CONNECT THE DOTS AT WALMART

Shopping at Wal-Mart is like making a pact with the devil.

IN 1962, SAM WALTON ESTABLISHED WAL-MART IN BENTONVILLE ARKANSAS.  TODAY, IT IS THE KING OF DISCOUNT DEPARTMENT STORES WITH 11,088 WORLDWIDE LOCATIONS, (AS OF APRIL 2014). THE CONTEMPORARY PHOTO (above) IS THE ORIGINAL FIVE AND DIME ...THAT GREW TO BE AN EMPIRE. 

I've heard it said that if Wal-Mart has what you want, you won't find a better price, anywhere!

A GREAT MANY PEOPLE FAULT WAL-MART FOR PUTTING MOM AND POP STORES OUT OF BUSINESS.  SO THERE'S ALWAYS A TWINGE OF GUILT WHEN A FOOLHARDY VENTURER, TRADES THEIR SOUL FOR SUCH DIABOLICAL FAVORS LIKE YOUTH, KNOWLEDGE, WEALTH OR POWER.   IN MY CASE, I'M SUCH A SMALL-TIME THINKER THAT I'M ONLY IN IT TO SAVE 19c ON A TUBE OF PREPARATION H.

One area in Wal-Mart that I've learned (the hard way) to steer clear of...is their automotive department.  The one exception is, you can't go wrong with a simple lube job.

REAL MEN LUBE THEIR OWN CARS.  I GUESS THAT MEANS I'M NOT A MAN.  INSTEAD I TRUST MY CAR TO A STAFF OF UNMOTIVATED, OVER-WORKED, UNDER PAID "PROFESSIONALS."

Last week, the "Service Soon" icon lit-up on my dashboard.  This is the friendly signal to lubricate my engine. I've had a long and successful history of Wal-Mart grease and oil jobs while shopping. When my son Andrew was young, we'd kill time (an hour or two), by going to McDonald's, or IHOP or Dunkin' Donuts.

DUNKIN' DONUTS WAS FOUNDED IN QUINCY MASSACHUSETTS (1950).  TODAY THIS GLOBAL DONUT SHOP AND COFFEEHOUSE HAS OVER 11,000 LOCATIONS...SUDDENLY I'M IN THE MOOD FOR A CHOCOLATE HONEY GLAZE...BETTER MAKE IT SIX.

Yesterday, to beat the crowds, I got to Wal-Mart at 9:20AM.  The cleverness of my plan was upended by going on a Saturday.  My first hint of a catastrophe was the indifferent counterman.  Usually these representatives are hospitable and give straight answers to common questions.  But not this dude.  Instead of a wait time estimate he scoffed, "There's five cars ahead of you and two others being worked on now."  I said, "So, an hour?"  He shrugged, "We only got two guys doing lubes...might be a lot longer."  I did the math in my head and liberally came up with a ninety-minute ceiling.  I would be acutely wrong.

I did a frosty ninety-minute power walk through the neighborhood. I returned, washed-up, had a conversation with a fellow shopper who works at the same place as me.  I was back at the auto department service desk at 11:15AM.  My car was not done, nor was it getting worked on.  I didn't interpret the counterman being sarcastic but the "consultation" of being NEXT, (as he phrased it), didn't do me much good.

Over the next forty minutes, I did eighty-three laps around the store.  I had my blood pressure tested and was so bored I did it again a half hour later, (SHOCKER, it was higher the second time).

Luckily I found an abandoned NEW YORK DAILY NEWS.  I read it cover-to-cover did the sudoku puzzle, the jumble and the crytoquote.

EVEN WITHOUT WARP FACTOR FOUR, I COULD HAVE FLOWN TO THE PLANET RIGEL-NINE AND BACK WHILE WAITING FOR MY CAR TO BE DONE.

At noon, I couldn't believe my eyes, my car was getting driven to the work bay. I took the opportunity to do another few laps around the store.  I thought I had covered every inch of the place but this time I discovered that avocados were on sale, two for a dollar-five.

I ALWAYS THOUGHT "AVOCADO" WAS A REFRIGERATOR COLOR.  I WAS WELL INTO MY TWENTIES WHEN I REALIZED IT WAS FOOD...CLASSIFIED AS; BEING IN THE FLOWERING PLANT FAMILY, NATIVE TO MEXICO AND CENTRAL AMERICA.

The auto center waiting room has a window that looks out into the garage.  At 12:30, I couldn't help but notice that my car's hood was up...but nobody was working on it. Unfortunately there was no one to complain to.  Several minutes went by so I went out and asked a guy installing tires (ten feet from my car), "Who's lubing my car?" He said, "I dunno where he is.  I'm busy doin' this."

Inside, I asked a worker.  He said, "I'm working on your car."  I controlled myself from saying, "Duh!" He continued, "It'll take ten minutes to finish draining the old oil."

My next lap around the store, I found something else that I must have missed on all my other orbits.  A smeared trail of disgusting smelling excrement.  Some yuckle-puck must have stepped in dog crap, (or if they were a real loser, stepped in their own shit) and daubed a bit with every step they took through the housewares section.

This might sound crazy but this wasn't the first time I encountered a set of dung tracks.  In fourth grade, a kid in my class, MARKT  raised his hand, (bear in mind, he was nine-years old). His actual quote to our witch of a teacher was, "I smell doody."  That statement is a golden (brown) moment in my life and has been indelibly etched in my memory for fifty years.

Our horror story of a educator  lived up to her heinous reputation.  First she told everyone to look at the bottom of their shoes.  Well, we all know the old adage, "He who smelt it, dealt it."  Poor MARKT discovered that a blob of shit was wedged into the space between the heel and sole of his Oxford.

Next that spiteful bitch could have called for a custodian who would have done a quick and thorough job complete with disinfectant.  But NOOOOOO!  Miss Wicked told MARKT to get paper towels. Oh the humiliation! The poor bastard with everyone staring and snickering, got on his hands and knees and wiped each fecal dab in the classroom. When he thought the degradation was done, he was ordered into the hall to continue the job down the corridor. Too bad for him, the Pooper Scooper wouldn't be invented for decades.

