sparkly commercial sizzled in production value...it was hot! Accompanied by fast-paced music and a montage of leggy, exotic women getting out of limos in Monte Carlo, Las Vegas and the Caribbean, the commercial conjured-up visions of how cool it was to be a gambler.

I was twenty-three, in search of direction and I was susceptible to this idea of being glamorous and surrounded by gorgeous women. Therefore I was manipulated into overlooking the simple reality...the school was there to teach students how to serve the elite...not be the elite.

I fell asleep thinking about sugar plum fairies and fantasizing about making such a meteoric rise into adulthood. This mental masturbation wasn't so far-fetched because a friend, I call Mr. K., was a craps dealer, doing well in Reno. He once suggested that I give casino dealing a try. He said, "The gaming industry is in it's infancy. It's like getting in on the ground floor of something big." When I balked he added, "Chances are, you're gonna hate whatever job you have...but at least I have fun while hating it."

The memory of Mr. K's words motivated me to call the New York School of Gambling. The next day, I set-up an appointment to see the facility on Manhattan's West 32nd Street.

The receptionist's name plate read: Linda Gwynette. She was an average looking girl, about my age...doused in thick, cheap perfume. I stood there in that awkward moment before introducing myself as she struggled through her phone spiel...with a cheat-sheet in hand...with another potential applicant. In addition to her unprofessional phone etiquette, I couldn't help but notice her unprofessional, peroxide dyed blond hair and her less professional, overly exposed, ample bosom.

When she hung up, she was extremely courteous. Her smiling enthusiasm made me over look her plain face, oily complexion and chunkiness. But when she wiggled over to the storage closet and bent over in her tight skirt to get me an application, I knew I was going to attend. However, before I could get my foot in the door with a couple of personal questions of my own, she asked me to take the papers in another room...and wait for the next available recruiter.

The dry forty-year old man in a plaid, tweed sports jacket that looked like it came off the reduced rack at Goodwill was nothing more than a salesman. He scanned my paperwork and then through crooked, yellow teeth, he glamorized the gaming profession with phrases from their commercial.

The campus tour was highlighted by assertions concerning the school's global placement program. "We have gotten our people work in Las Vegas, Europe, cruise ships, in the orient and more." He pointed to a slogan; COMMITTED TO EXCELLENCE, that was stenciled, (running slightly downhill), on the wall and said, "Our outstanding reputation has helped our most talented graduates...once they have a little experience, to be in high demand." In a whisper he added, "Some earn six figures." In his normal tone he continued, "So the more casino games (classes) you master, the better your chances will be to land a great job."

His hype was tantalizing me until he made this lame statement, "If you noticed, the school is on the seventh and twelfth floor but we are working on getting enough space on the eleventh floor. Wouldn't that be something, the seventh and eleventh floor...you know, lucky seven, eleven."

That's when I woke up and said, "You're committed to excellence in what way?" He said, "Our job placement is the best around." I should have said; the best, compared to who? Instead, I asked for job placement statistics and evidence of earning potential.

Mr. Yellow Crooked Teeth drew a blank and couldn't help me. He was just a superficial, insincere tout. He probably hurt the school's chances in my eyes but the image of Linda Gwynette out shined all his short comings. I gave myself credit for leaving the building without registering but the whole subway ride back to Brooklyn, I regretted not making my way back to talk to Linda.

I called Mr. K., and discussed the school's brochure. He was definite when he said, "Take craps only! Even if you need blackjack down the road, most casinos will give you free, on the job training. Same thing for roulette but paying for baccarat is a scam because that's a juice job reserved for the creme-de-la-creme...and even if you were a golden-boy, your casino could teach you the ropes in ten minutes." His other point was, "The payments are non-refundable and they offer no incentives." We reviewed their pre-admittance tuition policy and he warned me to pay as slow as possible, just in case you quit."

I called the salesman back. He suggested the first class after Labor Day, Tuesday September 5, 1978. He vigorously tried to talk me into combo classes and paying in full. Despite the misinformation and propaganda, Mr. K's tutelage helped me stand strong.

Unfortunately, my uncle passed away. My family was going to pay our respects on Tuesday September 5th. To save face, in case I screwed-up, I was keeping my big career move from my folks. I really didn't want to miss the first day of school so, I tried to justify not visiting my grieving aunt and cousins by saying, "I went to the funeral, isn't that enough?" My mom would have none of that. She even applied her famous; "this is a command performance," proclamation. Which meant...there was no way to get out of going.

At the school, the perfect storm or should I say, the comedy of errors started at 9:00AM, on Wednesday the sixth. Through the glass door of the reception area, I saw the hideous salesman in the same tweed sports jacket, toying with the chained, charm dangling just above Linda's open cleavage...and from her body language, I could see this was appreciated behavior.

Later, while she completed my enrollment contract, she was as perky as ever. I stole as many lecherous glances at her chest as I could and re-diluted myself into thinking I had a shot with her. But when I said I only wanted to take craps, she got on the intercom and called in the school's sixty-year old director. Like a deer frozen by headlights, he gaped at her breasts the whole time he tried to sway me into at least taking blackjack. But I stood firm.

A minute after he left, Linda buzzed him again. In between cracking her gum she said, "This guy wants to make a down payment lower than what I thought was allowed." I explained to him the loop-hole that Mr. K., found in their payment schedule. The director said, "Lynn, get me a brochure." On her way to the storage closet, he pinched her bottom...she smiled. Then he muttered obscenities aimed at me under his breath as I showed him how their policy permitted someone taking only craps, to put down $74.00, and not be required to pay more tuition for three weeks. He called her Lynn again and said, "Sign him up and make a note that this money is a hardship installment. I'll initial it later. Then remind me that we have to over-haul that section of the booklet."

Bubbly Linda led me into the casino/classroom. Despite all that transpired, I still wanted to ask her out. There were four different classes going on when she introduced me to my craps instructor, Mitch. Mitch said, "Thank you Lynn." She turned to leave and exaggerated her wiggle. To her delight, many of the fifty people in the room said something in sexual bad taste, whistled or made cat-calls.

Mitch was a clean-cut and vital thirty-year old. In a refined and welcoming manner he said, "We have a lot of catching up to do. But first, I want to introduce you to the other instructors." A Natasha Fatale-like woman left her blackjack class. I looked at her beady, black eyes as she growled disgustedly in a Yugoslavian accent, "So you are the wise-ass only taking one game." The gray haired roulette instructor stinking of booze leaned in and said, "Only taking craps, eh?" I caught eye-contact with the gaunt, long-haired baccarat teacher from the distance and he turned away as if to shun me.

Mitch did not introduce me to his twenty students positioned around two craps tables. Instead he gave me stacks of casino chips at a blackjack table and demonstrated the different ways to handle them. I was left on my own to "practice" drop-cutting and sizing-in. This was not coming natural. When a chip fell on the floor, I pretended not to notice...I felt like such a spastic.

I could hear the craps students using a language completely foreign to me while running simulated games. They handled the chips well. All I was doing was arbitrarily dropping them. On a couple of occasions, Mitch came by to see how I was doing. Like a machine, he would systematically set down neat piles of chips; one, two, three, four, five and five again. Then pick them up and artistically, do it again. His third visit was really discouraging because he said, "Make sure you practice with both hands." Then he did the exercise equally well with his left hand.

At 10:30AM there was a break. I overheard one of the blackjack students refer to Lynn as, "Linguini," the world's greatest, "mouth-piece." I knew she had notarized my enrollment contract but I would have never guessed she was a lawyer. Then the other guy gushed, "Yeah, I never heard of a chick so into oral sex." I shouldn't have been crushed, but I was.

It was bad enough that I missed the first day of class and felt like I could never catch on but the girl I was so keen on, was a whore.

I was standing alone as nearly all the students rushed out to the elevators. That's when I pieced together that Lynn's "Linguini" nickname was a combination of Lynn and her last name, Gwynette. This knowledge inspired me back to the reception area. Through the glass door, I saw Lynn partially hidden by a file cabinet. She was in a hot and heavy embrace with the long-haired baccarat instructor. He slid his hand under the front of her skirt...and she slapped it away. He then stuffed his face in her chest as I retreated to the classroom.

I followed a small group of craps students downstairs and up the street, to a coffee shop. Then without a hint of being ostracized by them, I self-imposed a great distance and ordered a muffin and coffee from the farthest table from them.

The service was awful. But the wait gave me extra time to think. Then over a cold coffee and a hard bran muffin, I decided to quit. My subway was on Broadway, so I had to walk past the school to get there. A few storefronts ahead of me, Lynn and the baccarat instructor came out of the Blarney Stone Bar. I was right behind them as he grabbed her butt...and she grabbed his.

They went into the school's vestibule, I went straight. Seconds later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, it was Lynn. She said with her inviting smile, "I was calling you but I forgot your name" She lightly scraped her fingernails down my biceps and added, "Where are you going? You walked right by the entrance." She was quite a seductress. Her touch was so sensuous that all I could blither was, "I must be in a fog."

Arm in arm, we went back in and waited for the elevator. I was about to ask her about her personal life when the doors opened and the school's director, puffing a fat, stinky cigar came out. He grabbed Lynn around the waist and said, "You look like you need a break before you take some dictation."

They advanced towards the exit. She craned her neck, grinned back at me and winked. Upstairs, I went through the reception area and saw the salesman at Lynn's desk. He was enrolling a new student.

Mitch kept me segregated from the other students again while I struggled to handle the chips. I was angry with myself for allowing Lynn's charm to lure me back. Mr. K. was right to insist on paying as little as possible because as soon as I saw an opportune moment to avoid embarrassment, I was going to leave my non-refundable deposit behind and never come back.

Then the salesman entered the casino/classroom with the newcomer. Mitch was summoned over as his welcoming committee of future instructors greeted him. At the same time, I still couldn't understand the craps game chatter behind me. But every time the students strayed off topic, it seemed like someone had another Linguini story. And now it centered on her and the school's director...it nauseated me.

My eavesdropping was interrupted by Mitch introducing the new student, Kevin, to me. He showed the same chip drill to the newbie. I was thrilled that Kevin was as inept as me. We spent a lot of time laughing about ourselves until Mitch led us to an unoccupied craps table. He said, "Whatever you think you know about dice...please forget." He then explained the rules before introducing us to Jay, one of the students. Jay then drilled us on the basics of winning and losing.

Jay was friendly and out going. While we were at it, I confessed missing my first day of class. I was groaning about how bad I felt for losing out on so much material. I then added, "I'm intimidated now because my first day is almost over and I'm buried compared to the rest of the class...hell, I can't even handle the chips."

Jay laughed, "First, we don't call them chips, they are checks. And, we didn't all start yesterday, it's staggered. Mitch teaches new guys separately until they are ready to join the main group. Relax, there'll more new people every few days. And don't worry about the checks, everyone sucks in the beginning."

I felt stupid but relieved. Later, on my way out, with no carnal intentions, I wanted to thank Lynn for keeping me from quitting. When I got to the hall, Lynn was breathing heavy as she came out of the men's room. She had a guilty look on her face as she scurried towards the reception area...while buttoning the last button on her blouse and smoothing out her skirt. Seconds later, Jay and a roulette student came out of the men's room with big smiles on their faces.

It was hard to believe but I out lasted Lynn. A few days later she was fired.

During the rare valleys in my casino career, I have blamed Lynn "Linguini" Gwynette for my suffering. But considering my casino longevity and overall prosperity, as well as the joy that she has given to the masses, I think she should be sainted.

THE APPLE DOESN'T FALL FAR FROM THE TREE...THE SONS OF HORTY GULIFOYLE

2011-08-29T00:43:00.008-05:00

The crucial elements of this blog are a composite of factoids. They were related to me, by terrorized kids, (in the late 60's), from the other side of my community. The names of the guilty have been changed to protect the innocent.

The 1983 holiday film classic, "A CHRISTMAS STORY," stole the idea for their bullies from my neighborhood's, baddie-brothers, Wallace "Ducky" Mallard and Alf Anguille.

Fathered by two different men...a year apart, these "Irish Twins," lived with their never-married mother in a cold-water, Depression-era shack along the docks.
(STOCK PHOTO) THEIR MOM, HORTENSE "HORTY" GULIFOYLE WAS REPUDIATED TO BE A "HOSTESS" AT THE INFAMOUS VICE MAGNET BAR, "THE BOOM-BOOM ROOM." IN ADDITION TO HER CARNAL TALENTS, HER BROGUE CONSISTENTLY INCLUDED MULTIPLES OF HARSH PROFANITY, IN EVERY UTTERANCE.

Redheaded and freckled, Ducky the younger son, resembled his mother. An enormous, expressionless, sociopath with a short temper, he finished eighth grade and was a Brainiac compared to his brother.

Reginald Sparrow, an elementary school classmate of Ducky, once told me, "Mallard was so deranged that he bit the head off a girl's parakeet during show and tell. Even as a seven-year old, when he stared you down with his deadened hazel eyes, you had to worry that he might nail your head to the floor." Another kid, Doug O'Tracy said, "I knew a guy who purposely crapped his own pants to keep Ducky away."

The older brother, Alf Anguille was a scrawny five-footer. He resembled Popeye in that he wore a crew cut when they were completely out of style, plus, he had no teeth. I picture the shrimp wearing over-sized, hand-me-down clothes and his face and arms streaked with filth. Nobody I knew ever remembered him attending school but everyone remembered that the little they could understand him say, was laced with various forms of the F-Bomb.
ADAPTED FROM JEAN SHEPHERD'S, "IN GOD WE TRUST, EVERYONE ELSE PAYS CASH," SCUT FARKUS (left) AND HIS TOADY, GROVER DILL WERE THE BULLIES FROM, "A CHRISTMAS STORY." THEY BORE A GREAT SIMILARITY TO HORTENSE GULIFOYLE'S SONS.

