CHECK YOUR VECTOR VICTOR...IT'S..."ZERO HOUR!" VS. "AIRPLANE!"

In the late 80's, a couple visited from New York. I knew the girl but her fiancee was a stranger. When they were together, this fellow, in a sappy way bent over backwards to agree with his future wifey. In private, I expected him to be more vibrant. Instead, he was quietly quite dull. He wasn't a nerd but nevertheless, Mr. Excitement wasn't my kind of guy.

I sternly believe, the gentleman in question has been left in the most unenviable position. He not only was a 34-year old bachelor but he also gave the impression that he had infrequently enjoyed the company of the fairer sex. My position was not taken strictly by the fact that they met through a dating service...rather it was realized by the sense that the weasel was going to jump through flaming hoops to avoid blowing his love-connection at ALL costs. Trust me, shivers ran up my spine when he let himself get overwhelmed by her every whim.

During their stay, the future Mrs. Humdrum proudly mentioned their three mutual hobbies. I honestly feel that while "opposites attract" the long-term success of a relationship is supported mightily by ACTUAL shared interests. So even though I recognized this man as weak, I had my own ulterior motive to perhaps learn a positive lesson from him. Egad, I was wrong.

The first of their three hobbies...while not interesting to me was still something somewhat tolerable. The second was idiotic and the third was so ridiculous...that twenty years later, I can't help but laugh at the visual. ( Please note: they had major marriage problems within the first year of their matrimonial bliss AND I haven't seen them (by design) in ten-plus years AND I don't know or care if they are together now).

This couple's most mainstream hobby (remember they were both 33-34 at the time) was collecting miniature cups and saucers from different states, National Parks etc. I knew I should have kicked them both out when he asked, "How far are we from the Delaware border?"

In keeping with the miniature theme, their second hobby was a natural off-shoot of the cups and saucers...collecting miniaturized household items. Now I truly understand that in this woman, the guy was possibly getting his first taste of sex, romance or female companionship...EVER! But still to get excited in telling me where and how he found a half-inch lawn jockey or describing how he repaired and shellacked their latest printer's type drawer...made me nauseous.

YAWN ! A PRINTER'S TYPE DRAWER WHEN COVERED BY A GLASS OR PLASTIC WINDOW CAN BE HUNG ON A WALL TO DISPLAY A MINIATURE COLLECTION.

Yes, on paper this pitiful man's life was already over. But we haven't even touched on hobby number three. To "unwind" after a long day of searching, flea markets, yard sales, Goodwill Centers and curio shops for a tiny Heinz ketchup bottle, he liked to sit with her and do macrame. That's KNITTING! Geez, it's mind boggling to what length some people will go for "quality" time with their mate.

To be supportive of the couple's eccentricities, we suggested a visit to nearby Smithville. Smithville is a picturesque, outdoor tourist trap with about 100 specialty shops...many of which cater to collectors (oddballs).

I remained a champ for over an hour despite being dragged through more stores whose name's started with "Ye Olde" than you could ever imagine. They bought-up skeins of yarn, a little SMITHVILLE NJ cup and saucer set and dozens of itsy-bitsy items like; pots, pans, a Tabasco bottle, an old-fashion train conductor's hat, New Jersey state flag, frogs, penguins, a waffle iron, the thimble from an antique Monopoly game and so much more.

At the forty minute mark, I experienced my first taste of bile from the on-set of full-blown boredom. To rescue him and get the awful taste out of my mouth I suggested, "Let's go for a beer." He said with wide-eyed enthusiasm, "Wait till later. If the girls don't mind, we can get drinks at lunch. First, let's see what kinds of minis they have in, Ye Olde Coffee Outlet."

Later, with the salvation of eating a meal at least one more quaint store away, I nudged him as we passed, "Ye Olde Sports Memorabilia Outlet." I knew he was a lost cause when he answered, "What could we POSSIBLY want in there?"

While inside Ye Olde Yarn Outlet, I was actually appreciating the subtle color difference between burnt sienna yarn and regular sienna. Suddenly a bolt of lucidity spasmed through my body as the fear of being lured into a less manly lifestyle occurred to me. Scared straight, I snapped out of my funk when Mr. Desperate's lady held up a spool of beige yarn and said, "Hun, do you think we need more ecru?" I felt like the wolf who eats through its own arm to free itself from a bear trap. I disregarded accountability to the women as well as the physical and mental health hazards associated with them and took the direct path to normalcy. I grabbed this poor unfortunate bastard's elbow and lead him out to the bright shining freedom of the great outdoors. Randomly I said, "C'mon, you gotta check this out."

Fate was accidentally on my side. Just when my bum's rush was losing its momentum, he stopped. Not to go back in, but in reverence to the one thing he cherished for himself. To this day, I'll swear I heard holy music as he seemingly levitated and floated diagonally across the mall. When his feet came back to earth, he urged me through the open door of, Ye Olde Video Store Outlet. Inside, he found a treasure trove of vintage posters, Hollywood photos, replica props and obscure VHS movies for sale.

Somehow he only came out with two items; a porcelain, two-foot Charlie Chaplin figurine and a 1957 movie I never heard of. When we were all re-united, he announced to the girls, "Steve never heard of, "ZERO HOUR!" Looking at his statue, I thought of the song Charlie Chaplin wrote called, "SMILE." That's the one with the lyric; Smile though your heart is breaking. Nat King Cole made it a smash hit in the 50's and Michael Jackson once said that it was his favorite song.
Maybe that figurine was a subliminal cry for help. Once you get beyond that stupid grin on his face, Mr. Whipped, with all his personality flaws must have been really dying on the inside.
When Mr. Hardup saw the girl's empty expressions, he went into damage control and added, "This is the film that 'AIRPLANE!' is a parody of."
A SERIOUS DRAMA, "ZERO HOUR!" IS ABOUT A WORLD WAR II FLIER WHO IS DISGRACED BY AN UNAVOIDABLE WAR-TIME ACCIDENT AND IS HAUNTED SO BAD THAT 12 YEARS LATER HE STILL WON'T FLY, EVEN AS A PASSENGER.