THE LAST TIME MARKT CAME TO MIND WAS WHEN I SIGNED-UP FOR FACEBOOK.  I LEARNED THAT HE WAS SELLING LIFE INSURANCE ON LONG ISLAND.  BUT I WAS CHICKEN AND NEVER REACHED OUT.  WE NEVER HAD A SINGLE DEFINING MOMENT AND HE MOVED FROM THE NEIGHBORHOOD IN JUNIOR HIGH, AROUND 1967.  I WOULDN'T BLAME HIM IF HE HAD NO IDEA WHO I WAS.  STILL, DEEP DOWN, I WONDER IF HE HAD TROUBLE RELATING TO WOMEN OR WAS OTHERWISE ADVERSELY AFFECTED FROM "DISCONNECTING" THE DOTS.

The rest of my ridiculous wait at Wal-Mart was made better by my memories of MARKT.  At 1:00PM, I looked out the window and the mechanic waved me to him.  I thought; Jeez, here we go again, as I expected some obscure glitch like...due to circumstances beyond my control, he couldn't finish the job.  Luckily, that wasn't the case but the stupid, moronic idiot did call me out there to tell me, "Your car is ready, you can pay now." Which I would have done without hearing it directly from him.

Inside, there's seven customers ahead of me on line...with NO cashier.  I wish I was making this stuff up but the usual 15% embellishment factor does not figure into this equation.  Ten minutes went by until I finally advanced to the cash register.  Naturally, the rep couldn't find my paperwork.  He also couldn't access a duplicate of my work order because another associate was using the one computer to sell another customer tires.  But he had deserted his post and disappeared to be certain that four tires in that size were in stock.

I was shell-shocked when I limped out to my car at 1:15.  Despite being frustrated, hungry and tired, it felt good to accomplish my goal.  That is until I turned on the engine and the "Service Soon" light was still on.  There was no way I was going back in.  I'll read the car manual and turn the friggin' thing off myself.  Oopsies, we're getting STILL another winter storm tonight.  I wonder if I have time to renege on my deal with the devil because the way he's messing with me, I might have to wait till May to complete my mission.

DROPPING THE BROWNS OFF AT THE SUPER BOWL

Please be patient, this story has little to do with football.

The other day at work, we were talking about this past Super Bowl, then the upcoming NFL draft (May 8-10) until the topic shifted to our first childhood memories of football.

My earliest football recollection was part of a family weekend getaway that included the Naval Academy in Annapolis Maryland, (spring 1963). I remember how the tour guide made a big deal out of a shrine-like trophy case dedicated to Roger Staubach. I was unimpressed, (hey, I was eight...but maybe I sensed he would become a Dallas Cowboy).

A few months later, (September), my family visited central Pennsylvania. While in Hershey, my dad took us to the Philadelphia Eagles pre-season training camp.

AT FIRST I WAS SHY BUT MY FATHER CONVINCED ME THAT ATHLETES LOVE GIVING OUT SOUVENIR AUTOGRAPHS.  DAD GOT REALLY EXCITED WHEN WE SAW (AS HE PUT IT; THE GREATEST FOOTBALL PLAYER IN THE WORLD), TIMMY BROWN. ONCE I GOT THE HANG OF IT, I GOT TONS OF SIGNATURES (above) INCLUDING MAXIE BAUGHN, IRV CROSS, PETE REZLAFF, KING HILL, RILEY GUNNELS AND OTHER NOTABLES THAT ARE TOO SCRIBBLED TO MAKE OUT.  MOST IMPORTANTLY, TIMMY BROWN'S UNIFORM #22 BECAME MY LUCKY NUMBER...AND STILL IS TODAY.

On December 14th of that year, my grade school class trip was a New York Jets versus Buffalo Bills game at the Polo Grounds.

THE POLO GROUNDS WAS LOCATED IN UPPER MANHATTAN AND FACED YANKEE STADIUM ACROSS THE HARLEM RIVER.  MANY "TRUE" JET FANS BRAG THAT THEY REMEMBER WHEN THE JETS PLAYED AT SHEA STADIUM BUT BEFORE THAT...THEIR HOME FIELD (FOR FOUR SEASONS) WAS THE POLO GROUNDS, (1960-1962 AS THE TITANS AND 1963 AS THE JETS).  THE GAME I WENT TO...WITHOUT POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE...WOULD BE THE LAST PROFESSIONAL SPORTING EVENT THERE.

Two weeks after that Jets game, (after Christmas and through New Year’s Eve) my family vacationed at the Willows Hotel in Lakewood New Jersey. On the Sunday of that week, (December 29th), the NFL Championship Game was played, (four years later, the name was upgraded to the Super Bowl).

The Willows Hotel (there is NOTHING on the Internet to suggest it ever existed), was a six-story, Borscht Belt-styled resort in the middle of a city street, in a residential neighborhood. 1963 marked the second year we went there, (my parents expected to make this a yearly pilgrimage but somewhere in 1964, the place “accidentally” burned down).

I think what my folks liked the best was, the hotel had an organized day camp for kids. Once the children were exiled to Siberia for ten hours of incarceration fun, the parents were freed-up to do whatever mommies and daddies like do when unencumbered by brats.

This camp, (designed for five through ten-year olds), was in a fairly large, bright and cheerful recreation room. However, it was sequestered far from the sight of hotel guests, down a dingy, dungeon-like hallway, in the most remote bowels of the basement, (the only thing further down that corridor was the exit that led to the garbage dumpsters).

Our first year, (1962), I felt imprisoned in that room. Other than a daily visit to the pool and our three meals, we spent our time within those four walls. Unfortunately there were no boys my age. So despite friendly supervision, tons of toys, group games and organized activities, in a short time, I was going stir crazy. Even worse, I had an accepting personality which meant, I wasn’t sharp enough to know I had a choice.