Light-hearted Alf's constant toothless smile, reminded me of a court jester. But he led a tougher, almost feral life dating back before he was six. Encouraged by small-time hoodlums, he took advantage of his tiny stature to squeeze through tight spots like; coal chutes, warped wooden basement doors and half open windows, to rob homes and businesses.

On the other hand, thirteen-year old Ducky was a head taller than most kids his age. He had a naturally strong physique which was especially imposing because the students in his grade (he was left back twice) were generally two years younger. Ducky took unfair advantage of his size to subsidize his mom's habits, by regularly threatening dozens of sheep for their lunch money.

THE 1988 MOVIE, "TWINS," FEATURED VASTLY DIFFERENT SIZED TWINS. EXCEPT THE DANNY DEVITO CHARACTER WAS BAD AND ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER'S WAS GOOD.

I was fourteen when I first heard of knife-toting Mallard and Anguille. By then, they had already graduated from pitching pennies behind the bowling alley, peeing on prowl cars, vandalizing park benches and stealing fruit from pushcarts.

During this period, Ducky often entertained himself by telling Alf to beat-up a random kid. These unlucky wretches accepted the pummeling even if they could kill the puny bastard. They knew if they fought back, they may as well rip their own heads off rather than contend with his gigantic pissed-off sibling.

These petty criminals were not urban legends...they were real. In a sick way, their brutality and violence made them Bonnie and Clyde-like celebrities. Their heroic image with the locals didn't even change when, on a drunken binge, they broke into a parochial school, trashed the administration office and threw two typewriters through a third floor window...without being apprehended.

My only direct contact with Ducky was when he forced his way into a softball game. While my team was batting, he grabbed my glove and said, "If I make any errors with this piece of shit, Dimsdale, you're dead." Smartly, I didn't tell him my real name. After he came to bat once, he lost interest and walked away.

The one terrible thing he did that I witnessed, happened when my friends and I were playing football. Mallard and Anguille were walking along the sideline and set fire to my friend's coat. Ducky called out as the fur lining ignited, "What are you gonna do about it?" My friend did nothing. So Alf yelled, "Yeah, what the f--- are goin' to f---ing do about it?"

No one thought my friend was chicken...just practical. He knew it's only a Hollywood fantasy when, (Ralphie Parker), the kid in, "A CHRISTMAS STORY," got his revenge. In reality, you just have to stay out of a bully's way...and hope. Luckily for my friend, when Ducky threw it over the fence, the fire went out and the singed coat was still usable.

On the verge of adulthood, Ducky was a grizzled, veteran blackjack dealer, upstairs at the Boom-Boom Room. That bar was so notorious that my mother used to make me swear when I walked to the barber shop, (yeah I was still going to a barber), that I stayed on the other side of the street.

STOCK PHOTO OF A DIFFERENT BOOM-BOOM ROOM. THE ONE WHERE I LIVED HAD SUCH A FOUL REPUTATION THAT MY MOM USED TO JOKE THAT PEOPLE LEAVING HAD TO WIPE THEIR FEET INSIDE SO THEY WOULDN'T GET THE STREET DIRTY.

When I started college, Alf was running "numbers" and making small collections. The genius was so stupid that he stole a military surplus half track from a used car lot. He then pulled up to a pool hall in it and threatened a deadbeat.

An anonymous bystander pieced together Alf's blithering. I often wonder if there's a category for this statement in the, "GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS?" Because my source felt strongly that Alf Anguille's exact quote was, "You mother f---ing slippery eel, if you don't f---ing pay f---ing up, I'm going to chain you to back of this f---ing tank and take you for a f---ing scrape over to see my f---ing boss. Then you'll f---ing wish you just f---ing coughed-up the money me!"

The squirt had managed to talk his way out of other brushes with the law but even the Keystone Kops couldn't screw-up capturing someone driving a stolen German half track up Flatbush Avenue.

EPITOMIZING POLICE INEPTITUDE, THE KEYSTONE KOPS (1912-1917) WERE PIONEERS IN SILENT, SLAPSTICK MOVIES.

Before Alf was handcuffed, he didn't help his cause when he threatened to detonate the non-existent nuclear bomb under his torn, "wife-beater" tee-shirt. He went to prison and was never seen again.

Ducky was already a psychopath but without his half-pint henchmen, he started losing the scant decency he had. Mallard began dealing drugs in order to keep up with his spiraling list of addictions. His last self-inflicted dagger of vice was blowing his money on prostitutes at the Boom-Boom Room. His house of cards began their ultimate tumble in one of the private rooms adjacent to the faux-casino upstairs. That's when he was caught in a raid while a newbie trollop serviced him on their knees.

Ducky was questioned and released but not before the cop, (who knew him) said, "That's what I like about you Mallard. You know how to treat a female impersonator." The officer then spitefully forced the whore to reveal that she was a man before arresting the tramp.

Once that news spread, Ducky went crazy. He left the area. Nobody saw or heard from him for two years. That's when many of us I saw an item on the, "Six O'Clock News."

The TV news reporter was the woman who Gilda Radna spoofed on, "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE." She was on location, surrounded by countless seagulls, in the landfill area of Queens. The details were sketchy but she said that a man's dismembered body was found in several trash bags, in the dump along Jamaica Bay.

RADNA'S, ROSEANNE ROSEANNADANNA WAS BASED ON AN ACTUAL, UNSEASONED ON-AIR NEWS PERSONALITY.

A few days later on the, "Eleven O'Clock News," a film clip from earlier that day had the same reporter standing by the waterfront, along side a shanty that looked like it was ready to cave in. She reviewed the story of the corpse found in pieces and called it, "A drug deal gone wrong." Then she said that the body was identified as Wallace Mallard.

The camera zoomed-out to a wider shot. A six-foot, Phyllis Diller-like woman was identified as the victim's mother. Then she made the classic rookie reporter's blunder, "Mrs. Gulifoyle, your son has just been found murdered in garbage dump...how do you feel?"

A skewed expression on Horty's face suggested that her grief was getting overcome by the excitement of being on TV. She glanced off-camera, had a moment of recognition, puffed-up her bird's nest hairdo and spit out her gum. Then she said, "It's Miss Gulifoyle."

The reporter was nodding as she continued, "My Ducky...I mean Wallace...was a good #$%&!# boy. Maybe once a month he'd bum a #$%&!# cigarette." The reporter didn't realize that the vulgarities could be edited out of the tape and tried unsuccessfully to interrupt.

Ducky's mom plowed on, "I loved scoping-out the #$%&!#, "RACING FORM," with him very, very much. My Ducky...I mean Wallace was a winner! He never made a #$%&!# two-dollar bet in his life and always put his money on the #$%&!# nose."

The reporter wanted to wrap things up but Horty added, "I'd invite you in and show you all the #$%&!# baseball trophies he won and all the model airplanes that he never got around to gluing together but the #$%&!# house is a mess." Suddenly, the camera cut back to the live anchorman in the studio.

THE LANDFILL (in the background) HAS BEEN A LONG-TIME BODY DUMPING GROUND. IN THE 1930's, A GROUP KNOWN AS, "MURDER INCORPORATED," STARTED THE TREND. THIS HANDY WORK BY OTHERS, CRESTED IN THE 70's. EVEN AS RECENT AS 2006, MORE HUMAN REMAINS WERE UNEARTHED THERE.
My cousin was on the scene when Ducky's mom was interviewed. He said that they completely cut out other parts like when she said, "When my other son gets out of stir, I'll get my justice." Then the camera crew started snickering when she strayed off-topic and said with a straight face something about Ducky's recent return. "I didn't know if he was #$&#!# full o' blarney or what but he was complaining about a one-eyed midget named Kierkegaard following him. And even more #$%&!# nutty, a twelve-foot thunderbird that he nicknamed Mothman telling him to come home to me."

We'll never know if Alf got out and granted his mom's wish. But I do know that many of my friends...and me, are still haunted by their memories of Ducky...even from his grave.

Many years later while visiting my parents, my wife and I went for a neighborhood bike ride. Two blocks from Ducky's house, I told her this story. At his corner, I was still so spooked that I diverted her the other way. When we passed another hovel that looked like it should be condemned I said, "That's where they lived."

BURGESS MEREDITH; TIME ENOUGH AT LAST

2011-08-22T00:43:00.009-05:00

When I first got cable-TV, I thought I'd never leave the house. Alas, I was wrong, because like any new toy, after a while it gets old. Also, what might seem like the panacea of unlimited programming, turns out to be an awful lot of tripe and duplication. Plus, if you're not sharp, you can be lured into buying more and more cable tiers because you'll always feel like you're missing something.

Now that I have admitted having that knowledge, I confide in you that I'm considering getting NETFLIX. Yes, in these days of economic uncertainty, I'm still tempted to take the plunge and splurge...and when I get it, I promise to occasionally leave the house.

Netflix is an on-demand Internet streaming media company. Or simply, a subscriber movie and TV show (on DVD), rental by mail service.

ESTABLISHED IN 1997, THE COMPANY BOASTS 100,000 TITLES. THEIR FLAT-RATE MONTHLY SERVICE NOW INCLUDES DIRECT ACCESS TO YOUR COMPUTER OR TV.

In my mind, I have produced a line-up, (or as Netflix calls it, a queue), of about fifty titles that I want to see. I picture having a pile for each month. On my dresser, I imagine September's with, "ZELIG ," or "A CLOCKWORK ORANGE," on top. On the entertainment center, my batch of spooky October goodies would include, "MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000" and "THE SIXTH SENSE." Sitting on the floor, November's selections would have, "THE ARISTOCRATS" and "BROADWAY DANNY ROSE." And in December, obviously that stack of movies will be left on my mantle next to my stockings. Then as usual, I'll wait till the 25th, for one of my all-time favorites. Only this year, I won't be distracted by a million commercials when, "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE," comes on the CW Network, (formerly UPN). THIS NETWORK IS KNOWN FOR TERRIBLE CONTENT. I BELIEVE THE "CW" STANDS FOR "CONSISTENTLY WORTHLESS. IF YOU RECALL, IT TOOK OVER THE EQUALLY INEPT UPN, IN 2006.

I don't think its a coincidence but this fantasy Netflix project of mine makes me think of Oliver "Burgess" Meredith. More than a screen actor, his remarkable, diverse and enduring career spanned over sixty years. Meredith's lengthy list of credits also includes starring roles on Broadway, TV, radio programs, commercials and more.

Please note that during the (Joe) McCarthy-Era, had he not been suspected of being a Communist and blacklisted by the House Committee on Un-American Activities for seven years, his prolific career would have been even greater.AT 30, BURGESS MEREDITH...NOVEMBER 16, 1907 - SEPTEMBER 9, 1997.

One of the gems in my Netflix want list is, the oldest of Meredith's work that I am familiar with. It's his starring role in 1939's, "OF MICE AND MEN." In this adaptation of John Steinbeck's classic novel, he plays street-wise migrant farm worker George, opposite Lon Chaney Jr.'s feeble-minded Lenny.

I was always drawn to, "Of Mice and Men," because in seventh grade, it was the first novel I had to analyze in class...that I had seen the movie. It's special place in my heart was strengthened by the fact that the Lenny and George-type characters appeared in several old cartoons. By understanding the literary basis of that humor, the animated silliness took on intellectual overtones and made me feel smarter because I was in on the joke.

SET IN DEPRESSION-ERA CALIFORNIA, MEREDITH'S ROLE HAS HIM STRUGGLING AGAINST THE ODDS TO FULFILL HIS DREAMS, WHILE HOLDING ONTO A MEAGER JOB AND PROTECTING HIS OVER-SIZED, CHILD-LIKE FRIEND.

Another Burgess Meredith movie that Netflix can put in my hands is 1945's, "THE STORY OF G. I. JOE." In it, he portrayed famed World War II correspondent Ernie Pyle. Meredith received top billing and high acclaim in this factual story centering around the reporter's human interest articles about the grunts on the front lines from 1942-1945.

General Dwight Eisenhower called this the finest war film he ever saw. Probably because Pyle didn't write about the politics, battles or generals. Instead, he filled American newspapers with insights into the loneliness of command as well as the capacity to survive drudgery and discomfort during the terror of combat.

MEREDITH (LEFT). THE MOVIE WAS FINISHED BEFORE THE WAR ENDED. THE LAST LINE WAS, "FOR THOSE BENEATH THE WOODEN CROSSES, THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN DO, EXCEPT PERHAPS TO PAUSE AND MURMUR, THANKS PAL, THANKS." AFTER THE WAR IN EUROPE ENDED, PYLE CONTINUED HIS WORK IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC...HE WAS LATER KILLED IN ACTION ON OKINAWA.

Netflix also offers countless, vintage and current TV shows. Therefore for those so inclined such as myself, TV's ultra-campy, "BATMAN," is available. Be sure to look for Burgess Meredith's renowned role as the villainous, "Penguin."
AS ROBIN MIGHT SAY; WHOLLY CUCUMBERS BATMAN, WE SURE ARE IN A PICKLE. "BATMAN," RAN 120 EPISODES FROM 1966-1968. MEREDITH'S PENGUIN WAS TIED WITH CESAR ROMERO'S JOKER AS BATMAN'S MOST FREQUENT NEMESIS. MEREDITH ALSO APPEARED IN THE 1966, "BATMAN," MOVIE.

I wasn't a big fan of the "ROCKY" movies but the original from 1976 is still worth another look. Meredith's memorable role is of Mickey Goldmill, Rocky's intense, gravel-voiced manager.

MEREDITH ALSO APPEARED IN ,"ROCKY II" AND "ROCKY III."

The "SYFY," network occasionally hosts 24-hour marathons of Rod Serling's original, "TWILIGHT ZONE." But Netflix can bring these Emmy-clustered beauties into your home whenever you like. In addition to the puzzling stories, it's also fun to spot the famous actors who were either at the end of their career struggling for work or newcomers vying for stardom.