When he mentioned Airplane! I understood, (click on the link below for Zero Hour's original theatrical movie trailer).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kN5orElkXdY
I was vaguely familiar with Zero Hour! In it, the pilot and co-pilot are knocked out of commission by eating, tainted fish. I knew I hadn't seen the movie in centuries and despite how hilarious Airplane! was (and still is), I had no interest in investing another unnecessary 90 minutes with this clown by watching his new toy. Maybe he was a nerd after all.
IN ZERO HOUR! NFL HALL-OF-FAMER ELROY "CRAZY-LEGS" HIRSCH (RIGHT) PLAYS THE PILOT. IN AIRPLANE! PETER GRAVES PLAYS THE PARALLEL ROLE.
This past week, I stumbled across "Zero Hour" on TURNER CLASSICS MOVIES (TCM). I bet I haven't seen it in 30 years. A two-two and a half star movie, I thought it was pretty bad and in the middle, fell asleep for thirty minutes. Aside from a lot of silly and dated dialog, the acting was decent and the ending...even though I knew the outcome was exciting.
STERLING HAYDEN AS TRELEAVEN, A NO-NONSENSE CONTROL TOWER LEADER TALKS SHATTERED EX-FIGHTER PILOT (DANA ANDREWS) DOWN.
The real reason I would recommend Zero Hour! is because of the much more famous 1980 spoof movie Airplane! While Airplane! is a take-off of all disaster movies, it concentrated its material from Zero Hour! Usually its best to see the original first. In this case, I think if you see the parody first, then Zero Hour!, the results will be better...because it'll be funny too.
IN AIRPLANE! LLOYD BRIDGES HAS THE STERLING HAYDEN ROLE. IT IS BRIDGES WHO SAYS, "WHAT A WEEK I PICKED TO STOP SNIFFING GLUE." (among other abusive habits)." IT SHOULD BE NOTED THAT IN THE ORIGINAL STERLING HAYDEN DOES IN FACT SAY, "WHAT A WEEK I PICKED TO STOP SMOKING CIGARETTES."

More interesting tidbits; the use of an exclamation point at the end of the title (Airplane!) Was taken from Zero Hour! Airplane's title in Germany was; The Incredible Trip in a Crazy Airplane. At first Peter Graves turned down the role because he thought the script was insulting. In Argentina, the title was translated to; And Where's the Pilot? SURELY YOU KNOW LESLIE'S NIELSEN'S CAREER AS A SERIOUS ACTOR WAS AT A STANDSTILL WHEN AIRPLANE! MADE HIM A COMIC SENSATION...YES, I DID KNOW THAT BUT STOP CALLING ME SHIRLEY !

Another funny bit of trivia in Airplane! was when the doctor says, "We have to find someone who can not only fly this plane, but who didn't have fish for dinner!" What makes that more hilarious is that the line is taken...word-for-word from the ultra-serious original.
IN AIRPLANE! ROBERT HAYS IS THE RELUCTANT PILOT...THAT'S RIGHT, THERE WOULDN'T BE MUCH OF A PLOT IF HE DIDN'T EAT THE LAMB CHOPS.
The laughs in Airplane! are fast and furious...even if a gag bombs, there's always another right behind it. So if you still need an extra push to see it, click on the link below. Its the movie trailer. I guarantee it'll make you laugh and want to see the whole movie.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcWLbDS56u8
Well, I can't speak for that other couple because every relationship is different. But I think its a good gauge to see how buried you might be...especially if you are considering getting serious with someone new...to at least find out if they think Airplane! is funny. Otherwise you won't get your vector from Victor or clearance from Clarence...do you roger that Roger?

MOST OF ALL...I REMEMBER MAMA

Please don't try to tell me that the 1948, four-star movie, "I REMEMBER MAMA," was overly sentimental or a chick-flick. I have seen it a dozen times and each time, I fall in love with it...all over again. What I appreciate the most is, mama (and to a lesser extent, papa too) provide a loving environment for their children without ever letting on that they are teetering on poverty. Plus, the script is clever enough that the idealism never approaches fantasy.

IRENE DUNNE SHINES AS A TURN-OF-THE-CENTURY MOTHER OF A NORWEGIAN IMMIGRANT FAMILY. RESEMBLING A REAL "OCTO-MOM," SHE JUGGLES AND SOLVES ALL THE PROBLEMS IN HER SAN FRANCISCO HOUSEHOLD AS WELL AS THOSE OF HER ODD-BALL RELATIVES.

In the opposite direction was the 1987 three-star movie, "THROW MOMMA FROM THE TRAIN." It was a dark comedy that featured a dysfunctional family that was highlighted by a hen-pecked son's (Danny DeVito), edgy relationship with his over bearing mother, (Anne Ramsey). When the camel can't handle the last straw, the son decides to have his mother murdered.