The second year (1963), I didn’t even want to go back to the Willows. But upon being dropped-off at their monotony day-care, I befriended, Robert Brown. We got tight quickly and before the first day’s lunch period, Robert, (on his own), confided in me that he was bored. I was so unsophisticated that he had to explain the meaning of the word. He said, “Let’s get out of here. I was here last year and I know where we can explore and have some real fun.” I said, “We’re NOT allowed.” He shrugged at me and walked (unimpeded by the counselors) out the door.

I saw Robert through the door’s little window. He encouraged me to come out with an enthusiastic wave but my folks had given me a laundry list of things to NOT do. Then I realized that leaving the playroom with a friend hadn’t made the list. I experienced a, “LEAVE IT TO BEAVER,” moment as I considered the trouble I could get into but when I saw the next activity was going to be cutting out paper dolls, I took the risk.

"LEAVE IT TO BEAVER," AIRED 234 EPISODES FROM 1957-1963.  JERRY MATHERS (above) AS THEODORE "BEAVER" CLEAVER WAS EASY FOR KIDS TO RELATE TO BECAUSE HE WAS THE EPITOME OF A DOPEY, NAIVE KID WHO REGULARLY MADE POOR DECISIONS.

We were a few steps along our journey when Robert shocked me. He stopping me by thrusting his forearm into my chest, pointing to the ground with his other hand and exclaiming, “Watch out, it’s trap door!” I thought his little fantasy was hilarious. From that moment on, I was confident that this guy knew how to have a good time.

Robert said, “Wanna smell something really disgusting?” Luckily he wasn’t a weirdo because I enthusiastically said, “Yeah.” He led me through the Willows. At first, I was mortified that we’d get arrested for escaping "juvi hall" downstairs. But all the adults paid us no mind…we didn’t even get funny looks from hotel employees, (what a great feeling, it was like we were actual people).

I was led through the opulent ballroom where the adults had their meals, (the kiddie dining area was an ugly, claustrophobic, dimly lit room). On the other side of the dance floor, beyond the kitchen, we entered a hidden alcove and pushed through swinging doors. Robert opened the furthest door, as if he owned the place. It was a utility closet with a slop sink up front and neat rows of rain slickers, brooms, mops and scrub brushes hung from hooks. The floor was packed with vacuum cleaners, carpet sweepers, buckets, several pairs of gigantic rubber hip boots and vats of chemically enhanced cleansers. Up high, on the horseshoe-shaped shelf that rimmed the room, various other fluids like bleach and ammonia combined with everything else, to produce the worst, caustic stink imaginable. The odor was indeed horrendous and that made it great. I bet if we lingered, we would have lost some brain cells while catching a buzz.

We were walking away when Robert said, “Before our next adventure, we should give ourselves codenames. From now on, I’m Comet and you’re Ajax.” I liked having an “X” in my name. In fact, the whole secret identity angle was so cool, I thought I would burst.

At lunch it got better because no one could figure out why we were calling ourselves moronic names. Then some skinny red-headed six-year old with grape jelly all over his mouth said, “I wanna join your club, I’ll be Clorox.” Robert told him, “You’re too young, scram!” I said, “Yeah, beat it...but we’ll still call you Clorox.” Clorox's voice cracked as he griped, "G-g-gee whiz fellas..." Robert roared, "Don't go away mad...just go away!"

In no time, this huge hotel was our playground. We screwed around on the elevator and raced up and down the fancy steps until Robert led me to the casino (card room).  Then we sang on the theater’s stage and ran around backstage and banged on some drums. In the dressing room, I sat in a big leather chair in front of a mirror lined with little light bulbs and said, “Let’s pretend we’re movie stars.” Robert called me an idiot and added, “Everything we’re doing is pretend...” I didn’t complain about his tone but that was strike one.

Every corner of the Willows was investigated and nobody interfered with our escapades. My imagination was taken to a happy place as we played; hunters on safari, pirates, astronauts, gunslingers in the Wild West and reenacted the TV show “COMBAT.”

My favorite was playing mountain climbers. Behind the bar there was a curtain that led to a sunken lounge. We used that five-foot drop to climb up and we also pushed a sofa underneath to jump down onto. Too bad with all our heightened heroic insights and inventiveness, we couldn’t figure out a way to go back one month in time, to save JFK.

Another Achilles heel in Comet’s (Robert’s) repertoire was the redundancy of the trap door routine. It was still funny the second time especially because we were actually on a stage (where you’d expect to see one) but by the fourth time, I was ready to smack him.

The next morning we were hanging out in the lobby. It had snowed the night before and we were looking out the majestic front window jonesing to play outside. I was thinking if my fearless leader was really special, we’d be building a snowman instead of gawking at the winter wonderland with our tongues hanging out. However, the deeper issue was I was tired of taking orders from Robert. If I could come up with a definitive idea then I could turn the tables and boss him around. I was sad because my creative impulses came up empty.

That’s when Robert pulled another rabbit out of his hat and spouted, “Follow me.” He led to me the front desk and said, “Let’s grab a bunch of post cards.” It seemed harmless so after he took some, so did I.

We meandered to the newsstand as he counted our bounty and said, “We have twenty. If we knock on every door in the hotel and sell them for a penny apiece, we’ll each have a dime to spend in there.” He was pointing at the candy dsplay as I thought; This was pure genius. How did I ever doubt this guy?

We started at the top floor. We got plenty of dirty looks while disturbing the pajama-clad masses. By the time we got to the third floor, we hadn’t made any sales. Robert pulled his trap door stunt on me again. I was ready to kill him but a couple came out of their room. Robert propositioned them. The man ignored him and the woman sarcastically said, “Cute.”

I was giving Robert the evil eye so he hurried to knock on another door. A pleasant, older lady (maybe thirty) clutching her robe tightly closed heard his spiel. She said, “Are you going door-to-door?” We crowed, “Yeah!” I said, “We want to earn enough to buy stuff at the gift shop.” She said, “I’ll give you some money but only if you stop playing this game.” We said, “Okay.” Sternly she said, “Promise.” We were happily nodding as she gave Robert a nickel and shut the door.

