ROUND-UP THE USUAL SUSPECTS

In my Las Vegas years, (1979-1984), the dark, claustrophobic and Victorian-themed, Binion's Horseshoe Casino was the most popular meeting place for downtown casino workers. 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.


In my craps dealing days at the Golden Nugget Casino, (September 1982-January 1984), it was common for groups of us to go across the street to the "Shoe," for a drink after work. The Horseshoe'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 they weaseled you 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 A POSTCARD QUALITY PICTURE OF YOU IN FRONT OF IT. THEN YOU'D HAVE TO HANG AROUND 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 VEGAS...WHERE THE HORSESHOE, GOLDEN NUGGET, FREMONT AND FOUR QUEENS SHARE THE SAME CORNER,(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 the early part of my thirty-four year association with him, his good natured disposition earned him the nickname "Ciro the Hero," (however his recent poor decision making caused his nickname to be permanently changed to "Ciro the Zero."

At one of our Horseshoe meetings, he brought along a dealer from his craps crew. Jay Gatling was short and despite blond hair and blue eyes...was an ordinary looking guy. Before we ordered our drinks, Ciro 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, once we started swilling beer, 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 confided in me, "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." While ranting, 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.

Ciro's relationship with the barman impressed me. 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 INVALUABLE, "IRREVOCABLE LETTERS OF TRANSIT." TO GET THEM, HE IMPLIED THAT HE ASSASSINATED TWO NAZI COURIERS. THE HORSESHOE HAD ITS SHARE OF SHOOTINGS TOO. SO JAY'S BOASTFUL MOMENT CEMENTED HIM AS ONE OF THE "FEW OF THE MANY" ASSHOLES...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, "Just for shits and giggles, 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 plastic storage bins contained 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 so close-up...it was scary to think what a sniper could do. They thought I would be excited by this, instead I was turned-off.

We heard stirring in the other bedroom. Jay groaned in a loud whisper, "Shit, you guys gotta get out. Now!" Jay was hustling us through the kitchen to the front door 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 rage, I became transfixed on her robe's fuzzy, red 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 white sash from the girl's robe as he stared-down Jay. 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, and 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 newly dubbed 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."  That incident with Jay was the beginning of the end...of my beautiful friendship with Ciro.

THE PINOCCHIO FACTOR, AT THE CORNER OF SKIDMARK AND SYRINGE

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.

WHAT, ME WORRY ?

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.

"WE MOCK WHAT WE ARE TO BE".....or.... DIS INGER-ISH

When I was a teenager, it was common for my father to hand me something and say, "Read this to me, I don't have my glasses." At some point I began to get annoyed and eventually turned to sarcasm to express my irritation. Of course my protests were duly noted but never acted on. However, I must have left enough of an impression because dad once rebutted, "Just remember this, we mock what we are to be."

Unfortunately dad was prophetic; because now that I am saddled with my own need for reading glasses...I frequently find myself asking my son Andrew to read things.. I confess it's my own laziness and a lack of planning but misreading things has led to varying levels of hilarity...at my expense.

I recently added a Korean dollar bill to Andrew's foreign banknote collection. On the portrait, somebody had done calligraphy in large Asian (presumably Korean) characters. Before showing it to my son, I wanted to be prepared...in the expectation that he would ask me what the fancy writing said.

I mentioned the bill to a Korean co-worker and brought it in the next day for her to decipher. Unfortunately, her English skills aren't perfect and from the second she took hold of it, I could see her struggling to put the translation into words.

Finally, her first words were, "I dunno." Then, "This NOT Korean!" In frustration, she turned the bill upside down and said, "I no can help."

I was about to take it back from her when she turned it horizontal and said, "This crazy language."

I grabbed for it again and she pulled away from me. She then tilted the money on its other end and stopped. She stared up at me and said triumphantly, "Aha, I KNEW this not Korean."

I said, "It isn't? What language is it, Japanese?"

She said, "No silly man, dis Inger-ish."

Before I could put on my glasses she pointed to the letters and said, "It say, 'To Linda, good luck.'"

I don't embarrass easily but I was mortified.

*

On September 6th, our Guinea Pig "Picasso" went to rodent heaven.

Although we avoid speaking ill of the dead, Picasso simply never lived up to his colorful potential. The son of other guinea pigs, Picasso left his humble South American roots for a better life in the U. S. He applied to many pet stores and was finally accepted at Fins, Feathers & Furs at the Cardiff Circle. While waiting to be adopted, he became exposed to the propaganda rantings of a socialist cavy named Ernesto. Perhaps because of his impressionable nature, young Picasso was derailed from his dream of becoming a martyred product-tester and was manipulated into becoming a foot soldier for a counter-revolutionary movement. That is until Andrew selected him as our family pet.

When we bought Picasso we had no idea how anti-American he was. Andrew named him Picasso because of his odd coloration,. However, from an aerial view five hundred-feet up, our guinea pig's coat had been dyed to a reasonable facsimile of the Venezuelan flag.

Picasso was showered with our family's love and affection and all seemed normal. Eventually our attention caused him to waver in his socialist beliefs and soon, he expressed a sincere patriotism for the good old U. S. of A.

These notions were verified after his death when we read some of his old E-Mails. In these correspondences, he indicated a greater joy in running free on the vast carpets of America. He also made it clear that he appreciated the freedom to gnaw on the communication wiring of this powerful nation or to chew on the walls of the very foundation of democracy.

Problems surfaced when Picasso learned of his beloved predecessor, Cutie or as he was commonly know as: Zhitnik. Zhitnik was a great family pet who loved being left over night on narrow furniture ledges and playing *hide and seek. *(He excelled at hiding...sometimes for days at a time but was a less than enthusiastic seeker). Zhitnik loved the attention of children and handled being pawed at by visitors gracefully. He also excelled in traveling to school to entertain large crowds of second graders.

Moreover, Zhitnik liked quiet Norman Rockwell-like evenings with the whole family. He liked sitting on human shoulders and watching TV. At these times, during commercials, he loved to play, "Pass the Pig." A take-off of "Hot Potato" Andrew, Mommy and I would keep handing off our little Zhitnik until he peed on the loser...truly hours of fun.

Picasso yearned for such fun but his anti-capitalist spin on life cut the joy out of most everything. He finally sank completely back into anti-American sentiments when we brought our dog Roxy into the house. Immediately Picasso protested. In defiance of house rules, he began throwing litter from his cage. This action caused him to be relegated to one of the back bedrooms. Cut-off from the mainstream, he began calling himself Che and calling for the death of his oppressors.

DURING A RARE MOMENT OF CALM IN THEIR RELATIONSHIP, THE PIG EXPLAINS THE REBELLION TO THE DOG. ROXY BEING APOLITICAL, POLITELY PRETENDS TO BE INTERESTED. LATER, SHE CORRECTLY "RATTED" OUT THE WEASEL

Nevertheless we'll always remember the good times with Picasso and his loud chirp that when translated meant, "Even though your lettuce has been picked by my exploited illegal immigrant cousins, give me more. Because I don't know what you infidels put in it...but I crave it nightly."

*

Let me get my glasses so I can proof read this bef@re I send it out.