Burgess Meredith appeared in four "Twilight Zone," episodes. But the one that immediately came to mind when I imagined piling up Netflix movies all over my living room was called, "TIME ENOUGH AT LAST." This episode touches on such social issues as; anti-intellectualism, reliance on technology and the difference between solitude and loneliness.

Meredith plays Henry Bemis a nearsighted bank teller who is intimidated by his nit-picking boss at work and dominated by his overbearing wife at home. All he really wants out of life is some quiet privacy to read. During his lunch hour at work, he finds an underground sanctuary, in the bank vault. As "luck" would have it, there is a violent explosion above him. The bookworm claws through the remains of the building. In the street, he discovers that the much ballyhooed nuclear holocaust had taken place while he was safe in his subterranean oasis.

"TV GUIDE," RATED, "THE TWILIGHT ZONE," #26 IN THEIR, "TOP 50 TV SHOWS OF ALL TIME."

Bemis can't fathom his dire situation. He wipes his thick eye-glasses and aimlessly staggers through the devastated streets. He comes across riches like money and jewelry, understands their new insignificance and falls into despair. Bemis' depression worsens when he sees that he has enough food to last forever, but that there is nobody to share it with.

All seems lost when Bemis senses that he is the last man on earth and finds a revolver in the rubble...until he comes across a huge library. He walks up the concrete stairway and begins to pile up all the salvageable books he ever wanted to read. He is about to start his literary joy ride when his glasses fall off and shatter.

Surrounded by the books he'll never read, the virtually blind Bemis laments, "That's not fair. That's not fair at all. There was time. There was all the time I needed. That's not fair."

A section of Rod Serling's narrative conclusion alluded to a Scottish poem; The best-laid schemes of mice and men, often go awry.

Unfortunately for me, I have experienced a Henry Bemis moment myself. The long rumored lay-offs at my wife's main part-time job were just made official. Worse yet, her secondary job is on shakier ground than we anticipated...and now my place has announced mid-September lay-offs as well.

I hate to admit it but with all our employment in jeopardy, the CW Network can open its arms and embrace me yet again. Ahh, nothing beats the smell of ten-minute segments of, "APOCALYPSE NOW," intertwined with five-minute blocks of commercials...in the morning. That means, to be on the safe side, I'm not taking the splurging plunge of Netflix. I'm going to save my eight dollars a month and put my date with movie destiny, temporarily on hold.

THE DEATH OF THE DEATH CARD !

2011-08-15T00:43:00.012-05:00

Stop! Sift out the white noise and listen. If you concentrate, you'll be able to hear the theme song of, "PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE," fading out. It's volume is getting drowned-out by the whining drone of distant bagpipes. Unfortunately, the carefree days of my monthly poker games are over and all that's left are ashes and the Royal Scotsmen playing somber funeral dirges.

DURING THE CANDLE LIGHTING CEREMONY AT MY SON ANDREW'S BAR MITZVAH, MY POKER BUDDIES WERE USHERED UP ON STAGE TO THE THEME OF, "PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE."

Today, with heads hung low, we are gathered here to pay our respects and to say something nice about my deceased poker game. It's hard to believe, but now that my cherished night out with the boys is gone...it seems that I will never play in a regularly scheduled game again.

You see, I started playing poker when I were ten years old. That introduction featuring wild, one eyed-jacks was completely harmless. But as fourth graders, my pal HJ and our other friends, felt that as gamblers, we were cool renegades, breaking the law.

The older brother of one of the kids on my street and his toady were the organizers. These games set the stage for those jokers to advantage of us younger kids, for years. But in this case, they weren't squeezing us for much because the stakes were incredibly low...even for pre-adolescents.

We used red, white and blue poker chips in these games. Whoever finished with the smallest chip stack had to forfeit one Strat-O-Matic baseball card to the biggest winner.

A BOARD GAME, "STRAT" PRODUCED INDIVIDUAL PLAYER CARDS FOR EACH MAJOR LEAGUER. THEN BASED ON THE PREVIOUS YEAR'S PERFORMANCE (WITH THE HELP OF THREE DICE), A REALISTIC BASEBALL GAME WAS PLAYED. PLEASE NOTE THAT THE CARD ABOVE WAS TOO GOOD TO BE GIVEN AWAY AS A POKER LOSS. SCRUBS, SCHLOCKS AND DUKIES LIKE MARV THRONEBERRY, JAY HOOK AND CHOO-CHOO COLEMAN WERE MORE LIKELY CANDIDATES TO BE DISCARDED.

My appreciation for poker wouldn't resurface again until my working vacation at Disney World with RBOY. At our apartment complex, I met three disgruntled Disney employees from rural South Carolina, (Bob, Ronnie and Brad). After quitting, they became waiters at Red Lobster. Later, they got me a job there too. Once our friendship bloomed, on many occasions, we had poker sessions on the floor of their place. We mainly played "DR. PEPPER," for chump change, (RBOY was invited but never played and neither did ZYMBOT when he came for his prolonged visit).

AUGUST 1974 IN KISSIMMEE FLORIDA. THAT'S ME WITH TWO-THIRDS OF THE SOUTH CAROLINA MAFIA. AT OUR POKER GAMES, THERE WASN'T A LOT OF MONEY CHANGING HANDS BUT I THINK I ALWAYS CAME OUT AHEAD.

Oddly, I was intimidated from playing poker during my Las Vegas years, (1979-1984). What makes this even stranger was that the World Series of Poker was a budding giant. Several of my friends and acquaintances were players or dealers; like SK28 and John Imperiale. But their horror stories made competitive poker against strangers seem to be anything but fun.
THE "WSOP" EVOLVED FROM BENNY BINION (IN 1970), INVITING THE SEVEN BEST (MOST KNOWN), PLAYERS FOR A SINGLE TOURNAMENT. WHEN I LIVED IN VEGAS, THE WSOP HAD GROWN. BUT STILL SMALL ENOUGH THAT BINION'S HORSESHOE ONLY HAD TO TEMPORARILY REMOVE A FEW BLACKJACK TABLES FROM A REMOTE ALCOVE OF THE CASINO TO ACCOMMODATE IT. IN 2010, THE MAIN EVENT, WORLD CHAMPION'S PRIZE WAS NEARLY NINE MILLION DOLLARS. TODAY THIS INCREDIBLE, TEXAS HOLD 'EM TOURNAMENT IS HELD IN A CONVENTION HALL IN ORDER TO SUPPORT CLOSE TO 20,000 ENTRANTS.

The one time I was lured into a Vegas poker game was by LTJEFF. Two of his fellow Mint Casino craps dealers, ran a private Cajun poker game called, Boo-Ray. The gracious hosts, (Big Jim and Buffalo Joe), supplied an array of cold cuts, salads and other snacks, plus a fully stocked bar. Later I found out that for discrete guests, a wide range of narcotics were available too.

This friendly game had two major rules. First, each pot had a small rake to defray the cost of the "refreshments." Rule two was anyone who reneged had to match the pot.

While I was playing, when the antes were low, a department store manager reneged and everyone laughed off the four-dollar error. But as the night wore on and flow of liquor etc. took effect, the once cautious group became sloppy as the antes skyrocketed. So when the ante money created a fifty-dollar pot, the atmosphere became mercenary when the next sap, (one of Jim and Joe's casino supervisors) reneged. At that point, I thought it prudent to bow out.

I stuck around and watched for another hour. By that time only fifties and hundred-dollar bills were being used. That's when the hosts (who were both winning a lot), cashed a drunken airline pilot's $650.00 payroll check. I knew that sober Jim and Joe were grossing less than $300.00 a week, so this maneuver opened my bloodshot eyes. Soon, I became convinced that they were weasels by their shared procedural reaction, on how their victim should sign over his check.

The next day, I asked LTJEFF if Jim and Joe were in cahoots and if the whole game was a scam; he shrugged. Weeks later, LTJEFF confirmed my suspicions. He told me that Big Jim kicked Buffalo Joe out of the house when his girlfriend moved in...and how frustrated Joe broadcast their scheme to bilk the Boo-Ray players with cheating signals. He also spelled out how they made a separate chunk of cash by gouging everyone for the grocery money.

In 1984, I moved back to Canarsie while my New Jersey gaming license was being processed. During that year, RCC and JEFFDDS included me in their monthly poker game with other boyhood friends. These social events had venues in Brooklyn, and Staten Island as well as Edison and Princeton New Jersey.

This was the purest form of relaxing entertainment. Nobody got hurt and the games like, "BINGO FOR IDIOTS," were full of laughs.

In 1992, coworkers from my current job started a poker game. The last of the charter members have either moved away, changed days off or became unavailable for a million reasons. So with PCSHMEE set to move to California next month, I formally declare that our little social club, after a nineteen year run, has become defunct. Further, I decree that this blog serves as a eulogy and a Requiem for my dearly departed night out with the boys.

I fondly remember FRANKIERIO of fashionable Somers Point being the first host. He served chili and white rice. The second game boasting barbecued ribs was in Tuckerton, at KURUDAVE's. For the most part, we rotated the hosting duties among the generous core of originators.

To fill in the empty seats, tons of coworkers, relatives, neighbors and friends of every nationality, race, religion, gender and sexual persuasion were included. We even included our fair share of space-cases...from other planets, (most of them were never invited a second time).

In the early days, we put in an eight-hour shift, (9:PM-5:AM). The night was so much fun that the cards frequently interrupted the hilarity. Along with coffee and cake, we had half-time entertainment ranging from cartoons, to porn to music videos....we even had a girl, (Sapphire), from work volunteer to be a topless cocktail server.

THE ACTUAL POKER ASPECT OF THE GAME WAS STILL IMPORTANT BACK THEN. ERGO, OUR TOPLESS BEER WENCH WAS VOTED DOWN 4-3

We used a dealer's choice format. My favorite poker game was called, "DEUCES, JACKS, THE MAN WITH THE AX." It's a seven-card stud game featuring nine wild cards, (all the twos and jacks plus the king of diamonds). However, a pair of natural sevens beats anything. And if that wasn't enough, the five of spades was the "death card." That meant that no matter how good your hand was, if you turned that card over, you got kicked-out of that hand and had to add a dollar to the pot.

REGARDLESS OF THE SITUATION, THE FIVE OF SPADES, A.K.A. THE "DEATH CARD," WAS GUARANTEED TO CAUSE SPONTANEOUS LAUGHTER AT THE EXPENSE OF ITS PREY.

I adopted the death card concept from the South Carolina bunch. After years of careful cultivation to make it the wonder that it now is...maybe I should copyright it and formally call it my own. Hell, there's nothing wrong with making a few extra bucks for something so pleasing. My point is proven by the fact that that element had been incorporated into many of our other poker games.

Some of the alumni players from the last nineteen years who read my, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," blog include: CGS39, DOMT, MAL, MIKE123, BLAZELION, RJKL, RSKB102, WTW and TOMD. After a recent survey with many of them, it seems that the following was our most unusual and memorable night.

Ten years ago, on a hot summer night, CGS39 hosted his first game. I was driving PCSHMEE and KURUDAVE through the Jersey boondocks to Little Egg Harbor. On unlit Stage Road in Ocean County, we went quite some time without seeing anything relating to civilization. We were doing about sixty when suddenly the black pavement ended and gave way to what looked like a dirt road. I slammed on the brakes unnecessarily because the dark-colored roadway gave way to a whitish pavement.

That scare left the three of us on edge plus we had gone five miles through the wilderness without seeing a house, business or even a sign. KURUDAVE made a, "BLAIR WITCH PROJECT," reference which spurred PCSHMEE to call ahead for some reassurance. CGS39 laughed at us, called us names and said, "When you pass over the Garden State Parkway, I'm a half mile up on the right."

CGS didn't believe in screened windows. While he introduced us to his neighbor Corey, we were dodging huge flying insects. CGS was in the middle of telling us that he just dusted off his dirt bike from when he was a kid when MAL showed up.

MAL interrupted CGS's story. He was referring to the large amount of flying bugs when he said, "All we need is an all Japanese cast, our mouths to be unsynchronized to the dialog and a cameo appearance from Raymond Burr and we'd have the makings for another "MOTHRA," movie.MERCHANDISING FROM 1964's , "GODZILLA vs. MOTHRA."

CGS continued by saying that he hadn't taken the dirt bike a hundred feet behind his property when an armed forest ranger...who looked like Barney Fife in a Smokey the Bear hat, stepped out from behind a tree and blocked his path.

The ranger's gun hand shook violently as he asked CGS for a motorcycle operator's license. CGS had no ID. The license he once had, expired long ago. While staring down the barrel of the vibrating service revolver, he tried to explain the circumstances and pointed to his house. The shaky ranger only nodded. When he finally spoke, CGS was detained with a ten minute lecture highlighted by a segment on helmet safety. He politely listened and prepared to humbly accept the stiff warning. So it really pissed him off when Ranger Fife wrote two $75.00 tickets.

When MAL heard the word "detained," he encouraged PCSHMEE to repeat for everyone, the nightmare story he had been told. Apparently, when going through Canadian customs in Manitoba, the staff spot-checked PC's suitcase. An undeclared item, (a gift wrapped, $300.00 wristwatch for his Internet girlfriend) was discovered. After getting caught, PC compounded their ire by lying about its value. To minimize his tax exposure, he under-exaggerated the cost. Moments later, the actual receipt was unearthed from his wallet. PC then cemented his wise guy's fate by saying, "I thought you meant the wholesale price."

PC's punishment included being officially "detained." Which meant that in addition to being held in custody for hours that night, all future trips into the "great white north" would require him to "check-in" with Canadian authorities. Additionally, he was charged a higher tax rate on the item and was heavily fined.

When PC finished, CGS's neighbor Corey said, "That's nuthin'! When I was a teenager, I was crossing into Canada at Windsor Ontario and made a drug smuggling joke. Some Dudley Do-Right impersonator handcuffed me and led me to a small room. He and another Canuck stripped me, attached my cuffs to a metal hook bolted to the floor and did a full body-cavity search on me. Even though they found nothing, I was detained and forced to pay a fine."