Robert and I were disappointed in our "take" and puzzled because neither of us was clever enough to fairly split our pay. He whined, “This isn’t enough for my candy bar.” I sighed, “I wanted a coke.” Robert said in wonderment, “You’re allowed to drink soda?” I shrugged, “Yeah.” He said, “Wowie-whoa-wee…I never tried one.” This was hard to believe so I asked, “What do you drink at dinner?” He said, “Water, sometimes milk.” I contorted my face so he defensively added, “In the summer when he have barbecues, I get lemonade or iced tea.” I said, “That’s nuts. Your father drinks water and milk too?” He said, “No, my parents drink yucky wine.” In a whisper he added, “It’s for adults only.” Not to be outdone, I said, “Yeah, yeah I know what wine is…” But of course I wasn't really sure. Either way, this would be the chink in his armor I was looking for.

I said, “If you want a coke, follow me. Just remember, we might get in trouble.” He was excited as he said, “Ajax, take me to your buried treasure trove.” I was thrilled as he followed me past the front desk and through the heavy, black glass door to the bar. I knew it was closed during the day from when we played mountain climbers there, (that's when I had noticed gazillions of unattended, full soda bottles).

"Comet," I said, "Looky here." Behind the bar, piled into a corner were cases of soda. But none of this cornucopia was Coca-Cola. I read off the labels, tonic, seltzer, ginger ale and quinine water. Robert said, “Which flavor should we have?” If I chose the ginger ale, life would have been peachy…but instead, like the "X" in Ajax, I was attracted by “Q” of quinine water. Robert followed suit. Simultaneously we gagged from the awfulness. Except he dropped his bottle and the glass smashed on the ground into a million pieces...we ran away.

Robert wasn’t pleased with me. He reasserted his position as commander and chief and announced that the soda fiasco made him feel like a criminal. When we got to the kid’s dining room, he poked his head into the kitchen and asked a lady for chocolate milk. He was so bold. I could never imagine asking for something between meals. She asked me if I wanted some too. My pride was deflated so I declined the offer. Robert was given a tall glass of white milk and an industrial strength-sized can of Bosco chocolate syrup. It drove me crazy as he poured in too much and drank the overly dark, sweet elixir for the soul, in two huge gulps. He was wiping his chocolate milk mustache off as he decreed that we keep a low-profile back at the kid jail.

For the rest of the day, Robert turned his attention to Clorox.  That was fine with me...especially, (to the delight of the six-year old), when the trap door hokum was performed.

My parents made me get dressed up that night to see the show. The juggler was okay, I liked the comedian but the lady singing at the end was terrible. When she was done, I saw Robert across the way, whooping it up screaming, “More, more, more.” If I ever thought that kid was a jack-ass, I doubled it.

Despite my independent nature, I had no options. I tried to attach myself to two nine-year olds but they were complete nerds, (and no self respecting ten-year old would be caught spending their time in a camp full of babies). At the same time, it didn't take long for Comet to realize that Clorox didn't have much to offer.

So after breakfast, on the morning of the Championship Football game, the dynamic duo of Comet and Ajax were back out on the loose. We stumbled into the lobby while it buzzed with adult activity. Robert and I watched men during a golf putting contest. During a lull, I asked the social director if I could give it a try. He said, “Sure kid.” My ego swelled like never before when I noticed Robert’s look of admiration.

I had a big audience as I took the putter. But instead of just taking my shot, I laid face-down on the carpet and made it look like I was examining the lay of the land, (like golfers do on TV). I could tell my antics were appreciated as some men encouraged me to get a hole-in-one. I failed miserably, of course, but the social director asked everyone to give me a round of applause.

Green-eyed Robert was patting my back when a gray-haired woman called out to me, “Boy, come here boy.” My guilty conscious made me feel like I was in trouble as Robert vamoosed the other way. The old lady summoned me over, pointed behind the divan she was perched on and said, “I dropped my silver dollar, could you get it for me?” In seconds, I crawled under and retrieved the big, old coin. I was walking away when she said, “Come back, I want to give you a little something for your troubles.” She was fishing through her small change purse as I peered over and saw the envy on Robert’s face. She said, “Aha, here it is.” She looked me straight in the eye, pressed a coin into my palm and squeezed both her hands on top of it. “Young man,” she said, “I want to thank you ever so much.” I had images of power and sugarplum fairies dancing in my mind as I thanked her back.

I was glowing inside and out, as I hustled towards jealous Robert. He was so pissed that he scurried away before I opened my hand and discovered it was a just a damned nickel. We were reunited after lunch. I had lied and said that the woman gave me quarter and that I would treat him to two pieces of gum, (that’s all my last two-cents could buy).

Robert accepted my generosity but he didn’t like kowtowing to a subordinate. Outside the gift shop, a huge crowd was watching the football game on a small TV, (it was set high atop a cart on wheels for all to see). There was a lot of excitement because the hometown New York Giants were playing the Chicago Bears. Robert said, “Let’s watch.” Even if I wanted to, I was too short to see over all the adults blocking my view. But in reality, I wasn’t interested. Robert said, “My father, is Ed Brown.  He used to be the Chicago Bears quarterback.” I thought he was trying to put me in my place by bragging about nonsense, (I was certain of it because earlier that year, I told SLW that my father was a baseball player named Jake Gibbs).

ED BROWN (1928-2007) PLAYED FOR THE BEARS FOR EIGHT YEARS (1954-1961) AND WAS A TWO-TIME PRO-BOWLER.  DURING HIS FOUR YEARS WITH THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS, HE WAS VOTED THE 1963 COMEBACK PLAYER OF THE YEAR.  IN 1965, HE ALSO PLAYED BRIEFLY WITH THE BALTIMORE COLTS.

Robert backed-up his story by pushing me towards his mother and interrupted her conversation with other women, “Mom, Ajax doesn’t believe dad’s name is Ed.” She said, “That’s right, dear. Robert’s daddy is always on TV. You ever watch, “MR. ED?”