NOW THERE'S A NURTURING FACE IF I EVER SAW ONE. TO PREPARE FOR HER ROLE AS MOMMA, THE HIGHLY ACCLAIMED ANNE RAMSEY GARGLED WITH RUSTY RAZOR BLADES.
Although far from ideal, my childhood was somewhere in between the two films...however, let me make this perfectly clear, my mother's demeanor was infinitely closer to Irene Dunne. Still she had her momentary flaws like the time I got lost at Jones Beach. Many of you may recall that "MAD MAGAZINE" did an expose on that event in 1959.
Like any normal four year old, something along the shoreline caught my eye. I drifted away from the pack and got lost in the crowd. Several minutes later I turned inland and couldn't find our home-base. In the mean time, panic set-in when mom realized I was gone.
My mother knew calling dad, (he worked a 60-hour week) with the news that I vanished was out of the question. Despite being frantic, she organized a search-party posse. Along with a couple of my aunts, she enlisted other women...and the Stevie scavenger hunt was on.
I wasn't there to witness just how freaked-out this made my mom but the MAD MAGAZINE article portrayed their woman as saying, "Where's my baby...oh god help me...I'll kill anyone who harms a single hair on his head."
A block away, I soothed my disorientation by befriending a bunch of kids. In no time, I was having a grand ol' time, giggling, digging tunnels and eating CHEEZ-DOODLES. Unfortunately, my idyllic five minutes in limbo was interrupted by one of my aunts. Like landing a trophy marlin, she grabbed me hard by the wrist and lifted me in the air. Luckily she didn't pull my arm out of the socket.
Clutched against her ample bosom, I strained to divert my eyes from the cable-wire-like hairs protruding from the mole on her chin. I was still squirming to get free when she wailed, "You're gonna get it." Auntie brusquely wove a path between the beach blankets. When I saw my mother, she was nearly in tears as she ranted to bewildered strangers, "Help me find my baby."
When mom saw me she hugged me. Then she saw the orange cheez-doodle dust on my mouth and hands, and screeched, "What were you having...a party?" Now I'm not saying that my mom invented PMS...however, its widely accepted that she was one of the early research pioneers. So, just as some guy said, "Lady, DON'T hit him..." Wham! I got a stinging open hand across the face...ah yes, home-spun corporal punishment...remember, in those days, smacking your kid in public was highly acceptable.
That same man...my only hope for salvation...became mute and powerless when he saw the passion of mom's infuriated eyes. With his bravado shrunken, all hope of intervention on my behalf disappeared. I guess, he decided against restraining her when he realized that she was a Leo. Instead, to the appreciative nods of the other moms, my mom stepped-up the carnage. Whatever dangers and/or predators I might have been exposed to in the wild, my mom was worse. She delivered her own ten-fold brand of discipline and clobbered me. In a seemingly never-ending, near-lethal dosage of slaps, screams and threats, it was branded into my psyche, to NEVER wander off again. In my adolescence, the profound nature of that lesson surely stunted my puberty by six months.
Another of mom's peccadilloes became clear to me when I got older. She had a gimmick that kept my sister and I from trying to stay (unnecessarily) home from school. In fact, it worked so well, I frequently went to school when marginally sick, to avoid the torture of cleaning my room, closets, and the basement. Even wintertime holidays like, Lincoln's birthday were unappreciated because the work at home was more tedious than anything at school.
Mom might have had other less than golden moments but luckily there weren't many. That's why I prefer to dwell on her overwhelming goodness.
Two days ago, on August 22nd we celebrated mom's 79th birthday. We took her out to the "OUTBACK STEAKHOUSE" and had a little soiree in her honor. (See last year's blog...that party was at "LENNY'S CLAM BAR.")
CAT-FIGHTS? YOU CAN SEE THOSE ANYWHERE. BUT THE DYKER HEIGHTS (BROOKLYN) OUTBACK OFFERS UNIQUE AMBIANCE...FIVE MINUTES AFTER THIS PICTURE WAS TAKEN, TWO WAITRESSES HAD A KNIFE FIGHT.
During her party mom was a true lady as we roasted her with petty jokes. She was also gracious when we filled the air with compliments. Certainly when you considered how well-adjusted and successful her children turned-out...assuming I'm staying current with my meds, she deserves a lot of credit for her unconditional love, devotion, leadership qualities and patience.
So please join me in wishing her a HAPPY BIRTHDAY and many more.
Hopefully you'll rent, "THROW MOMMA FROM THE TRAIN." I guarantee, you'll come away from the experience with a deeper appreciation of your mom.
Also, "I REMEMBER MAMA," is frequently aired on Turner Classic Movies (TCM). If you're like me, you'll love the characters and the story, but more importantly you'll reflect on the dedication and sacrifice your mom made to improve the quality of your life. That's why I get misty every time I hear the closing line of the movie, "Most of all, I remember mama."

POWER JUDGE IN THE FOURTH AT AQUEDUCT

Towards the end of fourth grade, the assistant principal came into our classroom with a little boy. Most of us guessed that he was the brother of a classmate or a misguided first grader in route to the principal's office. Instead, he was a new student about to be introduced to the class.

In this most awkward of "first-day" moments, every other "newbie" I ever was exposed to was overwhelmed, bashful or scared. But not tiny Fidel Gil (in Spanish, his last name is pronounced "heel"). Belying his size, this kid had tons of charisma to the point of star power. When he spoke to the class, despite his high-pitched voice, he displayed poise and intelligence as he described in refined English, the circumstances that led his family's move to Canarsie from Buenos Aires.

The whole class gravitated to vertically challenged Fidel. We loved his cute little Argentine accent, his adorable ever-happy disposition and infectious personality.

Fidel's charm was supported by a thick mop of curly black hair, chubby jowls and small hands that featured baby-like undeveloped knuckles. He became our class mascot and during recess or after school, Fidel loved being handled. The boys...including myself, liked picking him up, pinching his cheeks or mussing his hair. The girls treated him like a lap dog. They pet him and put bows in his hair. Had he not stopped them, they would have dressed him up like a doll.

The next year Fidel was in my class again. It's unclear why, but he decided to abbreviate his name to Del. I doubt it was to maintain his shortness theme...so maybe he was in solidarity with the area's large Cuban population who hated Castro or wanted to come-off as more Americanized. Either way, our friendship blossomed in September and October. He lived on the other end of the school district but I rode my bike and hung-out with him many times.

When football season got into full swing, it became obvious that Del was disinterested in it. He hated the colder weather outside and because he was foreign, he had no idea of the rules or how to play. At first, he tried but it was frustrating and embarrassing that he couldn't compete. Soon, he expressed a specific desire to NOT get involved. Unfortunately for our friendship, sports was an important part of my life. Therefore the luster of Del's novelty began to wear thin. In the heart of the winter, it got dark early and was too cold to bike to his house. We remained close in school but spent nearly no other time together.

When it warmed up, I found out he didn't want to play baseball either. We drifted apart. In sixth grade, we were in different classes and fell out of touch. In the summer before seventh grade, (1967), his family moved. It would be eleven years later when I bumped into him one last time.

In the mid-70's, a few doors down from the infamous Tip-Top Diner and three blocks from Lundy's, my favorite restaurant in the world, was the Davy Jones Bar. Located in Sheepshead Bay, across the street from the picturesque flotilla of party (fishing) boats on Emmons Avenue, Davy Jones was a popular Brooklyn watering-hole when I was in college. On weekend nights, you could count on the place being so packed that you could barely move.