So during our poker game, in addition to incessant, dive-bombing moths, nobody sat pretty after hearing Corey's story. Later while driving home at 4:AM, with MAL following behind us in his car, PCSHMEE, KURUDAVE and I joked about body-cavity searches.

When we crossed Stage Road's white pavement back onto the blacktop, an antlered deer appeared in the distance. I can still recall the exact angle of its head and how its feet straddled the yellow median line. I hit the breaks and high-beams at the same time...and the deer vanished. Not ran away...vanished!

PC said, "What was that?" KURU said, "Did you see where that guy went?" I said, "It was a deer but I don't know where it went." PC said, "No, it was a ghost and it de-materialised...UP!" KURU said, "You're both crazy, it was an old geezer limping into the woods." I pulled over and flagged down MAL. But he saw nothing. We were all too tired to argue. To this day, everyone remains adamant to what they saw...but we have no answers. However, the one thing we all agreed on was... that night was the most bizarre poker game and that the going home "deer" incident was even crazier.

Who knows? Maybe I'll find another poker game. But the truth is, this blog is a symbolic funeral. If you were here, you'd see I'm typing in a pair of black boxers and a black, fishnet, wife-beater tee-shirt. Because, the "Pee-Wee's Playhouse Theme," is long gone. During this mourning period, that silly music has been replaced by the interwoven tapestry of much louder bagpipe dirges and the tolling death knell of far away bells.

So while I cling to the positive notion that PCSHMEE is going to a better place... I along with all his poker buddies wish him every success and happiness. Nevertheless, with my head hung low, I officially proclaim the death of the death card and the end of a great night out with great friends.

A NATIONAL NIGHT, IN...MY CAR

2011-08-08T00:43:00.012-05:00

The "NATIONAL NIGHT OUT," program is a community, police-awareness-raising event. Since its inception in 1984, municipalities across the USA and Canada have set aside the first Tuesday in August to promote the, "men and women in blue." (In Texas due to the summer heat, many towns observe this event in October).

In its infancy, this program took the form of a "CRIME WATCH," meeting but few people got involved. Soon, it quietly expanded to, "lights on vigils." Then through innovations like block parties, the idea gained momentum.

Earlier this week on August 2nd, my township (Galloway NJ) boasted its biggest National Night Out. Over four thousand people attended, (a thousand more than last year). The genius of this, "night out against crime," is bolstered by our economic downturn and the fact that August is the only month without a major holiday. So people gladly take advantage of the inexpensive, festive opportunity. Then in a fun and informative way, the police are honored while displaying their skills and services. The fire department, EMT squads, the military and other agencies also got in on the action.DESIGNED TO SHOW HOW THE POLICE KEEP US SAFE, MARSH BOAT PATROLS, THE K-9 CORPS, HELICOPTER RESCUES AND SWAT TEAMS WERE AMONG OUR EXHIBITED HIGHLIGHTS.

On my way to work that night, I passed Patriot Lake, at Galloway's municipal complex. I felt a twinge of jealousy as I saw the carnival-like atmosphere interwoven into the various demonstration booths with revelers full of civic and American pride participating.

A week earlier, our college search for my son Andrew led us to the University of Maryland, in the town of College Park. The traffic on Interstate-95 was so bad that our guided campus tour was over when we arrived. Luckily, we found a gracious tour guide who answered our college-life questions. Then she directed us to the admissions office where another upbeat representative gave us valuable entrance criteria info.

Afterwards we did a short...okay, very short... walking tour of the beautiful grounds, (it was 97 degrees). One of my regrets was missing the Jim Henson and Kermit the Frog statue.

WHILE THE UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND TERRAPINS PRIDE THEM SELF ON "TURTLE POWER," JIM HENSON, CLASS OF 1960, (AND KERMIT TOO) , HELPED MAKE FROGS IMPORTANT TOO.

On our way out of town, I suggested going to Baltimore's Little Italy. I was left with two unenthusiastic shrugs. I said we deserve a special dinner after we killed our self to get to the college, only to miss the actual tour, have no lunch and broil while wandering around random buildings. Neither my wife or son was keen on the idea but grudgingly agreed.

While leaving College Park, I noticed several advertisements for their National Night Out. With police in mind I jokingly said, "We're headed into the teeth of rush hour traffic, too bad we can't get a motorcycle escort." This attempt at sophisticated humor went unappreciated.

We hit no traffic during our twenty-five mile jaunt. However, along the way, one of the digital signs on the interstate read; "North of Baltimore, three lanes closed...expect major delays." That's when I reminded my troops that; by stopping for dinner, that'll give them time to unsnarl the traffic.

The mile drive off the highway to Little Italy took an eternity. But we were rewarded with a nearby and ultra rare, free parking spot. We walked one city block and were suddenly faced with more than a plethora of dining choices.

I have been fascinated with Baltimore's Little Italy since 2002. That's when we had a day trip to the Inner Harbor. We shopped, took my son to the aquarium as well as the Children's Science Museum and mistakenly hiked up Federal Hill, thinking it was Fort McHenry.

We wanted to end the day with a nice meal and walked to Little Italy. Every restaurant (and remember there was more than a plethora of them), had lines out the door into the street. Rather than wait, we retraced our steps and wound up at the tourist trap, "ESPN ZONE." To make matters worse, between our "gourmet" burgers and the arcade games, our tab probably added-up to close to what the authentic Italian dinner would have been.

From working in casinos, I have met tons of people who swear by Baltimore's Little Italy. The consensus was, there's so much competition that all the restaurants are great. So I have secretly pined to return for nine years.

Last week when Sue, Andrew and I made our triumphant return, there was a fancy-looking eatery on each corner at the first cross street we saw...with another ten in sight. We were tired and hungry. It was still 97 degrees and I was under the impression it didn't matter where you ate. Of course, we picked the wrong place, (unless they all suck). We paid top dollar and everything we ordered was worse than okay or awful. Plus, when the dissociative waitress awakened from her aloof trance, her bitchy attitude was a disgrace.

On our way back onto I-95, we made fun of our terrible eating experience. In the middle of laughing, I saw a similar digital; major delays north of Baltimore sign. Except this one included the problem's location, (mile marker 64). Ten miles later, in full daylight, we learned just how serious our bad luck was. We came to a near standstill with the problem four miles away.

THIS STOCK PHOTO IS NOT I-95. AND JUDGING BY THE SPACING, I'D GUESS THESE LUCKY DEVILS WERE AT LEAST MOVING.

We inched along for forty minutes. That's when I noticed that my gas tank was on empty. It was a long time till the next exit. When I could squeeze by, I drove on the shoulder to get off. After filling up, I saw a roadway running parallel to the interstate. I only needed to go four miles north to avoid the big traffic jam. But after one mile, the road to the I-95 on-ramp came up. In the twilight, without knowledge of an alternative way around the problem, I got on...and immediately came to a stop. We crept along. On two occasions, we had to move aside for emergency trucks.

This must have been one horrible accident because it was at least two hours since we saw the first digital sign for it. And a fire truck and an ambulance were still en route from a place called Rosedale.

The situation got worse, it was now dark and we were at a complete stop. I had the car in park and soon turned off the engine. Like a dating service, people got out of their cars in the harsh hot breeze to meet, compare notes and complain. When I looked backwards, I could see what seemed like the whole country, in the form of headlights, backed-up to the horizon. This was indeed a national night, in...our cars. Even worse, looking forward, I couldn't even see the interstate.

An hour later, people up ahead came running back to their cars. At first we were inching but soon we were rolling and stopping. At the crest of a hill, we finally saw our three lanes merging onto I-95. And in the extreme distance, I saw the beginning of the end, flashing lights.

I guess we had been at a complete stop because they temporarily closed the only open lane so work crews could safely open a second lane. When we got close enough to "rubberneck," we saw no crushed cars, the worst was over. Most of the remaining thirty emergency vehicles were filing away. On the wet roadway, firemen were coiling their hoses and stowing gear as the army of rescue personnel encouraged us weary motorists to keep moving.

The usual two and a quarter hour drive back from Baltimore took five and half hours. In the thirteen and a half hours from the time we left home until we returned, we were out of the car for a mere three hours.

Sometimes we need a kick in the head like a National Night Out, to remind us of the greatness and bravery involved in being a policeman, fireman, an EMT or be in the military. Also, because we need the assistance of civil servants so infrequently, it's easy to forget all the good they do.

If you still take these bastions of selflessness for granted or you're too self-centered to care about anything but your own convenience, please remember what a wise man once said; it is far better to be stuck in a terrible traffic...than to be the cause of it.

Next year, I'll meet you at the National Night Out. In the mean time, please support your local men and women in blue.

EDITOR'S NOTE:

Before knowing the true spirit of the National Night Out, (in my November 15, 2010 blog, "GETTING HOOKED-UP BY NEW YORK'S FINEST,)" I mistakenly mentioned that there should be a day commemorating the police in a manner similar to Veteran's Day.

SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING

2011-08-01T00:43:00.012-05:00

I went to my niece's wedding this past Saturday night and had a blast. In the morning, there was a big breakfast party in the hotel. Over coffee and a bran muffin, the groom told me that at midnight, during the height of the festivities, there was a "cat-fight" under the country club's portico, in the valet parking area.

The two Snooki-esque combatants must have really went at it because neither my bouncer-like nephew or anyone else could stop them. Through the miracle of cell-phones, the police responded in five minutes. Although there were no arrests, enough blood was shed that first-aid was administered to one of the dainty young ladies.

This North Jersey battle royal reminded me of the two donnybrook-laden seasons, (1976-1977), when I played in the INTERBORO ICELESS HOCKEY ASSOCIATION (IIHA). These street-hockey games were played on Kings Highway in Brooklyn on Saturday and Sunday mornings. At the height of its popularity, the league had eight teams with four of New York City's five boroughs being represented.

To reduce the probability of injuries (player ages ranged from 15-50), great restrictions were placed on physical play. Still each team had chippy instigators and when emotions ran high each team had pugnacious goons.

Our goon was named Stavros. His family owned a bunch of diners so he rarely showed up. When he did play, he was neither athletic or mentally stable. Therefore, he only came to hurt people. He was on our team because Stavros was a close friend of Ambrose, our team captain. Stavros further legitimized himself by treating select teammates to after-game meals.

Stavros used to boast how he dragged drunks out of his restaurant and beat them up. It annoyed him that I wasn't impressed. During a game, he once, "put out a hit," on an opposing player. Even though this jerk deserved a beating only the most ignorant of our lemmings actually elbowed him in the face or body-checked him into the brick wall. Most of the team enthusiastically said yeah, yeah and did nothing. Of course I had to be different, I called Stavros an asshole. I was never included in his free-meal plan before that and I'm certain that I was never even considered afterwards.

At first, I missed-out on another Stavros perk. He had a connection with a caterer in Manhattan Beach. He hooked-up Ambrose with work in valet parking. Soon the captain was bringing his cronies in. Eventually, he was furnishing the whole eight-man crew. About twenty times from 1976-1978, they were so short-staffed that I was included.

The catering hall was on extra wide but not especially busy, West End Avenue. The work was always on Saturday nights so even if I didn't get to bed till 3:00AM, I was ready for IIHA games at ten.

On the Sunday mornings that I wasn't playing hockey, I played basketball in my Junior High's schoolyard with my close friends, (SLW, RCC were regulars and IRAK, DRJ and GRAMPS also participated). This tradition was carried through from when I was fifteen until I left for Las Vegas when I was twenty-three.

JOHN WILSON JUNIOR HIGH, (JHS 211) , CIRCA 1989. IS STILL LOCATED ON CANARSIE'S AVENUE 'J,' AT EAST 100th STREET, (THE BASKETBALL COURTS ARE OUT BACK).

In my late teens, these pick-up basketball games were a great forum to brag about who you dated the night before and what you did. These conversations were rather competitive. So during valleys in my love life, when others were saying how they were snuggled on a couch with their girlfriends watching, "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, (SNL), " I felt compelled to tap dance around the truth. So rather than admit that I was alone the previous night, I implied that I had something better to do than watch TV and pretended to not know SNL's best lines. In fact, talking about valet parking became a convenient way for me to skirt, the no date issue.

I STILL FEEL THAT THE ORIGINAL, "NOT READY FOR PRIME TIME PLAYERS," LIKE DAN AYKROYD AND JOHN BELUSHI WERE THE BEST SNL CAST...HOWEVER LATER INDIVIDUAL STALWARTS LIKE EDDIE MURPHY WERE JUST AS GOOD.

My first few times that I parked cars, a man named Jack was our supervisor. We handed over all our tips to him and at the end of the night, he divvied up the proceeds. When Jack moved away to attend graduate school, Ambrose took over. Without Jack holding the money, our tip income nearly doubled. More importantly, now everybody in the car-jockey gang was a hockey teammate.

During our "down-time," after all the invitees arrived and before they left, we occupied ourselves by having a hockey shoot-around, in an unused portion of the underground garage. This fun was rarely interrupted except when a guest took an "early-out," or when the caterer brought down a tray of food, (almost always pepper steak) and a soup tureen, (almost always beef barley).

We were able to sacrifice the space in the garage for hockey because around the corner, on the adjacent side street, there was a large, outdoor parking lot. And when it was an extremely big affair, we had the added luxury to park on residential streets.

Cars parked in the garage were easily pulled up in front of the hall's main entrance. However, cars in the lot or on the street, required a left turn before passing the entrance from across the street and then a U-Turn to get back in front. Whenever possible, when retrieving those, it was faster to make a right instead of a left and unlawfully go in reverse a few hundred feet.

All of us, including me, were quite adept at this maneuver. But it was that move that sparked the most remarkable moment of my valet parking career.