I was confused. But the whole business made more sense when I said, “You must be the only person here rooting for the Bears.” He said, “Heck no.” “But you said your father…” Robert cut me off, “Used to be on the Bears, I said used to be! Now Ed Brown is on the Steelers…and they stink.” “So who do you root for?” He said, “The Cleveland Browns.” I said, “Heh?” He said, “I root for the Browns because they named the whole team after my family.” My head was spinning as I said, “What?” “You don’t think they named the team after my family? Then tell me, what is a Brown?” Dead silence. I was still mired in the double-talk when Robert continued, “Plus my Browns have the greatest player EVER, Jimmy BROWN.”

JIMMY BROWN (1936-PRESENT) PLAYED HIS ENTIRE CAREER (1957-1965) WITH THE CLEVELAND BROWNS.  HE WAS THE BEST RUNNING BACK I EVER SAW.  BUT TO FURTHER SUPPORT ROBERT'S OPINION, IN 2002, THE SPORTING NEWS VOTED JIM BROWN, THE GREATEST NFL PLAYER...EVER!

What a mistake, I went into attack mode. I thought I had the upper hand and stupidly said, “You’re a lair! You don’t know anything! His name isn’t Jimmy Brown! The greatest football player EVER is named TIMMY Brown.  If you weren’t such a lying jerk, you’d know TIMMY BROWN plays for the Eagles…not the Browns.”

TIMMY BROWN (1937-PRESENT) A THREE-TIME ALL-PRO WAS AN ABOVE AVERAGE RUNNING BACK AND KICK RETURNER FOR THE EAGLES, (1960-1967).  I THINK MY DAD'S LOYALTY TO HIM WAS DUE TO THE FACT THAT FOR A LONG TIME, BROWN WAS THE MOST EXCITING PLAYER ON A DULL TEAM.  ALSO PLAYED BRIEFLY WITH THE GREEN BAY PACKERS IN 1959 AND THE COLTS IN 1968.

In the two days after the big game, my folks took my sister and I out of the hotel for sightseeing, ice skating and on a horse-drawn sleigh ride through the snowy woods. We also had dinner at a steakhouse called Peterson’s. I liked the full view of the chefs cooking and I was mesmerized by the flames shooting up from the grills. My folks and sister apparently got more enjoyment out of watching a drunken couple erotically pawing each other in the next booth.

On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, much to our mutual chagrin, Robert and I found ourselves conjoined at the hip again. We were near the front desk as I saw a TV actor checking in. I said, “Comet, look there’s Private Zimmerman from the, "PHIL SILVERS SHOW." Let’s get his autograph.” Robert sheepishly shook his head. I said, “C’mon let’s go.” He was star-struck and frozen stiff. I was thinking if Robert’s father was really a pro quarterback, then he wouldn’t be so bashful about approaching such a celebrity as Mickey Freeman, (I had to research him to remember his name).

(second from the right), MICKEY FREEMAN (1917-2010) PORTRAYED PRIVATE FIELDING ZIMMERMAN, (1955-1959), IN 131 OF THE 138 EPISDES OF THE, "PHIL SILVERS SHOW."  HE ALSO APPEARED ON TV's,"NAKED CITY," "LLOYD BRIDGES SHOW" AND "THE EQUALIZER."

While I was negotiating the autograph, Mr. Freeman made me feel good by talking to me. Another man came by and engaged Freeman’s attention. I was slithering away when the second man said, “Hey Mickey, you think your friend here would want to get into show business?” The man talking to Freeman was the emcee of the big New Year’s Eve show. Freeman said something along the lines of, “Sure. But kid, make sure he pays you.”

On the wall next to the door that separated the bar from the showroom, I noticed the photos of famous people who performed there. I have no idea who the headliner was that night but I was absorbed in my own self-importance as if I merited equal billing.  I shown where I was going to sit, (in the audience).  Then I was told my cue that would signal when to come up and walk across the stage. I tingled in excitement as I was led through two, ten second rehearsals.

That night, I was sweating bullets waiting to spring into action. When it came, I walked across the stage to thunderous laughter. In just four seconds, I was a success!

The next day, I was sent to “help” my dad check-out. A few people were ahead of us. I was still in the warm afterglow of my stage debut as Robert come around the bend. He resented that I got Mickey Freeman’s autograph and was completely pissed-off that I got in the show. He tried to act natural and ignore me but my dad said, “Aren’t you going to say good-bye to your friend?”

I was all chatty as Robert did a slow burn. Then as if I choreographed the whole scenario, the emcee from the night before came out of the bar with another man. He spotted me, mussed my hair (no really, I had plenty back then) and patted my head like I was a puppy.  Then he said some nice things about me to my dad. For Robert’s sake I blurted out, “You said I was going to get paid.” He knelt down face-to-face with me and smiled, “Sonny, how much do I owe you?” I said, “I want a coke.” The emcee told the other man, “Quick like a bunny, get my star a coke.” While the other man ran back to the bar, the emcee said before disappearing, “Happy New Year.” Seconds later, the man stormed out of the bar with my coke. Robert vanished too. I said to my father, “Where did my friend go?” Dad said, “That’s so nice, you were going to share the soda with him.” In my mind, I pictured Robert falling through a trap door as I took a deep slug of Coke.  Then with great satisfaction I smirked, “Nah.”

At work, when I finished telling my friends about those early football memories I added, "Maybe I can find Robert on Facebook and offer to drop hom and the rest of the Browns off at the next Super Bowl."

THANKS FOR GIVING...NOT !

In 1980, I learned a strange…and lasting lesson about gift giving, (and receiving).

The roots of my lesson developed when I made it up to the major leagues of craps dealing jobs, the Stardust Casino, (on the fabulous Las Vegas strip). On my first vacation, I visited my sister and brother-in-law. They took me to park and we hiked through the woods. On the way back to the car, we passed a high-end men’s shoe store that was going out of business.

On the face of it, there was nothing of interest for me. I followed behind my sister’s hubby until he stumbled upon a huge bin of unboxed Bally’s shoes (attached to each other by a thin plastic string). 

I WAS UNPHASED BY THE 80%-OFF SIGN OR THE PRICE TAGS THAT WENT UP TO $180.00.