FOR PICK-UP ARTISTS, THE SECLUDED ROW OF PARTY BOATS WAS A GREAT SPOT TO MAKE-OUT. THAT IS IF THE PRESUMABLY DRUNK GIRL COULD OVERLOOK THE POLLUTED WATER AND STENCH OF DEAD FISH.

Somewhere along the way, the bar changed hands and was re-named Captain Walter's. Among my crowd of stubborns, it was and still is referred to as Davy Jones. Aside from the name, the biggest (only?) change was to bring in live performers during the week. My favorite was an acoustic guitarist named Harry Maddox. We liked Maddox so well, on many occasions we traveled to another bar, Gantry's Tavern near St. John's University to hear him.

Harry closed each gig with his signature song, "THE ROLLING STONES" smash, "SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL." It was an especially big crowd-pleaser because he trained his audience to replace the doo-ta-doo chorus by singing out "F*** YOU!" Ah yes, you can't put a price-tag on the sophisticated, high-level of entertainment we Brooklynites demand.

In March 1978, during my Jameson chased by Heineken phase, I sat at the bar on a snowy, raw and windy Thursday night. Harry was between sets so it as fairly quiet when I felt a tap on the shoulder and heard a baritone voice say, "Hey Steve." I turned around and some pudgy guy stood there grinning. I didn't recognize him. I'm usually good with faces and I wasn't drunk but still, I drew a complete blank. Before I could say you must have me confused with somebody else...he said, "It's me Del, Fidel Gil."

After we hugged, he sat down and drank with me. He said, "I moved to Miami in seventh grade. I got a bimmie-job at Hialeah race track and quit school. After I while I decided to become a jockey." He was now my height and heavier than me so I said, "Really?" "Well," he sighed, "I sort of filled-out. When I was seventeen, friggin' puberty came out of nowhere and hit me hard. But I stayed in racing and now I work as a groom at Aqueduct." Later when the booze took effect on him he whispered, "On Saturday, the fix is in! And the smart money is on Power Judge in the fourth. He'll probably go-off at ten-to-one. It's the feature race...you can even watch it live on TV."

THE FLAMINGO FOUNTAIN AT SOUTH FLORIDA'S LANDMARK THOROUGHBRED HORSE RACING VENUE; HIALEAH PARK . THIS ONCE-BEAUTIFUL AND WORLD RENOWN RACETRACK HAS FALLEN INTO RUIN AND HAS NOT HOSTED AN EVENT SINCE 2001.

Early Saturday afternoon, together with my current FACEBOOK friend AK and another long lost buddy, we went into the OFF TRACK BETTING parlor on Rockaway Parkway. Without trying to insult MRDIMES or any other of my horse racing readers, OTB was filthy, smoky and disgusting. In the short time inside, I saw a cockroach vomiting. The only thing that separated OTB from a New York subway station waiting room was that the cloud of intense body odor there was actually worse than the subterranean stink of stale urine. I was so grossed, that to avoid getting the streets dirty, I wiped my feet before leaving.
I COULDN'T FIND AN OTB PICTURE THAT CAME CLOSE TO CAPTURING THE NAUSEATING AMBIANCE AND CHARACTERS THERE IN '78...TO LAS VEGAS' CREDIT, I SAW SIMILAR LOW-LIFES IN SUCH RACE AND SPORTS BOOKS AS: LEROY'S AND CHURCHILL DOWNS...BUT I NEVER FELT THREATENED.

Maybe it has changed in the last 30+ years but that day (the only time in my life I set foot in an OTB), the scarred, tattered and bewildered clientele looked like homeless, retired extras from the "SOPRANO'S." At that point even though I knew a moth was going to fly out of my wallet, I turned away from an eye-balling skid in an eye-patch so he wouldn't be tempted to jump me outside over the pittance I had left.

At the betting window I saw our horse was going off at eight-to-one. I handed over a five and five singles and said, "Power Judge! Ten bucks on the nose in the fourth at Aqueduct." In a similar way AK followed suit and my other friend said the same thing but three of his dollars was loose change.

We drove back to AK's ground floor apartment on Ralph Avenue. Although it was cold, it was the first sunny day in a long time. From the car, we hurriedly navigated through the mine-field of melting slush. AK acknowledged a few of the senior citizens who crammed benches along the walkway to the main entrance. To me, most of them seemed to be hoping that we'd slip on the ice.

EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE. WITH OUR BIG TEN CLAMS RIDING ON POWER JUDGE'S NOSE, WE WERE GIDDY BEFORE THE RACE AS IF OUR LIVES DEPENDED ON THE WINNINGS!

The steam heat in AK's apartment was stifling. He opened the big living room windows and turned on the TV. When our race started, it was like a typical horse racing movie. The famous race announcer Dave Johnson, named every horse and finished by saying, "And Power Judge trails the field." I was getting hit with the stink-eye and verbal flak about my "sure-thing-tip" when Johnson's next update ended with, "And Power Judge is moving up."

It was like a firecracker exploded in his butt because all the other horses looked like they were standing still. When the racers hit the three-quarter pole, our horse was fifth. But the announcer was concentrating his energy on Power Judge's momentum.

When Johnson roared, "Down the stretch we come!" The three of us were yelling at the top of our lungs as Power Judge flew into third place. In the last furlong, he roared into second. A few lengths from the finish it was obvious that he was going to overtake the favorite. For an instant, the two magnificent steeds ran neck-and-neck. AK broke the tension by screaming, "I can't believe this is happening." As Power Judge surged ahead, the leader horse mis-stepped into his path.  Power Judge was knocked him off stride. After the bump, that stupid interferring horse maintained his speed and cruised to victory.

The horse that had been third nipped us at the wire for second place. AK was the loudest as all three of us repeatedly wailed, "No, no!" With our basketball mentality, we called for a foul. Then our wish came true! In his distinctive voice Dave Johnson interrupted the festivities, "Please hold all para-mutual tickets, there's an inquiry on the board!" At the track, an impropriety like that leads to an investigation.

In anticipation of our victory by technicality, our hearts raced faster than the ponies for the next five minutes. When Johnson finally made the announcement that the winner had been disqualified, we screamed our heads off again. Although Power Judge was indeed impeded from winning, he still finished THIRD not second. After the results were changed, Power Judge "placed" which means he was bumped-up to second place...not first! We bet him to win...so we still lost.