On a summer night, the first group of folks were coming out of the wedding. I was bringing back one of the first cars from around the corner. West End Avenue was quiet so rather than going through with the rigmarole of making the left, passing the front entrance and making a U-Turn, I decided to make the right and go in reverse. While backing up, a souped-up Chevy Impala convertible with its top down roared by me. He screeched on the brakes and made an abrupt U-Turn behind me. Suddenly, our equally illegal moves left me blocking his path forward while he blocked my path backwards. For thirty seconds we gave each other the stink-eye before we simultaneously screamed, "Get out of my way!"

Suddenly, a monster who looked like a cross between Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant jumped out of his car and growled, "I gonna kick the $!?#$! shit out of this guy." AT THE TIME, 6 FOOT 7, 302-POUND TERRY BOLLEA, a.k.a. HULK HOGAN, WAS THE MOST RECOGNIZABLE NAME IN PRO WRESTLING (WWF). ANDRE "THE GIANT" ROUSSIMOFF, 7 FOOT 4 AND 500+ POUNDS WAS ANOTHER WWF MARQUEE PERFORMER.

The Elton John song, "Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting," flashed through my mind. So the prospect of getting annihilated was quite apparent...I knew I had to think fast. At the catering hall's entrance, a hundred feet away, I glanced at five of my hockey buddies watching this incident unfold. In addition to Ambrose, three of them were Stavros' surliest stooges. Inspired by the assumed camaraderie and protective spirit of my teammates, I stupidly burst out the car.

ON JUST ABOUT EVERYONE MY AGE'S LIPS, "SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING," WAS ONE OF ELTON JOHN'S ICONIC HIT SINGLES FROM HIS 1973 ALBUM, "GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD."

Despite having a big belly, my ornery adversary's heavily tattooed arms looked like etched, granite pythons exploding out of his torn, AC/DC tank-top. Without dillydallying, I stared into this bearded low-life's eye-level chest and aggressively advanced towards him. In a style that would have made someone with Turrets Syndrome blush, I looked up and got eye-contact. Then I loudly unloaded, in rapid-fire, every form of the harshest profanity I could think of.

I couldn't believe my eyes, this creature's body language changed and he went into retreat mode. My tirade of intense swear words was so intimidating that he didn't even notice that five guys wearing identical white short sleeve dress shirts, black slacks and sneakers were at the curb, ready to back me up. He said, "Hey, I don't want no trouble." He even smiled and gave me a friendly wave as his car coasted around mine before he hit the accelerator and zoomed away.

My valet parking pals sincerely pounded me with congratulatory pats on my back for standing up to that heinous beast. But it wouldn't be until a week later that I privately learned that Stavros' weaselly friends had no intention of helping me.

DINE & DASH...DIXIE-STYLE

2011-07-25T00:43:00.015-05:00

My four and a half years at Brooklyn College...a.k.a., thirteenth grade only served to prolong my childhood. WHILE ATTENDING BC, I HAD MANY ADMIRERS WHO LOOKED UP TO ME. OF COURSE MOST OF THEM USED THEIR GREAT EDUCATION AND WENT ON TO LEAD PRODUCTIVE LIVES.

When I graduated, (June 1977), my protective, zero-responsibility umbrella called schooling, closed up. It is safe to say that the next fifteen months of my weltschmertz-filled life was not a smooth transition into adulthood.

By August 1978, the pressure of dim horizons were crashing in on me. Until a glimmer of hope poked through my gray clouds of uncertainty during a weekend in Atlantic City. While visiting a friend of a friend, I stumbled across a stray casino supervisor's pay stub. When I focused on this boxman's "gross pay" field, the allure of money swayed me.

The gaming industry was a burgeoning infant, on its way to becoming a global giant. Economic forecasts suggested that long-term careers in this suddenly corporate, (respectable), business included, plentiful opportunities, good pay and generous benefits. If that wasn't incentive enough for me, there was also the convenience of a dealer training academy on West 32nd Street, in Manhattan.

I remained non-committal for several weeks. During this period of idling, I noticed what seemed like everybody I knew, either already gone from my neighborhood or leaving. I dreaded being left behind. I consulted a friend, Mr. K., who left Canarsie two years earlier to become a craps dealer in Reno. He painted a rosy picture of casino life and encouraged me to take the plunge.

Even with the support of my local friends, I still wasn't able to pull the trigger. Until destiny exploded in my face between late night episodes of, "GILLIGAN'S ISLAND," and "THE TWILIGHT ZONE." It was a sexy commercial for the, "NEW YORK SCHOOL OF GAMBLING." I was smitten. I visited the facility and without hesitation, signed up.

The school's student body could be lumped into two main categories. Three-quarters were seeking employment in Atlantic City and the rest in Las Vegas, (with a minute faction heading elsewhere).

I hung-out with the Vegas-bound bunch. The personalities in this group was a microcosm of high school. It was easy for me to avoid stoners, criminal wannabes and weirdos. Of course the jet-setters wanted no part of me, so I gravitated to the earthy, regular guys and jocks.

My clique was a solid ten-man group. Slowly, the one's who preceded me, graduated and moved to Las Vegas. Ciro, my closest friend made his move in November. He took my phone number and said he would call when he was settled.

I landed in Las Vegas the first week of January 1979. The school's free, job placement service set me up to work at the same place as Ciro, the Slots-A-Fun Casino. When I contacted him, Ciro invited me to sleep on his floor until I got on my feet.

When I got to his tiny place downtown on South Tenth Street, my first impression, (from outside), was that it was a hovel. While knocking on the door, I guessed that the inside was a pigsty.

Ciro ushered me in. From noon's bright sunshine, I entered his dark, stinking lair. Through a thick gray-blue haze of stale cigarette and marijuana smoke, I saw his frat-house-like two-bedroom apartment. My eye gravitated to the sink full of dirty dishes. Then to a cockroach scurrying across the counter between a crushed Olympia Beer can and a generic scotch bottle laying on its side.

I was there twenty seconds and I already sped-up my mind in reverse to recall reading the Stardust marquee, advertising eighteen-dollar rooms. Ciro interrupted my daydream and said, "You're in luck. The Chief, (his roommate Bob Bailey from school) was hospitalized with alcohol poisoning." When I raised my eyebrows he added, "That means that John Heaverlo can sleep in his bed, LUPY can now take the couch and you can push these two chairs together...it beats the floor."

The school had placed Bob Bailey at the California Club. John Heaverlo started at the El Cortez the day before and LUPY got hooked-up at the Lady Luck, (but he took one look at that dump and struck out on his own...with no success).

Ciro offered me some instant coffee. I refused as he led me to the sofa. He pushed aside an over flowing ashtray and a non-value stack of poker chips before setting his mug on the coffee table, (a slat of wall paneling propped up by two piles of Popular Mechanics Magazines). He told me that even though Slots-A-Fun was on the fabulous Las Vegas "strip," it was still one of the worst jobs in town, (but slightly better than the Lady Luck). He said he took the city bus to work and added that the others walked to their downtown casinos.

John Heaverlo was a little older than the rest of us. He was married and planned on sending back to Poughkeepsie for his wife when he established himself. John was also the only one of us with a car. So Ciro thought it would be a good idea to borrow Heaverlo's 1971 Buick Skylark and give me a guided tour.

John agreed as long as we didn't mess-up the back seat and trunk because even though they were packed solid with his stuff, he knew exactly where to find everything.

Once Ciro got the okay, the first thing he did was leave his apartment in his ratty, light blue, terry-cloth robe wearing black socks. Three minutes later, he came back with two (stolen) newspapers. From each, he ripped out a Silver Nugget Casino coupon, for an eight-ounce beer and a cup of chili for twenty-five cents.

THE SILVER NUGGET WAS ACTUALLY IN NORTH LAS VEGAS. IT WAS A SMALL DIVE THAT CATERED TO LOCALS AND ECONOMY-MINDED DAY TRIPPERS.

Ciro drove to Slots-A-Fun first. He suggested that I check-in with them...I refused. We drove the length of strip. Along the way, he gave me an estimate on how much the craps dealer made in each place. Caesar's Palace and the MGM were tied at the top...alone at the bottom was Slots-A-Fun.

At Tropicana Avenue, we got on the freeway and returned downtown. Back in the low-rent district, we cruised Fremont Street. Again Ciro told me how much tip income was generated at each casino. He put Binion's Horseshoe at the top, (less than half of Caesar's) and the Nevada Club neck and neck with the Lady Luck at the bottom of the dung heap. Only this time, he added the extra dimension of telling me the who's who of our schoolmates and where they were working.

A few blocks up, Ciro pointed out John Heaverlo's casino, (the El Cortez). He said, "Hal Mair works there too. They average twenty-two dollars a day." At the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard, we turned left. In a few streets, we crossed Bonanza Avenue and entered the next town, North Las Vegas.

The Silver Nugget was a clean and modern casino with a big empty parking lot. Like walking into a cathedral, you could hear a pin drop on the spacious, low-limit casino floor. We did a superficial loop of the property and saw few customers. Ciro encouraged me to take my first shot on their craps table. After I timidly refused, he led me to their southwestern-themed, Wagon Wheel Cafe.

The large restaurant was bright, cheery and completely empty. We waited at the sign that read; PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. A young, stuttering, redhead with a Kayla, TRAINEE name tag greeted us. When she dropped the lamented menus, a much older hostess named Dixie bolted out of the kitchen.

Dixie's deeply wrinkled face and liver-spotted arms coupled with the most unnaturally dyed blond beehive hairdo made her look like she was a hundred. In a coarse southern accent that suggested that she gargled with lye, Dixie reamed-out Kayla for her lack of eye-contact with us and the angle of her elbow while handling the menus.

Teary-eyed Kayla was humiliated and stormed away. So aloof Dixie escorted us to a table. Ciro asked her to wait as he emptied his pants pockets onto the table. He placed down John Heaverlo's car keys, a box of Marlboros and a book of matches from the Dunes.

Dixie said in a huff, "Well..." Ciro said, "Wait...," as he put his apartment keys, glasses case and wallet down. He looked puzzled until he said, "Oh, I have them here." That's when he took the two coupons out of his shirt pocket and said, "We should show you these first, right?" Dixie looked at him with contempt and rasped, "What else will you gentlemen be having?" Ciro pushed his menu an inch closer to her and said, "That's it."

When she was gone I said, "Boy, what a sourpuss, she was disgusted with us." Ciro said, "Yeah, the Wicked Bitch of the West...I could tell she really hated you...be careful, she might spit in your chili." I gave him an uneven smile and said, "She wouldn't...?"

We watched from thirty feet away as the menus slipped out of Kayla's grip as she greeted three women. Luckily, this time she managed to grab them before they hit the floor. She looked over her shoulder but Dixie was nowhere to be found. Seconds later, Kayla's serious, freckled face smiled when Ciro gave her the thumbs-up sign as she lead her party by us.

A minute later, sobbing Kayla came out of the kitchen with our order. She set down two Silver Nugget, Wagon Wheel Cafe napkins with caricatures of chili peppers in sombreros. Then without spilling a drop, she cautiously put our coffee cups filled with chili on top.

IN SMALLER PRINT THE NAPKINS READ: WASH DOWN RAIMUNDO AND EDDIE'S DELICIOUS, EXTRA HOT CHILI SPECIALTIES WITH AN ICE COLD BEER.

Kayla's voice quivered as she said, "W-w-will there be anything else?" Ciro said, "Are you okay?" She said, "I-I'm supposed to be a hostess but my boss is so mean that the waitress just quit. I don't know what I'm doing and now Eddie the cook saw her go into Mr. Atkinson's office. She's screaming about firing me too. But I don't care...I'll just go back to McDonald's." She took a deep breath, put our short beers on the table and said, "Will there be anything else?" Ciro said, "If it isn't too much trouble, how about some more crackers and some Tabasco sauce too." Her broad smile revealed a mouth full of braces as she said, "You might want to try the chili first."

When she came back Kayla set down our 53c check with the coupons stapled to it. Then she put down a basket of Saltines, the hot sauce and two glasses of water. Kayla said, "If you're fixin' to put more Tabasco in that, you'll need all these." Ciro slipped her two dollars and said, "You'll be okay whatever happens. Trust me, you're very nice." Seconds later Dixie's voice boomed from up front, "How long are you gonna make these good folks wait for a table?"

Ciro and I were done "eating" in a minute. But his mouth was on fire. He gobbled up all the extra crackers and doused the fire in his mouth with the rest of his beer and both of our waters. So it surprised me that the first thing he said was, "Where's that $%#$&! Dixie?" I said, "I don't see her." Ciro said, "Let's dine and dash." I said, "Heh?" He said, "That girl is getting fired anyway, c'mon, let's beat this toilet for the check." I wasn't in Las Vegas twenty-four hours and after refusing many of his other suggestions, I was ready to become a felon. I said, "Okay."

Ciro worked around the piles of spent Saltine wrappers and gathered his possessions as Dixie came in from the casino and went into the kitchen. We could hear her screaming at Kayla as Ciro said, "Let's go, go, go."

Ciro and I walked fast, left the restaurant, crossed the casino and continued outside. We were laughing at John Heaverlo's car as the smile vanished from Ciro's face. He started emptying his pockets on the hood of the Buick. The one thing missing was Heaverlo's keys. Ciro cursed and went back in. He wasn't smiling when he came back and said, "That $%#$&! Dixie was waiting for me. She was twirling Johnny's key ring on her middle finger when she said, 'forget something, low-life?'" I said, "What did you do?" "What could I do? I gave her a five and grabbed the keys."

We were about to pull out when Kayla exited the casino. Ciro called her over and asked, "Did Dixie fire you?" She beamed, "Hell no, I quit!" Ciro said, "That sucks. But hey, give me your phone number and we'll go out and have a good time." Kayla said, "Go out with you? Go to hell, low-life."

ABSCESSIVE BEHAVIOR

2011-07-18T00:43:00.009-05:00

OUCH! Who wants to talk about pain? No one does...but we will.

"MR. LUCKY," one of coworkers once said, "Never complain about pain because the guy you're telling...might have it worse."