I was daydreaming as my junior executive in-law pawed through this potential treasure trove. His eyes lit up when he found a pair that fit. Moments later his thrill of discovery was repeated by a second pair. Like a prospector showing off gold nuggets, he held his trophies by their thin strings and called out to my sister, “These are both under forty bucks!” Her reaction wasn’t what either of us expected…she said to me, “What are you…blind? Where’s yours?”

I flashed back to the shit-kickers I was wearing at the casino. Then I thought of my refined coworkers and their manicures, pinkie rings and fancy watches. But I didn’t want to be like them, (hell, some of them were over forty). I scoffed at sis, “I got shoes…” She said, “Don’t be a moron. Look in the damned box! If they have your size, you’re not walking out of here without a pair…even if I have to buy ‘em.”

A week later, I couldn’t help but feel good while working in my Bally's of Switzerland loafers. Still, I didn’t take proper care of them. I had them a few month before one of my manicured coworkers said, “Fancy shoes don’t look like much if you never polish them.”

Fate brought me to the shoeshine stand in the Stardust’s main men’s room.

I was greeted by George the attendant (about my age). He had a warm welcoming manner as he said, “Step right up there.” I had never lavished myself with a professional shine so I got caught-up in how cool it was.

George had the gift of gab and even before he started working on me, he chatted with another man. They exchanged pleasantries until George said, “Step into my office.” The two vanished into a walk-in utility closet. From my angle, all I could see was a slop sink, two mops hanging from a wall bracket and the corner of a steamer trunk. The two were speaking in whispers as my gaze shifted to the public counter space that housed four wash basins. Like a centerpiece, I noticed an industrial-strength-sized plastic mayonnaise container haphazardly cut in half and inartistically labeled: TIPS ! This tip jar sat between a display of various colognes, mouthwash, skin lotion, hair tonic, antacids, condoms and other sundries.

GEORGE DIDN'T LOOK LIKE A BUTLER.  HIS UNIFORM WAS MERELY A SKY BLUE TUNIC WITH MINI-STARDUST LOGOS SERVING AS PIPING DOWN THE CENTER, AROUND THE CUFFS AND ALONG THE LOWER HEM.

I watched a man help himself to a roll of mints and drop some coins into the jar. Another man washed his hands, didn’t touch any of the convenience items but put a dollar bill in the kitty. I heard George close the trunk. My eye followed his "client" from the inner sanctum until he exited the restroom. Seconds later, George was re-filling a soap dispenser when that same man returned, pointed to a slip of paper and said, “My man, this last number…is it a three or a five?” George grinned, “It’s a five.”

George walked past me, handed an older man a paper towel and was given two, one dollar casino chips. When George’s chit-chat talents were focused on me, I didn’t mind that he repeatedly, (briefly) attended others. From my perch, the experience of watching him use a tiny wisk broom to sweep dandruff of a man's shoulders while working the rest of the crowd was entertaining. Even when my casino break-time was running low and he disappeared with a second man to the sanctity of his steamer trunk, I didn’t mind.

I had two minutes to spare when George said, “You’re all done.” I hopped down. There was an awkward moment because I never gave it any thought how much it would cost, (there were no signs). He said, “That’ll be a dollar-seventy-five.” Considering how good the shoes made me feel and how much better I felt now that they gleaming…I thought the price was a bargain. I handed George a five. It felt great to say, “Keep the change.” I wasn’t expecting him to kiss my ass but he didn’t thank me. Instead, he scurried into his closet and shut the door.

I told an elder, pinkie ring wearing coworker what happened and he said, “George is in guest services…” When I didn’t react he added, “You realize he has more than cough drops and disposable razors in his bag of tricks.” I had a glazed over look in my eye so he continued, “He isn’t just dealing toilet paper…” I must have had a hopeless look on my face when he sneered, “He’s dealing D-R-U-G-S…drugs.” His message seeped in. When I nodded the elder smiled, “Actually, he’s hustling anything he can make a buck on. You know, hooking dudes up with whores or loan sharks…trust me, with his entrepreneurial spirit, he’s got more on his mind than your three bucks.”

All George had to say was thanks. Instead, my bubble was burst. I felt violated and permanently boycotted that restroom. The next time I was in the supermarket, I bought my own shoe polish.

THIRTY YEARS AGO, A LIFETIME SUPPLY OF LIQUID SHOE POLISH WAS 59c.

Something as simple as saying thanks has the power to validate another person’s existence. In theory, holding a door for a stranger, allowing someone with one item ahead of you on the check-out line or giving courtesy while driving causes a chain-reaction of random kindnesses that goes a long way to making our crazy lives tolerable. That’s why I like Thanksgiving so well. It helps us stay in touch with a sense of kindness and a universal appreciation (brotherhood) towards our fellow man.

Thanksgiving, (observed in the USA on the fourth Thursday of November), is a national holiday of appreciation. Its historic, religious and cultural origins celebrate the previous year’s harvest and the hope for a bountiful new year.

THANKSGIVING CAN BE TRACED TO THE 1660's IN COLONIAL AMERICA.  HOWEVER, SIMILAR CELEBRATIONS IN EUROPE GO BACK ANOTHER HUNDRED YEARS.

Although appreciating every morsel we eat is taken for granted by many, the importance of Thanksgiving has evolved into a general appreciation for the maintenance of the family structure, a sense of goodwill to mankind and the beauty of life itself.

Thanksgiving’s placement on the calendar is also clever because it serves as the kick-off to the holiday (gift giving) season. So in order to deserve what you get next month, a day in late November, set aside for both religious or earthly appreciation, seems like a perfect time for personal reflection and to show thanks.

This concept was not wasted on me.  In my youth, I might have been a weasel the rest the of year but I was always extra thankful at Thanksgiving.  I knew the holidays were around the corner...and I’m certain tons of other goniffs operated the way too. But as time passes, we see as adults that the whole gift giving process becomes a bit one-sided…because children receive the bulk of the gifts. Today, that works for me because in the immortal words of my wife Sue; What do you get for a guy (me) who has nothing…and wants nothing.