Reality set-in. We started whining and cursed our bad luck. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was an old man from the benches outside. He leaned in and tried to look past AK and said, "Everything here okay? Should we call the cops?" AK was deflated and laughed, "Yeah, yeah Jimmy, we're okay. Please, no cops." He shut the door, went to the window and opened the shade. Outside there were about thirty old folks standing, staring and pointing at AK's apartment.

SAY WHATEVER YOU WANT BUT DEL'S INSIDE INFORMATION WAS ACCURATE! AND WE STILL LOST...GEEZ, I COULD'VE USED AN EXTRA EIGHTY BUCKS BACK THEN !

Yes even though it didn't work out, little Del Gil gave me a big memory and it has lasted a life time.

PARTY FLUFFERS INC., LLC.

I threw a party for FRANKIERIO last week. Frank is an original member of my poker buddies and has lived in Las Vegas for the last 13 years. We visited him this past June (see my "VACATION - 2009" blog). The night we got in, he was kind enough to drop everything and show us around. The following morning, he picked us up at our hotel in his new 1977 AMC Pacer and gave us the thirteen-hour, royal tourist treatment. Nice touch, his car had a giant fake Band-Aid with the letters "O-U-C-H" covering one of the dents. DESPITE THE 102 DEGREE VEGAS TEMPERATURES, FRANK'S PACER HAD MANUAL WINDOWS WHICH EASILY OVER SHADOWED ITS LACK OF AIR-CONDITIONING.

To honor the ever-popular Frank during his vacation in South Jersey, we brought together the old core of poker players along with other mutual friends. I think the main fear when mixing people who don't normally socialize...is that the lack of chemistry that might cause splinter groups instead of a single cohesive unit.

FRANK'S "GOING-AWAY" MEMORIAL POKER GAME, (SEPTEMBER '96). THAT WAS NO ORDINARY RUBBER CHICKEN GAG GIFT...IT HAD WARM, UNDULATING BODY CAVITIES. ERGO, HE GOT YEARS OF PRACTICAL USE OUT OF IT.

To combat factions and ultimately a dull party, I fantasized about inventing a business that could subliminally manipulate the attendees...and either directly or indirectly force them to have a good time...together. The idea I came up with would be called, "PARTY FLUFFERS."

First, a successful party fluffer must operate in a covert manner. Guests should not feel like they are being coerced into fun. So a fluffer would casually initiate apt and/or funny conversation. Of course an individual might come-off like a buffoon in this role so I envision better flexibility by using a team of two. And to further mask their true goal...I feel an inter-racial couple would be perfect. Remember the comedy-drama film from 1971, "THE SKIN GAME." Set in the resurrection-period south, the genius of the plot was...nobody suspected an inter-racial con-man team, (James Garner and Lou Gossett Jr).

For Frank's party I had two such folks in mind to be my fluffers. They are real people but I doubt any of my readers know them both.

For best results, the host (me) would program them early in the festivities to prep or "fluff-up" the party-goers.

On a broader level, if unwanted people stray into sacred parts of the house...like your bedroom that are "out-of-bounds," you can send your "people" in. To get the undesirables out, the fluffers can stand over the bed and proclaim to the horny couple that they are "next." If that doesn't shoo them away, the fluffers could have a carefully scripted, obnoxious argument to root out the hormonally explosive duo. Trust me, its always a sticky matter to get in the way of lovers doing their thing. However with this system, if the timing is right, you can prevent the splatter of precious bodily fluids on your new comforter. That's why when you hire PARTY FLUFFERS; the crap never stains the host's hands.

Another easy way for the host to save face involves discouraging a guest from over-indulging on shrimp cocktail, alcohol, crack-cocaine, etc. Just send the fluffers in and have them sing (poorly) the blues, scat or urban poetry. When done in the professional PARTY FLUFFER way, you might score the added bonus of having that slob or substance abuser leave the premises of their own free will.

To me, no party is complete without annoying your despicable neighbors. You know the ones who keep you from doing your yard work because they smoke those disgusting, smelly, cheap, sweet cigars. Or try to intimidate your visitors who park within 15 feet of their vaunted sprinkler heads. Or pile their lawn trash like a great wall separating your properties. Or scare your kid by threatening to kill your dog...even if she only thinks about peeing on his lawn. Or the BOOB who causes an effrontery to your eardrums and tender sensitivities by blaring the whiniest, twangiest and worst Country-Western music...EVER! Then I say, fight back. Once your big event is proceeding well inside, send your PARTY FLUFFER associates outside.

Payback is a bitch...once outside, a loud, droning non-stop dissertation concerning the female fluffer's connections, accomplishments, health issues and possessions will surely keep your unsavories next-door awake, uneasy and teetering on calling 9-1-1.

Luckily Frankierio's party was a big success and I saved big bucks by not renting the imaginary PARTY FLUFFERS...because if I'm going to run such an outfit, its going to be real expensive.

THE CORE OF ORIGINAL POKER BUDDIES AUGUST 6, 2009. DUE TO "WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM" DIFFICULTIES, MIKE123, TOOK THE ABOVE PICTURE RATHER THAN GIVE AWAY HIS WHEREABOUTS.

During his party, Frank's only regret came from admitting that he lost the rubber chicken we gave him in 1996, to a one-legged ballroom dance instructor from his new Vegas poker buddies.

I HAD NO IDEA ABOUT HIM LOSING THE RUBBER CHICKEN...BUT AT LEAST I GAVE HIM A "CHUBBY" THAT HE'LL DEFINITELY HAVE FOREVER.

I wish Frank well. And I hope he remembers that wherever he goes and whatever he does, he'll always have a friend in me.

He drove his Pacer off into the western sunset last night. I would have felt better if he had a spare tire, those donuts aren't designed for the long haul. If he gets in trouble, at least he'll have the warm memories of that old rubber chicken, my party and the chubby I gave him...to carry him through the 3000 miles home.