When my son was born, my wife Sue endured nineteen hours of labor. She went through excruciating pain and at one point begged for the epidural that never came. I have often joked that if I witnessed the end of her experience first, I would have immediately fainted.

Moments after our prize came into the world, Sue's gurney was wheeled out of the birthing room and back to her private suite. In those sparse seconds in the hall, I heard another future mom's interwoven tapestry of profanity, melded perfectly with agonized screams of uterine distress. It was at that precise second, (as if I needed more evidence), that I gained a better insight as to the astronomical hurt level involved in bearing a child...and how that pain is dealt with by different people. Either way, I concede that none of the following examples of pain could possibly come close to the rigors of motherhood.

In the eighties, for three years, my business sponsored a Casino League softball team. I recall only one noteworthy injury.

Unfortunately, it is human nature to laugh at the misfortunes of others. Think about it, slapstick comedy is founded on this principal, (slipping on a banana peel, exploding cigars or the ever-popular knee in the groin, are the ultimate in this type of humor).

So I confess to laughing when our catcher broke his pinkie in a home plate collision. Mind you, this was NOT a compound fracture...nobody will ever compare this incident with the tragedy that ended NFL quarterback Joe Theismann's career...in fact, I was certain my poor little insurance liability only suffered a sprain.

From the way my big and burly catcher sounded, you'd think this galoot had a deep, paper cut under a finger nail from a razor blade. So that's why, I, like many of his teammates found his reaction (hopping around and screaming like a twelve-year old girl), to be funny.

I rushed him to the hospital. On the way, I had to hide my smirk and come-off as supportive as this damaged soul whined and cursed. The situation worsened (for me) in the ER because I was stuck by his side...and had to watch him maintain a vice-grip on his right wrist as he moaned and groaned for an hour.

It was difficult for me ignore his repeated whimpering of, "It's broke, help me, I know it's broke." In the beginning, I thought he was just "screaming" out for attention but after a while, I interrupted his fixation, caved-in and re-examined his finger.

I guess we all have different thresholds of pain. Even though he came off like a tough-guy in the past, you can never understand what someone is feeling internally. I patted his shoulder and conceded, "Yeah, maybe it's broke," when I remembered the paradox of a body-builder from my youth who was afraid of heights.

I went to the receptionist to try to hurry our wait along. When I was returning to my seat, I found our exactly how much intestinal fortitude my disabled buddy had.

Two nice-looking girls in short-shorts came in. When they passed, neither of them looked as if they were in disrepair, so I assumed they were visiting. The taller one was wearing a men's Everlast, boxer tank-top...which was trendy at that time. This fashion statement featured an exaggerated arm hole that was cut low into both sides of the shirt. It also had a more narrow than usual strip of fabric at the breast. What made this "look" more unique was that she wasn't wearing a bra. While the smaller girl filled out forms, Ms. Everlast sat quite comfortably in her modesty, as one, if not both of her boobs were alternately, fully exposed.

This was serious business...there was nothing slapstick about it. That's why my wounded warrior like everyone else in the room, (including me), quietly gawked at her. The next time my catcher griped about his affliction was when the view of the bosomy free-show became blocked by an unprofessional precession of health care employees (both male and female) who came out of the back-of-the-house to parade through the lobby, to check her out.

When the novelty of the girl wore thin, my catcher's dismay returned as a low muttering. If I still had lingering doubts about the legitimacy of his "unbearable" pain, that all ended when two men burst through the ER's doorway. They were dragging in a third man with what looked like a metal spike sticking out of his bloody face.

In the split second they hurried by, my player and I caught a quick, grisly glimpse of the victim. We overheard the men explain to the receptionist that a screwdriver snapped and the broken shaft stuck in this poor bastard's eye. Without filling out paperwork, they were ushered right in...and Mr. Broken Pinkie never uttered another word.

When I dealt craps at Hotel Fremont in Las Vegas (February 1980), my crew was talking about pain while standing dead. A fellow dealer, (Captain Johnny), told us a gut-wrenching story, (he hated being called Johnny and didn't like any references to his army rank. But we called him that because...for someone who saw as much active combat in Vietnam as he claimed, he couldn't make the simplest decision...and far worse, was afraid solicit tips from the players).

We were all expecting to hear of physical or mental tribulation at the hands of the enemy. Instead, he said his platoon was surrounded by the Vietcong and cut off for a week. Supplies were being air-lifted in but instead of clean water, the only drinks were cans of Coca-Cola. He said that after three days, he developed incredible pain in his side. The medic gave him pain killers. But he was still so bad off that he was forced to temporarily relinquish his command because he was reduced to writhing in his foxhole, for the next three days. Then Captain Johnny explained that; like peeing rusty razor blades, he passed a kidney stone...the size of a cigarette filter. When I heard that, with my eyes open, everything went black. If my supervisor wasn't there to prop me up, I would have gone down.

Johnny's experience in no way helped me get through my kidney stones. Seven years ago after an hour of sleep, I woke up with an awful pain in my side. I couldn't lay, sit or stand. For five hours, I tried everything I could think of. My wife wasn't home so I waited until my son woke, to let him know I was going to the hospital.

My three days there were spent waiting for me to pass the stone. Rather than use a laser and annihilate it, the more cost effective policy for the hospital was to wait and see if I naturally passed it.

Even with the pain killers, the image of a stone the size of a cigarette filter getting passed was tormenting. On the second day, the genius doctor told me that the x-rays showed that the kidney stone was obstructed. He said, "Tomorrow, I'm going in."

I was lulled into thinking that I didn't need my meds. At 3:00AM, I woke up in excruciating pain. I called for the night nurse but nobody came. Suddenly, the only two bites of the first solid food I had eaten there erupted up from my stomach. In a panic, I ripped off all my feeder tubes but my mad dash for the restroom came up short. The orderlies were scrubbing the blood soaked walls and disinfecting the remnants of my tuna sandwich off floor for an hour.

In January 1987, I was demonstrating a craps technique to a casino class. Suddenly like a bolt of lightning, I felt a deep stabbing sensation in my back. My legs felt a numb and I was helped to a chair as the agony increased. There was no sign of relief. I was crying buckets of tears during the comedy of errors when I was loaded into a car.

At the Atlantic City Medical Center, I was told I was lucky to only have a MILD strain of my lower lumbar...and released. My wife alone took me home. This "mild" strain cost me a half hour of my life...just getting out of the car, wobbling a few steps to a staircase, up one flight, down an exterior forty-foot corridor and another twenty feet into our apartment's bedroom.

I was thinking; just kill me, as I struggled to find a comfortable position (on my side). Sue tucked me in bed and ran out to fill the pain management and muscle relaxant prescription. While she was gone there was a knock on the door. I could not get up (maybe, if there was a fire I could). Plus, it was too far to yell; who is it? Ten minutes later the telephone rang. The phone was out of reach...I let it ring. After about thirty rings, I inched out of my comfort zone and re-lived the intense pain. When I picked up, it was Sue, (that was her at the door and she had to drive back to a convenience store to call).

She told me that in the confusion, she took a set of car keys without an apartment key. Without help, I was forced to crawl to open the door. I spent the next nine days in bed. Sue came home to spend her lunch hour with me and empty bed pans.

The first day on my feet, I woke-up to a twenty-four inch blizzard. I wasn't supposed to go out but poor Sue was using a kitchen trash can to scoop away snow from our cars. Stripped of all my testosterone, the feeling of uselessness overpowered me. Until a heroic student from the school (Robert Francis) who lived in our complex, organized the tenants to work as a team...and clear the roads and free-up cars.

To add insult to injury, my first morning back to work was a sunny but frigid ten degrees. The highway was clear but along the way, I got a flat. Few good Samaritans perform their magic when it's that cold. So I hung a white rag on the radio aerial and waited.

Just shivering from the cold was torturing my back but I had to do something. I soon found out that I was "stuck" in more ways than one. First, I was determined to put myself back in the hospital and stupidly decided to fix my own flat. Then I found out that even I couldn't sabotage my lower lumbar because the jack was "stuck," frozen to the wall of my trunk.

Mr. Lucky was right. When I look back at my worst experiences, I think I should consider myself blessed. Of course the pain of the past is a moot point until something new comes up. Yes I got struck again last week with the granddaddy of all toothaches.

It started while I was on vacation last Friday. I figured the pain would go away but it became more acute. During the day I survived on aspirin. That night the jack hammering throb in my tooth expanded up the wall of my outer gum to the roof of my mouth and down throughout my lower jaw. I got practically zero sleep.

On Sunday my cheek was so swollen that I looked like a right-handed squirrel. I bought Ora-Gel. Are you kidding? It did NOTHING! One application useless... ten applications, still nothing! What a waste of hope, time, energy and ten bucks. In the furthest corner of our utility closet, I found the tiniest relief in the form of expired pain killers. They helped give me three hours of choppy sleep.

Oops! In the shuffle, I forgot I had jury duty on Monday. Everyone I spoke to asked if I was sick. I held my jaw for eight-hours, got through that boring ordeal and wasn't picked. I went to bed at midnight full of expired pills and woke up just after 5:00AM. At exactly 9:01AM, I called my dentist. The joke was on me, Tuesdays were the only day of week they didn't open until eleven.

I was diagnosed with an abscessed gum from a disintegrating crown. I was given antibiotics and sent home. I'm okay now. The area will be re-evaluated in August. My dentist said that the infection will return if I don't have it properly treated. Trust me, there's no way I would allow that to happen twice...if I can help it. My two options will be surgery or getting what's left of the tooth yanked. Either way, I'm NOT going through that again.

More importantly, I hope my readers can't relate to any of this. But pain is a reality. So I hope all the future moms in my audience have mild labors and for everyone else...when it seems you can't bear another second of agony, I hope the right person for your taste appears in a most distracting level of undress.

HE USED TO BE A BIG SHOT.

2011-07-11T00:43:00.013-05:00

I just saw a re-run of TV's, "LAW AND ORDER." "LAW & ORDER," WAS A POLICE/COURTROOM DRAMA SET IN NEW YORK CITY. ITS 456 EPISODE RUN LASTED FROM 1990-2010.

While watching, like radar, the little antennae in my head rose up when the detectives made a point to go to the library for information to help investigate their case.

Something didn't set right with me. Being a member of the, "JUNIOR SHERLOCK HOLMES CLUB," to satisfy my need to know, I pressed the red, candy-like "SELECT/OK," button on my remote. In a split second, I discovered that the show was produced in 1994. 1994? Wasn't that yesterday? Are you kidding me, New York City detectives didn't have access to the Internet in 1994...astounding!
IT'S TOO BAD THAT SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE'S SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS A FICTIONAL CHARACTER BECAUSE WITH HIS MIND AND THE INTERNET AT HIS DISPOSAL, NOBODY WOULD HAVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH ANYTHING !

When you consider what advancements are available today, I hate to admit it but I'm still technologically challenged and intimidated. Why, just last night, the fragments of my poker buddies were hanging out. Somebody mentioned a funny segment from an old TV show I never heard of. While he struggled to put the routine's exact wording together, someone else quietly pulled out their Android. In seconds, we all saw this bit, on his phone. Baffling and amazing...isn't it.

I'm baffled and amazed because in my generation (TV offered channels 2-13 only and the concept of movie rentals was as ridiculous as having Big Foot as a next door neighbor). That meant, if you missed something on TV, your chance to see it when it was still relevant to you, was nearly impossible.

I remember something like that happening to me as a teenager. SLW and some other friends were telling me about the 1939 movie, "THE ROARING TWENTIES." I was jealous how they laughed when quoting Cagney and Bogart. Due to the technology limitations of the time, I felt left out and wouldn't see that classic for years.

DOMINATED BY A RICH CAST, THIS RETROSPECTIVE, PSEUDO-DOCUMENTARY DIDN'T QUITE MAKE IT ONTO AFI's TOP-TEN GANGSTER MOVIES LIST, BUT IT MADE MINE.

The theme of the movie, set against the Prohibition-era of the 1920's, is that life has its ups and downs. This stark point is made clear by Cagney's character, (the former good, bad guy who is now down on his luck). On Christmas Eve, after killing the bad, bad guy (Bogart), he is chased by an insignificant henchman and gunned-down, on a snowy street. At a church, with his last bit of strength, he struggles up a few cement steps. Halfway up, he stumbles down a few steps, collapses and dies.

His unrequited girlfriend and the beat-cop get to the body simultaneously. She says, "He's dead." The cop asks, "Well, who is this guy?" She says, "This is Eddie Bartlett." He says, "Well, how're you hooked up with him?" She says, "I could never figure that out." The cop says, "What was his business?" And the girl says, "He used to be a big shot."

When I look back at my own tumultuous twenties, I see some parallels. Without a care in the world, I graduated Brooklyn College but found no work. In the movie, WWI ended and the heroic main characters returned from the war to find themselves unemployed.

In my mid-twenties, I spent five years in Vegas and tip-toed around all forms of temptation on the road to beating the odds and doing well. In the movie, Cagney and his friends become "Boot-Leggers."

As my twenties were ending, while at the top, with my horizons widening, I gambled by coming back east. I re-united with my family, got married and started a business. In 1929, the stock market crash signaled the beginning of the Great Depression.

I felt immortal. My life was going quite swimmingly throughout my thirties. To paraphrase Billy Crystal; It isn't important how you feel, it's how you look...and I looked marvelous. I didn't have a line in my face, I had no gray hair, high blood pressure happened to other people and I didn't need glasses.

Then as if turning off a light switch, when I hit forty, everything changed. This harsh reality became apparent when my wife, infant son and I were on vacation in San Diego, (December 1995). While in paradise, I noticed my complexion become severely dry. The skin on the bottom of my feet cracked and my itchy arms and legs were suddenly hairless. I rationalized the problem stemming from the foreign environment. It was an easy choice to ignore my difficulties because all the little aches and pains I always had in the past, seemed to go-away on their own.