Today’s column will concern itself with the false face of appreciation we put on when we get the stupidest, most useless and unwanted gifts.

I don’t want to come off as an ingrate but in the late 1980’s and into the 90’s, my wife and I exchanged gifts with my friend CUEBALL and his wife. I remember how much thought, care and energy (primarily Sue) put in to their presents. So when we were given a Chia Pet, it was hard to be excited.

CH-CH-CH-CHIA PETS WERE FIRST MARKETED IN 1977. THEY STARTED AS TERRACOTTA ANIMALS FIGURINES WITH MOISTENED CHIA SEEDS THAT SPROUTED TO RESEMBLED FUR OR HAIR.  TODAY, A WIDER RANGE OF THEMES ARE OFFERED LIKE CARTOON CHARACTERS, HISTORICAL FIGURES AND EVEN PRESIDENT BARRACK OBAMA.

Back when I received my Chia Pet, they were $1.99 pharmacy store items.  My friends weren't strapped for cash so I was insulted by it. It would have been an appropriate gift from my spinster neighbor.  But I wouldn't dream of using such a cheap to give the mail man or newspaper boy.  Had this gift been a prank, (CUEBALL once had me try imported Danish cookies "to die for."  Well, he almost died from laughter when I bit into that beautiful but sugar-free piece of saw dust).  But far worse, I got the impression that the Chia Pet was given to them and "re-gifted" to us.

Rather than gripe about my adult disappointments, I think we are all best served if we talk about the crappy presents we got as a child. That’s one big reason why the 1983 movie, “A CHRISTMAS STORY,” is a four-star classic.

The plot centers on bespectacled Ralphie Parker. He’s a pre-pubescent kid in 1940’s Anytown Indiana who is obsessed with getting a Red Ryder BB-gun.

The movie batters the viewer with the negativity of why Ralphie will never have his dream come true. The scene that typifies his anguish, is the apex of awful gifts…Aunt Clara’s hand-made, pink, bunny PJ’s.

THESE INTENSELY UNWANTED PAJAMAS NOT ONLY REPRESENTED A SLIP BACK TO IMMATURITY BUT RALPHIE WAS HUMIILIATED BY BEING FORCED (BY MOM) TO TRY IT ON.  WHILE HE SUFFERED THROUGH THE EMBARRASSMENT OF HAVING A LOWER LIFE FORM (HIS YOUNGER BROTHER RANDY) LAUGH IN HIS FACE, HIS ALL-KNOWING DAD STEPS IN AND LET'S HIM OFF THE HOOK.

Ralphie takes off the PJ's and returns to his real Christmas gifts.  But his young and fragile (frah-jee-lay) psyche can't handle sports equiptment, blimps and anything else. His single-minded fixation is the special award that will help him fight bad guys like his idol, Red Ryder.

I DON'T WANT TO SPOIL THE END...IN CASE YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON ON THE PLANET WHO DOESN'T KNOW THAT A BB-GUN IN THE HANDS OF A FOURTH GRADER SPELLS OUT ONLY ONE THING...SHOOTING YOUR EYE OUT...

I had my own version of a Ralphie moment when I was five.  That's when a TV commercial for a toy space station flooded the air waves. I whined so badly for it that despite its expense, my parents relented. Unfortunately, there was such a high demand for them that these babies were hard to find. Luckily for me, my dad knew people who knew people. He used up some favors and managed to get me one.

I remember this toy. It featured push-button weapon launchers and a battery operated crane with a magnet for off-loading cargo from the mother ship onto the lunar surface. According to my mom, while my imagination fended-off Martian attacks, I destroyed this chintzy plastic piece of crap in ten minutes. Of course I don’t recall throwing the whole kit and caboodle down the basement steps (but that's what I was told...if so, hey don’t forget, I was five).  Nonetheless, I do remember being forced (by guilt) to play with it regardless of its cracked, lifeless carcass and myriad of missing pieces.

My guilt from that incident was so strong that in future years, I stopped asking for specific stuff. My self-imposed penance also included never complaining about getting clothes or receiving things I didn’t want.

When I was nine, HJ and some of my other friends had Aurora slot car sets. I pined for one of my own but I was too ashamed to ask, (I was still under the assumption that my folks thought I would break anything worth owning). So I took to manipulation. In a round about way, I extolled the virtue of my friends’ race cars.

SINCE THE MID-1960's, THE FAD OF SLOTS CARS KEEPS POPPING BACK INTO POPULARITY EVERY FEW YEARS.

That year, my slot car dreams DID NOT come true. In the next few months, my interest in this hobby dwindled and I rarely spoke of them. When Christmastime rolled around the following year, dad’s face was bursting with pride as I tore the wrapping off a big, Tyco brand slot car box.

My excitement turned to dismay.  My previously coveted cars had gone out of style. Quickly, I gathered myself, I didn't want to piss-off dad.  I acted appreciative and forced myself to enjoy it…and I did. I even sparked my friends to rekindle their interest. But unbeknownst to me, I had thrown my own monkey wrench into the equation by not specifically telling my father that I wanted an Aurora slot car set.  What a shock it was to find out that Tyco's gauge was slightly different so the cars weren’t compatible. Hence, my cars didn’t work on my friends tracks nor did theirs on my mine.

The other big ticket gift I got that year was the grand-daddy of stupid and useless presents. When I first got this highly-hyped game, I thought I wanted it, but once I tried playing it…I couldn’t even fake an orgasm over, “BOTTLECAP BASEBALL.”

BOTTLECAP BASEBALL IS SUCH AN OBSCURE GAME THAT LITTLE IS WRITTEN ABOUT IT. I FOUND ONLY FIVE PHOTOS ON THE WEB AND THEY WERE ALL BLURRY.

Bottlecap Baseball came in a sleek silver tube with black lettering, (the container runs along is right side of the photo above, (in the picture, the color pattern is reversed from the set I had).

Inside the tube was a thirty-inch square, baseball field on glossy green paper. The players were represented as bottlecaps. Every aspect of the game was the result of flicking a bottlecap. That meant that every pitch was a flick, (after a short while, the flicking repetition caused the nail on my right index finger to hurt.  I even damaged my cuticle.  That meant as a little bugger, I had the fortitude to play through the pain.  Too bad I didn't have the intelligence to notice sooner...that the game sucked).