WHEN ART IMITATES ART

An aspect of the 1970 Mel Brooks movie, "THE TWELVE CHAIRS," includes a beggar going through the village crying out, "Epilepsy, epilepsy!" Later we find out that he lived among a sub-culture of beggars who preferred this method of work to actually working. In private, these "bums" tried to concoct new ways to promote them self as the most destitute...hence more worthy of sympathy...in the form of alms, (donations).

I grew up in New York City and always wondered if the blind guys in the subway were faking. From that I developed an everyone's got their hand in your pocket mentality. When I moved to Las Vegas in 1979, I saw it was a way of life and that creative mooching was rampant. One of the big reasons was the hobo's shantytown hidden in an enormous train yard behind the Union Plaza Casino.

Hobos rode freight trains to Las Vegas. It was a perfect spot because Vegas combined year-round warm weather with give-aways and inexpensive food. More importantly there was a steady stream of gamblers to sponge-off, who were free and easy with their chump change.

The value of the land skyrocketed after I left town (1984) and urban renewal was set in motion. The vast majority of the transients vanished after the shantytown was eliminated and the train yard was developed. Also, the slum-like streets near the casino center, (Fremont Street), were razed and replaced with real estate offices, lawyers, banks and other new businesses to support their needs.

When I vacationed in Las Vegas last month, I found these changes stunning. The crowning touch of these downtown improvements is called the FREMONT STREET EXPERIENCE.

Located along the first five westernmost blocks of Fremont Street, an awning...more specifically a 90-foot high barrel vault canopy, was completed on December 14, 1995. It provides shade to a pedestrian mall below (Fremont Street) which is also the main pipeline to the Glitter Gulch casinos, (Golden Nugget, Horseshoe, Fremont etc).

BY DAY, FREMONT STREET (looking west towards Main Street) BUSTLES WITH ACTIVITY. KIOSKS SELL ANYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE. THE ILLUSION OF BEING INDOORS IS COMPLETED BY THE STRONG AIR-CONDITIONING ESCAPING INTO THE STREET FROM EVERY DOORWAY.

In addition to traditional vendors, the Fremont Street Experience had; a balloon-animal clown, a spieler selling time shares, a magician, strolling mariachi band and an artist. We found this artist particularly interesting. Crowds encircled him as he painted on an easel that was attached to a lazy-Susan atop a regular table. This format made it possible for even a little kid to watch.

He used spray paint mixed with oils on a "canvas" that was a solid, light-weight, 24 x 18-inch plastic sheet. The masterpiece we saw him create featured a babbling brook in front of a split log fence, framed by forests of fir trees. In the background, the star-studded night sky and bright moon reflected on the scene below.

The painter spun the canvas and sprayed, dabbed and added definition with a set of knife-like tools. Six other similarly styled finished products surrounded his work station. The price was $39.00 or 2 for $65.00. The sign on the partially filled tip-jar read: "STRUGGLING ARTIST FUND."

In New York, this demonstration would be a pick-pocket's paradise. At one point I checked my wallet and surveyed the congregation. I had all my stuff and nobody looked suspicious.

My mind wandered to my dad. He was an artist and would have appreciated this five minute show. Hell, even Van Gogh would have turned over in his grave for a better look at this guy in action.

We loved the one he was working on and were tempted to buy it. Only we didn't want to schlep it around and we knew our hands were already full to get back on the plane.

In a final crescendo filled with theatrics, the artist spun and dabbed and etched in such a feverish pace that our heads spun as much as the lazy-Susan. When he stopped, like magic, the landscape was suddenly finished. You'd think he was Salvador Dali when the gallery erupted in applause and whistling.

AT NIGHT, BIGGER CROWDS COME TO SEE THE EXCITING LASER LIGHT SHOW SET TO MUSIC, PROJECTED ONTO THE BOTTOM OF THE CANOPY. THERE ARE ALSO TWO SOUND-STAGES THAT FEATURE ORGANIZED (usually free) CONCERTS. THE BIG NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY THERE HAS BECOME A VEGAS TRADITION.

We stayed four nights downtown and each morning I did my power-walk. You get a false sense of comfort under the canopy because when you get out into the sunshine (at 7AM it was always at least 90 degrees), you want to die. The heat is staggering and with no shade, there's no place to hide.

THE UNBEARABLE HEAT OF PRE-CANOPY FREMONT STREET, (1983). BACK THEN, IN THE STYLE OF "AMERICAN GRAFFITI," IT WAS A BIG DEAL FOR HIGH SCHOOL DRIVERS TO CRUISE "GLITTER GULCH" ON FRIDAY AND SATURDAY NIGHT.

While I was walking east along Charleston Boulevard, I discovered that the slums are still there. Despite the urban renewal adjacent to the hub of downtown, away from the action, homeless people slept in the shade of tattered shrubs, countless drunks wandered around and other poor folks whose Vegas dreams never materialized watched me chug by.

Some desperate people become low-level casino hustlers. They hope for simple freebies like, liquor, cigarettes, food or abandoned slot machine vouchers.

Being a 30-year casino employee, I am sensitive to higher level hustlers. These hucksters/grifters/scam artists etc., look to "earn" a free gambling stake by manipulating the weak or less savvy gamblers. Most use hard luck stories but others sell get-rich systems, are prostitutes, loan sharks etc. Luckily I didn't encounter any of that.

What I did encounter was surprising. Away from the casinos, in mundane places like; stores, parking lots and gas stations, a new form of pan-handling was going on. I guess with the economy in the toilet...unemployment in Las Vegas is at an all-time high...many clean-cut people make up the hordes of a new generation beggars. Very sad.

Later, we went back into the big strip hotels. On our way to the Wynn Casino there was a broad alley between Harrah's and the Flamingo. Similar to the downtown pedestrian mall, this area was crammed with booths selling anything you could imagine. Therefore it was a shock to see another "struggling artist" with the EXACT same set-up, EXACT same prices and EXACT same paintings.

I'm guessing there was some sort of template going on because the painting were NOT similar, they were the same! I'm glad I didn't buy one and I felt dirty for dragging my father's memory into association with that crap. And forget about poor Van Gogh's ear, chances are, he would have cut his head off after seeing that.

RED KLOTZ: THE GENERAL WHOSE ARMY ALWAYS LOST !