Unfortunately, the home field advantage didn't help. My problems worsened and I developed new, more acute symptoms. I could no longer remain in denial. I didn't research my suffering because I didn't have fingertip access to the information superhighway. So by the time March (1996) rolled around, I realized I was no longer a big shot. In fact, with my father's passing a year earlier, I quietly convinced myself that I was dying.

At that point, I was living here in New Jersey about twelve years and never had a reason to visit a doctor. So on the recommendation of a coworker, I made an appointment on the blind. He must have been a good doctor because his waiting room was crammed with men, women and children.

An hour later when I finally reached Oz, the doctor listened as I told him about my dry skin and hair loss. Then I added that I was too weak to shampoo my hair, brush my teeth or write a check without taking a rest. When I said my speech was affected by large pimples on my tongue, he cut me off. Then, like a clairvoyant, he rattled off, "Are you experiencing muscle spasms in your fingers, arms and legs? Are you extremely itchy? Are you unusually cold? Then as if if I was responding to faith-healer, I said, "Yes doctor, yes, yes..." He said, "Are you feeling depressed? Are you gaining weight?" "Yes, yes doctor!"

His snap (correct) diagnosis was an under-active thyroid. He painted a rosy picture, that with the proper medication, I could lead a perfectly normal life with my hypothyroidism. His course of action began with a low dosage prescription. It would be followed by bi-weekly blood tests and adjustments in my medication until the right dose was found.

My ensuing visits typically included an hour in the waiting room. Once I was brought in to the examining room, a nurse would take a blood sample and I'd have a brief consultation with the doctor...five minutes, tops!

The doctor and his support staff couldn't have been friendlier, more supportive or knowledgeable. The problem was the wait time. On my third visit, on the way out, I voiced my concern about the wait time to the receptionist. She said, "On Tuesday and Thursday, the doctor sees patients at night. If you're the first appointment at 7:00PM, you should be in and out."

When my Thursday night appointment rolled around, I was faced with postponing because my wife had an emergency away from home. Rather than put it off, I decided to take my twenty-two month old son Andrew with me. He was an unusually calm little guy and I figured I could keep him occupied for a few minutes.

To futher assure that I'd be taken right away, I purposely arrived at the doctor's office five minutes early. To my chagrin, there were seven patients ahead of me. To make matters worse, at night I didn't recognize any of the staff's faces. I got a harsh glare from the receptionist when I said, "I have the first appointment." She said, "So does everyone else."

I brought an arsenal of activities to distract my boy. I read his favorite book, sang silly songs and helped him play with his toys. After ten minutes, he started losing interest. He started toddling through the oblong waiting room. Most of the waiters smiled pleasantly but after fifteen more minutes, Andrew became more curious and vocal. We still had three folks ahead of me and people were losing their patience.

When a woman complained, a nurse who was a combination of Nurse Ratched and the Wicked Witch of the West whispered me the riot act. Before I could counter by saying I was a victim of circumstance or that I was told there would be no wait, the bitch put her finger to her lips and and said, "Shush." One of my symptoms was a shorter temper. But due to the situation, I was able to avoid going off on her.

It was forty minutes before that same nurse led Andrew and I into the examining room. I was getting into the blood sample seat when she said in a huffy tone, "What is the nature of this visit?" I was angry but with my son there I didn't lash out; you got my frickin' chart in front of you. Instead I said, "I'm here to give a blood sample." With a spiteful smirk she said, "We don't take blood at night."

I lost it. She screamed. I yelled back and in seconds the doctor came in to finally see me...as well as every member of the staff and several patients. The doctor said, "I'm sorry, but this behavior..." I cut him off, "Don't worry, you'll never see me again!" On our way out, I started to call the nurse some more unkind things when the doctor interrupted. That's when I interjected, "And you, don't know how to run an office!"

I went to another doctor and got straightened out. Sixteen years later, I still take my meds on time and my thyroid is an invisible factor in my life. Yeah, I got lines in my face, my hair is all gray, my blood pressure goes through the roof without my pills and I could never type this without my glasses. But I still look (and feel) marvelous. Maybe I'll get them to etch into my grave stone; HE WAS A BIG SHOT TILL THE END.

More importantly, you don't have to be a brainiac or well-versed in this automated age to know that; life has its ups and downs. That's why when you have a chance to, "go for it," without hurting anyone, you should. Because you never know if you'll have that opportunity again.

A BLESSING! GALLOWAY NJ, NOW HAS THE BEST FOOD IN TOWN

2011-07-04T00:43:00.014-05:00

In 500 BC, at a Chinese restaurant owner convention in Peking, keynote speaker Confucius said; To attain eternal transcendental bliss, it is far better to fill one's stomach and fulfill one's soul, at a Chinese restaurant...where other Asians eat.

Of course, down through the ages this orthodox stance has gained some flexibility.

Groucho Marx was the host of the, "YOU BET YOUR LIFE SHOW." He asked an Asian contestant, "Where are you from?" In a strong oriental accent the man said, "Jackson Mississippi." "Oh," said Groucho, "what do you do?" The man said, "I own a Chinese restaurant." Groucho looked puzzled and said, "Why would you open a Chinese restaurant in Mississippi?" The man said, "No competition."

The moral of the story is, no matter where you are from, people take going to a Chinese restaurant so seriously that it becomes a religious experience. I believe this to be true...for me, my family and much of the people where I grew up, (Brooklyn).

Like going to most houses of worship, we ate Chinese food on Sundays. In my neighborhood, (Canarsie), there were several places to choose from but Joy Teang on Rockaway Parkway was the one we flocked to.

CANARSIE'S ROCKAWAY PARKWAY IN 1976. IN THE BACKGROUND THIS MIGHT SEEM LIKE A VIEW OF THE WORLD TRADE CENTER FROM NINE STORIES UP. BUT IN REALITY, THE INNER SIGNIFICANCE IS THAT JOY TEANG WAS IN THE SECOND STRIP MALL ON THE LEFT.

The problem with Joy Teang was that everyone else flocked there too. Such pilgrimages caused long waits for a table. Therefore an exodus out of the neighborhood, of biblical proportion became typical. It became a search for the holy grail...a great Chinese restaurant with no wait.

BROOKLYN'S ADDICTION TO CHINESE FOOD WAS SO ACUTE THAT AN ENTERPRISING BUSINESSMAN TRANSFORMED A MR. SOFTEE TRUCK AND SUCCEEDED IN SELLING CHOW MEIN IN EDIBLE BOWLS, FOR MANY YEARS

In my youth, the preservation of a family's personal, cozy restaurant became as secretive as the Dead Sea Scrolls. When Crusaders found a worthwhile eatery that fit into their parochial parameters, they withheld this information even from friends and secondary relatives, lest the heavenly body would become an overrun hell.

Soon, it was considered an eleventh commandment to NOT spread the name of such a hot new restaurant. Like a pagan ritual, it got so bad that families threatened their kin with excommunication if they divulged the location of their last supper (of the week).

Like a nomadic tribe, my family criss-crossed our borough and auditioned many places. One was across from the WATCHTOWER newspaper building by the Brooklyn Bridge, another next to Prospect Park looked like a monastery and the one in Coney Island had a Hari Krishna waiter.

I must confess some of the restaurants proved to be false idols (food wasn't good), a couple were unwashed deities in need of redemption and still others were seemingly pure but suffered from the sin of long lines.

I HOPED OUR MISSION ENDED WITH THE RESTAURANT BY THE WATCHTOWER. IT WOULD HAVE PASSED WITH FLYING COLORS, EXCEPT FOR THE LONG LINE TO GET IN.

Around 1970, in the East New York section, (on Linden Boulevard across from Gershwin Junior High), we found spiritual oneness with the universe at a cathedral called, "THE HAPPY INN." Immediately, my Aunt Mary sensed that we found our utopia and asked my dad about it. Pop wasn't about to risk fire and brimstone. He patted her husband on the shoulder, admitted nothing and said, "Am I to be my brother's keeper?"

Until recently, I lit a candle of praise every Sunday, in honor of this pagoda of gastric delights. You see, we had gotten in on the ground floor and soon George the owner/manager became a father figure. Inside the door, he'd greet us at an altar-like rostrum and hand us his good book (the menu). In no time, we memorized each sacred passage and eventually, we were ready to chant our order before settling into our reserved pew.

For about five years, my family dined there 75% of all Sundays. We were such devoted parishioners that we had my sister's sweet sixteen there. George became a customer of my dad and the restaurant placed a quarter page ad in my football team's program. The only reason I converted and stopped eating there was, I got a driver's license.

Once I had my wheels, the sacrament of going anywhere in mass with my parents pretty much ended. That's when road trips with my friends into Manhattan's consecrated land known as Chinatown became enlightening.

At first, we sacrificed our time, energy and waistlines in places like the Pell Street Mandarin Inn, The Kambo Rice Shop, Lin's Garden and #8 Canal Street (I can't remember the name). But once we found Mecca in the form of Wo Hop, (17 Mott Street), breaking a fast in any other chop suey joint became sacrilege.

IN MY PHOTO ALBUM, I HAVE A PERSONAL SHRINE TO WO HOP. NO CONVERSATION ABOUT EXALTED CHINESE RESTAURANTS IS COMPLETE WITHOUT PLACING THEM NUMBER-ONE. TO PROVE IT, I ALSO HAVE A PRESENT-DAY PICTURE OF NOAH, WEARING A WO HOP TEE-SHIRT AS HE ADMITS ONLY ONE CHINESE RESTAURANT ONTO HIS ARK.

A few years later in 1979, I moved to Las Vegas. I was shocked and dismayed to find out what they called Chinese food. Along the way to seeing the light, three Chinese restaurant incidents in Vegas stand out.

When I first got to town, my initial baptism under fire was when I dealt at the worst job in town, the Slots-A-Fun Casino. I befriended a much older blackjack dealer named Jesse, (he was thirty-eight). Each night, he got picked up by Eve, his twenty-one year old, incredibly ugly, floozy of a girlfriend.

One day, Jesse didn't show up for work. At the end of my shift, he and Eve appeared at the time office. After he quit our serpent pit, he told me that he got hired at a temple of atonement called the California Club. Jesse was all smiles when he said, "This is the gospel, my tip income is going to quadruple." Then he insisted on taking me to dinner to celebrate.

I didn't need to be prophetic to guess that the shithouse he took me to, (an open-air luncheonette with a Polynesian theme), would have the worst Chinese food. Instead of eating at a table, Jesse had us served at the horseshoe bar. He didn't mind the crappy food because he was sucking down God's blood in the form of double scotches.

Across the bar from us was a single girl about my age. Jesse could barely stand when he rose up and called out to her, "My friend here is alone, are you bi, gay or straight?" The only thing that shielded me from this grossly embarrassing moment was that the girl abandoned her plastic pineapple cocktail and walked out.

The following are excerpts from my short story, "FREDDY THE FINGER."

One year later, I was anointed with the divine privilege of becoming a Vegas Strip craps dealer, at the Stardust Casino. About a year into my service, I gave Freddy Cantor, (my sleeping supervisor), a heads-up. He called me a saint and reacted as though my wake-up call not only saved his job but his soul too. He wanted desperately to repay my kindness. But with different schedules it was difficult to get together especially when we added in his wife and my girlfriend (my wife Sue).

One day Freddy said, "You like lobster?" I said, "Yeah." "Well call your girl, I switched my days off and on Monday, me and Estelle are taking you guys to the Tillerman." He then jabbed one of his nine remaining fingers into my ribs and added, "And for you my savior, the sky's the limit."

An hour before our date with destiny, Freddy called. From his tone, I expected him to renege on our arrangement. I didn't care because he had a reputation as a bullshit artist. If anything, I was shocked that he had carried out the charade this long.

Surprisingly, rather than canceling, he changed the plans by groaning, "Estelle isn't in the mood for seafood. How about we meet for chinks at Jung Jie's?" Before I could speak he added, "They make a lobster Cantonese, to die for."

While getting acquainted at Jung Jie's bar, Sue and I discovered that Estelle, a heavyset six-footer, was an over bearing, obnoxious woman who never stopped yammering on about her self. She was a real estate agent and even wore her gold, Century 21 blazer to prove it. She rattled off some of her celebrity clients, the hefty commissions she had earned and handed us her business card. Then she suggested that we come to her office and see all her awards.

Freddy stared at this female Satan, like she was a Goddess as Sue and I rolled our eyes in despair. But Estelle out did herself by asking us a series of personal questions. Afterwards she said, "Now we can talk turkey. Then I'll put you kids into your dream house." While I choked on my Budweiser, I wanted to scream but big mouth Estelle stole my thunder by calling across the room to Cristian, the maitre d. While he escorted our congregation to a table, Estelle spoke in fluent Mandarin with him.

On the way, even the Buddha statue was annoyed by Estelle. When she passed, I saw it crying tears of blood. After we were seated, we weren't given menus. When Estelle saw the lost look on my face she said, "I took the liberty of ordering for the table." She had no idea that I was a connoisseur of fine Chinese food and that Sue was an advanced aficionado.

I don't think our prayers were answered because the meal she selected for us was the poor plate special. We each got plain won ton soup. The appetizer was a tasteless yet greasy spring roll. Then to cap off this "extravaganza," we were all served roast pork egg fu yung with white rice. I kept quiet through the soup and appetizer but when I saw the cheapest, most common entree on the menu, I had enough of this inquisition and faked stomach cramps.

I made some flimsy excuses and got up. Sue picked up on my lead and said, "He won't 'go' anywhere but in our apartment. He calls it the home field advantage." Estelle said, "You're over wrought with excitement Bubie, you ate too fast. Take a rest, you'll have some dessert..."

We said our good-byes and slithered away. Estelle blared, "I understand, I'm lactose intolerant..." She was still blithering when we were three feet from the door. Then for everyone in the restaurant to hear, she boomed out her name, her company's name, work address and phone number. We were entering the vestibule and I could still hear her say, "Call me next week so we can get together...and don't worry, I got the check."