More importantly every sequence took an eternity, (whatever skill it took to “throw” strikes would take more time to master than boring factor could overcome). There nothing exciting (or baseball-like) about this game. Between a ten year-old’s inability to pitch (even the occasional strike was usually unhittable), it was almost impossible to “put a ball in play.” Even when my dad or uncle tried, the game was so tedious that I doubt I ever witnessed a half inning properly executed.

SOMEHOW, I RETAINED THE MY ORIGINAL RULES BOOKLET BUT I COULDN'T FIND IT BY PRESS TIME.

Bottlecap Baseball (by Amsco Toys) was a white elephant. It took up a lot of space and the rounded corners had to be held down by shoes.  The game was only produced in 1965.  In the early months of 1966, the company blitzed New York City with an agressive ad campaign.  This media frenzy was "capped" off with a, "BOTTLECAP BASEBALL," TV show, (aired by the same station that televised New York Mets games, Channel-9, WOR-TV).

This thirty-minute show (which was more like an infomercial), featured a geeky fifteen-year old Bottlecap Baseball savant playing (slaughtering) local celebrities.  For kids my age, this was the pinnacle exciting because when you're ten, the kid on TV regardless how much of a putz he might have been, (probably of Amsco or Channel-9 linneage), the actual game secondary.  All I could do was have lustful fantasties about being on TV and hob-nobbing with the show's host, Dick Stuart.

DICK "DR. STRANGEGLOVE" STUART WAS A DOMINATE HOME RUN HITTER IN THE EARLY 60's.  STUART WAS ONE OF THE MOST POLARIZING PLAYERS THERE WAS.  HIS HOME RUN HITTING WAS APPRECIATED BY THE FANS BUT HE WAS SHARPLY UNAPPRECIATED BY TEAMMATES.  HIS ABYSSMAL FIELDING AND TERRIBLE ATTITUDE TOWARDS THIS FIELDING EARNED HIM HIS NICKNAME, DR. STRANGEGLOVE, (THE NAME DICK, SPEAKS FOR ITSELF).  IN 1963, HE SET THE RECORD (WHICH STILL STANDS) FOR MOST FIRST BASEMEN ERRORS, (29).  HE WAS SO BAD THAT WHEN THE WIND BLEW A HOT DOG WRAPPER HIS WAY, THE RED SOX FANS GAVE HIM A STANDING OVATION WHEN HE GRABBED IT CLEANLY.  WHEN STUART'S INEPTITUDE COST A PITCHER A WIN, HE WAS LIKELY TO CROW, "THEY PAY ME TO HIT, NOT FIELD."  THUS CAUSING A FIST FIGHT. WHEN HE HIS CAREER FALTERED, MY DREADFUL NY METS PICKED HIM UP (1966) IN AN ATTEMPT TO FILL THE STADIUM.  TO FURTHER GET THE FANS EXCITED ABOUT THE NEW SEASON, HE WAS HOOKED-UP AS THE HOST OF BOTTLECAP BASEBALL.

The Bottlecap Baseball TV show was cancelled after about five episodes...and Dick Stuart played so poorly for the Mets that he was released after a couple of months.  But I was stuck with the unnappreciated gift.  So it was relegated to the Siberia of my house, the farthest corner of the attic.  My guess the whole mess started when my father saw me watching the show or maybe he heard about from someone else who saw it on TV?  All I know is, the only solace was, at least I never begged or even asked for it.

Such is the power of TV. The holiday gift giving season relies on advertising and TV is its strongest suit.

MY PARENTS' GENERATION HAD NO SHOT.  THE PSYCHOLOGICAL INFLUENCE OF TV WASN'T WIDELY REALIZED SO SOMETHING AS HARMFUL AS SMOKING WAS GLOSSED-OVER, (BIG TOBACCO KNEW THE HEALTH RISKS OF THEIR PRODUCT IN THE EARLY 50's).  BUT BY HAVING THEIR DEATH-STICKS ENDORSED BY MOVIE STARS, SPORTS FIGURES, DOCTORS AND EVEN SANTA CLAUS...SUDDENLY THE GIFT OF A CARTON OF UNFILTERED CHESTERFIELDS WAS TRULY APPRECIATED.

I hope this column has taught you a lasting lesson about gift giving and receiving.

Now that we have passed Thanksgiving and are thrust forward towards Christmas
be mindful that you aren't giving gifts to heartless criminals.  And for your loved ones, be careful that your present won't take their eye out.  And while you're at it, make sure you know what you're asking Santa for...because you just might get it.

THANK YOU ALL, FOR GIVING ME YOUR SUPPORT, TIME, ENERGY AND FEEDBACK.  I WISH YOU LOVE, PEACE AND HAPPINESS...ALL YEAR, EVERY YEAR.

"BABY OTT," MAN OF A THOUSAND NICKNAMES

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...for money.

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, the horse back riding, archery and native American craft sessions went unappreciated. The real action was our unchaperoned carousal after dark.  Other kids were smoking pot, breaking windows with a cricket bat and having pantie raids...so I didn't think Stew's antics 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 Bamboo Lounge, (on Avenue N at Locust).

IN THE MOVIE, "GOODFELLAS," THE BAMBOO LOUNGE'S FACADE WAS USED  DURING THE NIGHT CLUB FIRE BOMBING SCENE.  THE LIQUOR STORE THAT WAS TO PURVEY OUR GIN, IS OFF-CAMERA, TWO DOORS DOWN FROM THE TUXEDO STORE.

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.

At about 2:00AM, we were wasted, sitting on the steps in front of the Charcoal Chef Restaurant by 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.  Whether it was out of jealousy, ignorance or disbelief...I'll never know...but he found her and asked her about it.  She was insulted that someone in her circle had betrayed her trust.  She demanded to know how he knew. I'm certain she didn't have to resort to Chinese water torture when Otter broke down and 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.

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

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."