My favorite Atlantic City trivia question is; which property from the Atlantic City-based, "MONOPOLY" board game is misspelled?

Another interesting one is; who is Red Klotz? And why was his vacant Atlantic City liquor store spared the wrecking ball as urban renewal was tearing everything else around it down?

To acknowledge the revitalization of my friendship with STU (thanks FACEBOOK), I will introduce you to Louis Herman "Red" Klotz.

Klotz, in his late eighties, was born in Philadelphia, October 21, 1921. He attended South Philly High School and starred, in leading their basketball team to consecutive championships in 1939 and 1940. He played college ball for Villanova and briefly in the NBA during the 1947-48 season. Klotz, a point guard, appeared in eleven regular season games and six more in the playoffs for the original Baltimore Bullets. At 5 foot 7, he has the distinction of being the third shortest player in NBA history.

When I was around fourteen, Red Klotz was frequently the brunt of STU's humor. But what could possibly have earned this insignificant player a place in STU's heart?

Klotz is best known for forming (owning) teams that played against and toured with the Harlem Globetrotters. Although the team played under different names, they were overwhelmingly called the Washington Generals...and Klotz was their exasperated player/coach.

Red Klotz was the Globetrotters' perfect victim of circumstance. He was a great actor and played the part of a stooge/fall-guy with tremendous verve. Whether it was the basketball that didn't bounce, the "yo-yo ball" or the phony water bucket (it was usually filled with confetti but sometimes it was water)! The Generals coupled impeccable timing while emoting their chagrin to the delight of the predominately young crowds.

In 2005, my son Andrew's birthday party included a Globetrotter game at nearby Stockton State College. He not only loved the hi-jinx but when his friend was chosen from the audience to assist the clown-princes of basketball...his friend deferred to Andrew. His friend did a great thing and Andrew keeps the memory and the un-dribbled, autographed ball proudly.

Somehow, in all the excitement, Andrew is unclear whether Red Klotz participated that day or not. Its too bad, because in addition to Klotz's funny name, his advanced age, lack of height, wild, thinning red-hair and hyper-disposition, he made the Generals the ideal lovable losers, (straight men), for the comedic icons of exhibition basketball.

RED KLOTZ (above) WAS INDUCTED INTO PHILADELPHIA'S JEWISH HALL-OF-FAME IN 2001, (I'M GUESSING THE SPORTS WING IS ESPECIALLY SMALL). IN 2007, HE BECAME THE FIRST NON-HARLEM GLOBETROTTER TO RECEIVE THE GLOBETROTTER "LEGEND" AWARD.

After striking up a deal in 1953 with Abe Saperstein, (creator of the Globetrotters), Red Klotz coached teams lost over 13,000 times, in 118 countries, over the next 42 years. Klotz claimed that he tried to win every game but in all that time, the Generals won only six games. The last of which came under the name the New Jersey Reds, on January 5, 1971, in Martin Tennessee. This rarity ended an estimated 2495-game Globetrotter winning streak and featured a Red Klotz game winning shot at the buzzer. Later, Klotz who was 50 years old at the time said, "The crowd wanted to kill me." He remained player/coach until he was 62.

I can still hear STU ragging on Red Klotz and whistling (poorly), the Globetrotter theme song, "SWEET GEORGIA BROWN." Now after I typed all this up, my only hope is that he remembers what I'm talking about. But because I know he was also a MONOPOLY freak, I'll bet he scrolled down before reading the column to find out that: the MONOPOLY game spells one of the "yellow" properties; Marvin Gardens. When it should be spelled; Marven Gardens.

http://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.youtube.com/watch%3Fv%3D0jE2g055zRA&ei=ewVuSrStEIPUlAf6qKS1Ag&sa=X&oi=video_result&resnum=1&ct=thumbnail&usg=AFQjCNGXvlaYZuRCJgSx68uAG9DsHL3auQ CLICK ON LINK ABOVE FOR THE 1980 BENNY GOODMAN VERSION OF "SWEET GEORGIA BROWN." (4 minutes)

More importantly...here's another trivia question for all you casual visitors of Atlantic City...where is the actual Marven Gardens located? Don't bother scrolling down this time STU...because you're ALL gonna have to ask me individually for the answer.

THE EVER SNOTTY, MIKE "MEAT-BONE" FLEISCHBIEN

At a time when we should be celebrating today's 40th anniversary of the first men on the moon or at least the birthdays of two of my readers: LACC and BOZO...I choose instead to take a much lower road.

I'm still in the pleasant afterglow of my Vegas/Grand Canyon vacation. Its funny to me that part of the anticipation of returning to Las Vegas, was unexpectedly running into people. In my last visit these occurrences happened frequently. But now 17 years later...it only happened twice.

The first was a friend from my dealer school. My blog from last year "THE MIGHTY MACS" featured him and his wonderful family. When I referred to him in my short stories, I changed his name to John Heaverlo. In retrospect, it was unnecessary because there was nothing about his character or actions that would be embarrassing.

The other person I bumped into was NOT a friend. He was a cold-hearted co-worker who was so conceited, self-centered and selfish that it was paramount to change his name...to Mike "Meat-Bone" Fleischbien...to prevent possible slander charges.

Coincidentally, this knucklehead grew up three blocks from me in Canarsie. He was six years older so even though there was such a foundation to bond from, he was too annoying to be around.

What makes Meat-Bone such an ugly character is that he hadn't changed a smidge. In an industry that has grown to depend on hospitality, Meat-Bone remains the personification of negativity.

When I spotted Meat-Bone back in June, he was standing dead...his craps table was open but had no players. I doubted that he'd recognize me, so I nestled next to him and said, "Hey buddy, how do I get to Bagel Street from here?" Meat-Bone noticed I wasn't holding cash or chips and tried his best to ignore me. I continued, "Is Bagel Street in walking distance?"

He finally looked at me and said, "Never heard of it. But the information booth on the other side of the casino IS in walking distance!"

I think the best thing about control-freaks, arrogant people and know-it-alls, is, that they are so stuck on them self that they have no idea how much they are disliked.

While this was happening, my family was with me. So I ended the charade by naming his cross-street from the old neighborhood, "Bagel Street is between Avenue L and Avenue K." He remembered me at that point. Our ensuing pleasantries were short and went nowhere.