My last Chinese restaurant incident in Vegas happened when I dealt at the Golden Nugget. The casino had just finished its re-modeling metamorphosis from a saw dust joint to a global destination and every new thing in there was state-of-the-art.

On the opening night for the Chinese restaurant "LILY LANGTRY'S," Sue and my close friend Ciro, met me after work. We planned on going to a movie so I suggested squeezing in the much ballyhooed, Lily Langtry's. Unfortunately the line was long. Even worse, we soon discovered that they were only seating people with reservations. When we approached the coveted head of the line, the hostess escorted the folks ahead of us and left the log book unguarded.

I scanned the names upside down but couldn't find a party of three. I had to think fast as she returned and said, "Do you have reservations?" I said, "Yes, Bishop for four." The hostess said, "Where's the rest of your party?" I motioned towards Ciro and whispered, "His girl is upstairs." Then I wrinkled my nose and added, "The poor little angel's unwell, maybe she'll join us later."

I don't know if the Bishops ever showed up but the hostess stared me down like she wanted me to repent every time she passed. Oh yeah, we made our movie, but we served penance for my transgression, the sanitized food sucked.

The next thing I know, I'm in South Jersey for the next twenty-seven years. In that time, Sue and I experimented with dull sit-down Chinese restaurants, checked into the Chinese buffet fad and even strayed to sushi bars and Japanese hibachi steak houses. But in the end, we settled on, "HOON KING," a local take-out place.

In the early years, I remember the owner's precocious eight-year old daughter, (the only one in the organization who spoke decent English), standing on a stool to take orders while blowing bubble gum bubbles.

That little girl worked there through college and graduate school. Years later, she married and moved away. At that point, the Caucasian delivery driver became their front man. It should be noted that due to my recent reliance on the Atkins Diet, I have shied away from ordering-in Chinese...but my family does, on my days off. To show their dogmatic adherence to ordering from Hoon King, I was once walking my dog in the park and came across the deliveryman. He shocked me by petting Roxy and knowing her name.

Unfortunately, the walls of Jericho came falling down this past winter. That's when I went into Hoon King to pick up my own food. It was like a, "TWILIGHT ZONE," episode. I didn't recognize any of the Asian staff and the counterman was a different Caucasian. The people being different shouldn't have mattered but I had a cross to bear when the plague they called food nearly poisoned us. Thus, we were confronted with a new dilemma, finding a replacement.

In the past few years, a chain of take-out restaurants called, "THE BEST FOOD IN TOWN," has popped up in several nearby communities. The hubris of the name made me automatically discount trying them out. We held out a long time and lived without Chinese food for more than forty days and forty nights.

THE NAME DID NOT SERVE AS A LURE. I THINK I WOULD HAVE MORE READILY EATEN AT "RABBI'S CHINESE FOOD" OR "TELE-EVANGELIST'S TAKE-OUT. "

In March of this year, we were Jones-ing for take-out when our kitchen was being re-modeled. The workmen were Vietnamese and each working day at 1:00PM, they left our Garden of Eden for ninety minutes. At one point Sue asked them where they went and the foreman said, "Lunch." Sue said, "What do you like, pizza, fried chicken, burgers...?" The leader said, "We only go to one place, the best food in town."

I had faith in what Confucius said about getting full and fulfilled in a Chinese restaurant where Asians eat. When we tried The Best Food In Town, it was indeed a miracle and we were all re-born.

MY SON, THE POLITICIAN

2011-06-27T00:43:00.017-05:00

My son Andrew was one of three young men selected by his school to participate in the 66th annual, "BOYS STATE," program.

The mission statement of the New Jersey chapter of the, "BOYS STATE PROGRAM," is: To develop good citizens in the USA by inspiring the youth of NJ to take a more active and intelligent interest in the operation of our state and nation and in the privileges and responsibility of citizenship and to understand the sacrifices made by our veterans to preserve our nation and way of life.

Sponsored by the AMERICAN LEGION, this "week that shapes the future," is present in every state. This year, here in New Jersey, approximately 900 male high school juniors, (there is also a mirror program for girls), were sent by bus from every corner of the state, to Rider University in Lawrenceville, (June 19th through June 24, 2011).

THE AMERICAN LEGION IS AN ORGANIZATION OF U. S. MILITARY VETERANS CREATED TO BENEFIT THOSE VETERANS WHO SERVED DURING WARTIME. FOUNDED IN 1919 AND HEADQUARTERED IN INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA, THE LEGION HAS NEARLY 3 MILLION MEMBERS, IN OVER 14,000 WORLDWIDE POSTS. WHILE MOST INDIVIDUALS ASSOCIATE THE LEGION FOR ORGANIZING LOCAL, COMMEMORATIVE EVENTS, THEIR PRIMARY OBJECTIVE IS LOBBYING ON BEHALF OF THE INTERESTS OF VETERANS, SPECIFICALLY IN THE AREAS OF PENSIONS AND MEDICAL ASSISTANCE.

Boys State is largely a group of seminars. On the most basic level, the delegates learn the meaning and reasoning behind the idea of political parties. Then the delegates are divided into two mock parties (Federalists and Nationalists) and into sixteen, fifty-six member cities. Within their cities, (named for US presidents), the parties nominate individuals to vie for office. On an advanced level, the delegates see how the bi-partisan political process works and how different platforms are promoted and maintained by rival parties.

The ultimate goal of this exercise, is to take today's vital issues and intertwine them into the fabric of these simulated communities. Then various officers, such as; county freeholders, city councilman, mayor, all the way up to governor, are elected. Even bigger than the political systems, the boys learn the depth and complexities of every day life, the realities of problem solving and the leadership skills necessary when they can't please everyone.

GET OUT YOUR MAGNIFYING GLASSES, ANDREW (HAND ON CHIN), IS DIRECTLY IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS PICTURE.

The essence of Boys State is not shared by everyone who is selected. Although a huge list of prominent people have graduated from this program such as; former President Bill Clinton, New Jersey Governor Chris Christie, current New Jersey Senator Robert Menendez and even musician Jon Bon Jovi, Boys State is not for everyone. For various reasons, the attrition rate this year was about 5%.

Part of the attrition rate is evident in Andrew's overwhelmingly negative texts during the first two days. He has already been away from home and had a positive experience, so this was not a case of home sickness. My guess is, he's more of the creative type so the heart of his anxiety was the dry subject matter. More over, the American Legion's influence dictated a pseudo-military environment. Many of the boys likened this aspect to boot camp or to the extreme, prison life.

Andrew's tidbits of despair made me think of Allan Sherman's most famous (1962), song parody, "HELLO MUDDAH, HELLO FADDAH."

ALLAN SHERMAN (1924-1973) WAS A COMEDY WRITER, TV PRODUCER AND SONG PARODIST. HE WROTE AND PERFORMED 11 SONG PARODY RECORD ALBUMS AND TWO MORE WERE PRODUCED POSTHUMOUSLY. HIS BEST WORK WAS, "MY SON, THE FOLK SINGER." OTHERS ALBUMS INCLUDE: "MY SON, THE CELEBRITY," "MY SON, THE NUT," "MY SON, THE GREATEST," AND "MY SON, THE BOX."

The theme of, "HELLO MUDDAH, HELLO FADDAH," is a kid writing a letter from camp (Granada) and spelling out how much he hates being there.

CLICK ON THIS LINK TO HEAR, "HELLO MUDDAH, HELLO FADDAH." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2Hx_X84LC0

The song, a parody of Amilcare Ponchielli's 1876 classic, "DANCE OF THE HOURS," was so popular that the single made the TOP-40 and made Allan Sherman a household name. Also, the record album it appeared on, "My Son, The Folk Singer," became the fastest seller up to that time.

IF YOU'RE TOO YOUNG TO REMEMBER ALLAN SHERMAN, "WEIRD AL," YANKOVIC IS TODAY'S SONG PARODY KING.

The similarities to Andrew's plight and Allan Sherman's depiction of life at Camp Granada are great. Many of the delegates that Andrew was exposed to didn't like the military regimentation. Andrew drew a comparison to the novel, "HOLES," and felt like he was doing "hard time." Plus, the host school, Rider University was a dump. The dormitory room he shared with one other delegate was a tiny, generic, prison cell-like compartment.

Another terrible part of the week was that Rider saved on energy costs by NOT providing air-conditioning. Therefore it was recommended that the delegates bring a fan. So unless you had inside information and brought an industrial strength sized one, your kid boiled every night. This discomfort led to Andrew's gross sleep deprivation.

Andrew also complained about the food other than breakfast. To augment the poor eats, the wide variety of vending machines became a moot point because nearly everyone brought "useless" ten and twenty dollar bills. Even worse for my boy, the bulk of the sparse, free time was dominated by competitive sports...which my scion doesn't cotton to.

His complaints were similar to lyrics of, "HELLO MUDDAH, HELLO FADDAH." And the punchline of the song was that it rained the whole first day. But once the sun came out and everyone started doing fun things, the song ends with, "Kindly disregard this letter."

Slowly, the Boys State strict regulations slackened and Andrew's negativity subsided after a couple of days. Then by persevering through that suffering, he found his niche in the work and discovered a higher purpose, (he was elected Councilman).

On the last day, "BOYS STATE," holds a family barbecue and graduation ceremony. My wife Sue and I drove up. We were all re-united at 11:00AM. My first question to Andrew was, "On a one to ten scale, how would you rate your total experience?" He said, "I'd give it a seven but I would absolutely recommend it to other people."

He also added that one of the highlights was a visit from New Jersey Governor Chris Christie who gave a rousing, "Rah-Rah," speech. I told Andrew even though I voted for Christie, I felt mislead by his campaign promises and think he isn't serving the common worker. But I added that it's a testimony how special the Boys State program is that the governor would find time in his schedule to address you.

A little later, I saw the militaristic presence in action. Also I saw the run down condition of Rider University, specifically his room, (that's one less college we have to consider sending him to). As we were moving his belongings to the car, I congratulated Andrew on his character. I told him that when I was seventeen that I couldn't have handled the concept of honor, responsibility and discipline rammed down my throat. I told him that I wasn't proud of it but I would have been part the attrition statistic and hitchhiked home after two hours.

The barbecue took place in the quadrangle. We got lucky because it was a humid but cloudy, 84 degree day. When the sun poked out from the overcast, it was uncomfortably warm. We were done eating before one. The three-hour graduation ceremony was going to take place in the gymnasium. Thirty minutes early, more out of boredom, we gravitated over there.

We found an abundance of seats. At first, it was quite warm in there but as the bleachers filled to capacity, it became stifling. In the interim, a band comprised of delegates performed everything from Sousa marches to Lady Ga Ga material. After some announcements regarding the American Legion were made as well as emotional citations to each branch of the military, an honor guard led by two bag-pipers opened the event. Through much pomp and circumstance each of the pretend cities and its volunteer counseling staff were introduced. The next three hours was a montage of music, speeches and awards.

The guest speaker was Boys State alum, Democratic New Jersey Senator Robert Menendez. The best part of his speech was that he never dreamed that he could go from such a humble upbringing to become one of a hundred U.S. Senators. And while his long shot of success is rare, the point he made so well was that every Boys State delegate can't imagine the countless possibilities of what he can and will accomplish if they know the issues and get involved.

The best service award acceptance speech was the retired military officer who barked like a drill sergeant only two words to the adulation of the delegates and appreciation of the audience, "BOYS STATE!"

For the most part, the rest of the long festivities were dull and we thought we were going to sweat to death. Even when there were moments of humor, the inside jokes went over the parent's heads. We took solace in that we could see Andrew in the crowd. That's when Sue got the idea to send Andrew sarcastic texts. It was fun to watch his response.

At about 3:30, we were teased into thinking that it was over when a mass of sixty flag bearers entered the rear of the gym. Then a gentleman in uniform proceeded to describe in detail, thirty flags used by the original colonists, during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812.

This sequence which included a procession of these flags together with the contemporary stars and stripes came to a beautiful, patriotic and inspiring conclusion. I may not be a joiner by nature and I would never dictate to others what to do but the sentiment was clear, that all those volunteers want to perpetuate the appreciation for our fallen soldiers and the sacrifices of their families. Not just on holidays like, Veterans Day, Independence Day and Memorial Day...but every day. Because the harsh reality of today is, what might be abstract risk to most, are the real lives of American sons and daughters in far off places like Iraq and Afghanistan.

Afterwards, the warm, fresh air outside the gym revitalized me. While Andrew ran off to receive his diploma, I took the time to thank the American Legion hierarchy. In the distance, a tremendous black rain cloud dominated the western sky as Sue excused herself to wait on the line for the lady's room. During this time, I realized that it was remote that Andrew would ever become a statesman. But I marveled at the idea that he had an enriching experience and strengthened his confidence. More than ever, I felt he could become anything he put his mind to. I also pondered that we live in the greatest country on earth and thank goodness our freedom and way of life has been preserved, maintained and improved for 235 years.

When Sue came back out, she called Andrew to see what was taking so long. I took the opportunity to go to the restroom. Andrew hadn't returned but the giant black cloud was almost over head when I came out.

For a solid five minutes, you could count the individual raindrops. Then a drizzle began to intensify. The skies opened up when lallygagging Andrew appeared on the horizon. We ran about two city blocks to the car. Some moron with Rhode Island license plates almost hit Sue as the torrents caused drivers to use the hyper-speed windshield wipers.

We looked like drowned rats when we got in the car. But the situation did NOT improve. Hundreds of cars were leaving at the same time. I drove onto one of the six lines of cars headed to the one exit. The bottleneck effect of the traffic, in this storm of biblical proportion was so bad that we didn't move an inch for thirty minutes. When we started crawling foot by foot, I was shocked that there were only two security guards actually "directing" traffic.

We still had fifteen minutes of waiting after the rain stopped. And just like Allan Sherman's Camp Granada incident, we were happy to out of hated Rider College and on our sunshine-filled two-hour ride home.