So with the vast wonderment of lunar exploration and the celebration of great people's birthdays, I instead focus on poking fun of Meat-Bone, one of the all-time jerks.

In a landmark achievement for my blog, today I present para-phrased excerpts about him from my short story, "A GUMMY CONSPIRACY."

Mike "Meat-Bone" Fleischbien is introduced in the story as a lonely pest who tried to invade my clique of craps dealers at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget, (1982-1983). The story takes place during the casino's metamorphosis from a sawdust grind-joint to a renown worldwide destination. In the chaotic process of converting the "toilet" into a palace many good employees were fired to clear-out space for influence peddlers. One of my group got fired that way. Meat-Bone seized the opportunity. He harassed the scheduler into accepting his bribe and weaseled a permanent position on my crew.

Rather than appreciate his emergence onto our "A-List" by taking on a lower-profile, Meat-Bone, to make a "good" first-impression on us was an immediate nuisance. Aside from starting nearly every sentence with "I," it was important to him that we knew that he was God's gift to dealing. In so doing, between his sneezing and coughing fits, he explained the significance of his next body-builder competition.

Later, he was in the middle of telling us about his membership to a tanning spa, when he was politely told to, "Cool it," by Antony Francis our beloved floor supervisor.

Meat-Bone smiled and snarled in his heavy Brooklyn accent, "Shaddup."

Antony Francis was seething and nervously pacing as Meat-Bone started arguing with the few players we had. When he got bored of that, Meat-Bone lectured me on the finer points of standing-dead.

A half hour later, I was explaining the rules of craps to two young girls when his preaching became intense, "I gotta tell ya Sonny, this ain't no 'table-for-table' gig. I'm gonna make the same scratch whether I work or not...so, let's not."

Soon our game swelled to seven players. In the middle of admiring his manicure Meat-Bone loudly scoffed, "I'll have to teach you my move for 'looking-away' players."

A Hawaiian couple joined our game. Back in my day, Hawaiians gambling in Las Vegas, had the reputation (pleasant and generous) for being the best ethnic group to deal to. While another dealer was rolling out the red carpet to them, Meat-Bone was still antagonizing me. From his stickman position he proudly announced, "Kid, I'll explain what you did wrong after I 'thin-out the herd.'"

I was in the middle of setting-up this couple's bets when he tapped me with the stick and said, "Listen, I'm here to help, you understand...right? As soon as we're standing dead again, I'll finish explaining everything you need to know."

The Hawaiian woman read his name-tag and said, "Come on Mike, don't be such a downer. Smile, you only live once."

"On top of my deviated septum, I gotta bad cold," he rasped to intentionally embellish his symptoms, "I shudda stayed home."

"Then you should have stayed home. We came here to relax. This is no place to be miserable."

"I shudda stayed home home...you're right. But they have a strict attendance policy." He extended his hand and added, "But for two-hundred, I'll go home right now."

The woman was fuming as Meat-Bone stared me down and spat, "See what you started!"

When Meat-Bone was relieved from the stick, he was intercepted by Antony Francis and threatened with a "write-up."

Between his exaggerated coughing and sneezing Meat-Bone remained aloof to his players while putting-in a minimal effort. When the husband began a series of unusual place-bet presses, Meat-Bone in an intimidating manner growled at the man. In between the dice rolls, he then attacked me for allowing the game to open.

The wife came to my defense and said, "If you're sick, you're sick. But you don't have to be mean. Leave that guy alone."

The husband added, "Brudda, you need to chill out."

Meat -Bone scowled, "Chill out? I already told ya, I'm dying ova here."

The husband whispered, "Up in my room, I have some paco-lo-lo. That'll put a smile on your face."

"Look bub," Meat-Bone snapped, "I don't need no drugs to feel good."

While Antony Francis struggled to find the new, "Disciplinary Action Forms," Meat-Bone exploded with a thunderous sneeze. A two-foot long gob of mucus dangled from his nose. The meticulous Meat-Bone was mortified to look bad in front of a large group.

"Tap me out," he demanded. When no one came to his rescue, he was forced to gather his mess in his hand.

The Hawaiians were pointing at Meat-Bone and laughing the loudest, "Hana-budda, hana-budda!"

Craps procedure forced Meat-Bone to remain trapped at his base (station) so he cried out in desperation, "Francis, get me some goddamn Kleenex!"

Antony Francis hated being called by his surname. He bitterly grabbed the box. But he didn't hand them to Meat-Bone. Instead, he teasingly, he held the tissues just out of the impatient patient's grasp.

Our game came to a complete stop as Antony said, "Well."

"Well what?"

"How were you brought-up? Don't you EVER say please or thanks or apologize or..."

"C'mon a-ready!"

Antony bled every second of humiliation and said, "Say please, now...and there better be a thank you too."

"PLEASE, thank you...thank you with a cherry on top."

Antony wasn't satisfied and remained frozen. He folded his arms and tucked the box under his left bicep.

Meat-Bone grimaced in defeat and said, "Yeah, I'm an ass-hole. Now, please...give me the fuckin' tissues."

When everything calmed down I asked the couple, "What does hana-budda mean?"

They started laughing again and the wife said, "In the Hawaiian language there is no real word for it because we don't catch colds."

She started to giggle and blushingly turned away so her husband added, "Hana is our word for nose and budda...is butter.."

The couple looked at each other and wailed, "Hana-budda, is snot."

THE "BLUE PLANET," PHOTOGRAPH BROUGHT BACK BY APOLLO 8, a. k. a. "EARTHRISE," HAS BECOME AN ICON FOR ENVIRONMENTAL CONSCIOUSNESS ON EARTH. MAYBE THERE SHOULD BE A PICTURE OF MEAT-BONE FROM OUTER SPACE TO SYMBOLIZE TO POWER-JUNKIES, JUST HOW INSIGNIFICANT THEY ARE TO THE REST OF THE WORLD.

My short story, "A GUMMY CONSPIRACY" is one of 20 I have written. If you'd like to read them, my 2 screenplays or novel...please contact me and I'll send them via E-Mail or lend you a hard copy.