WHY GLEN'S NAME SHOULD RING A BELL

Mike Myers plays a dual role in 1993's, "SO I MARRIED AN AXE MURDERER." As the main character's Scottish father, he delivers a heavily accented great line when speaking of Kentucky Fried Chicken: I don't know what they put in it, but it make you crave it nightly.

Its true, their combination of spices, salt and chemicals is an aphrodisiac for the palate. Fast-food restaurants rely on taste over health to brain-wash customers from early childhood in order to regenerate new clientele.

Although contemporary menu's are changing to fit the times...the time-honored success of these restaurants is based on feeding us fat, cholesterol and other crap. Remember, spinach and Brussels sprouts...unless covered in cheese whiz or confectionery sugar will never taste better than french fries or wet walnuts. That's the way we like it and wouldn't have it any other way.

I think because of the subjectivity of individual needs and inconsistency of availability, there could never be a definitive best fast-food. Just google, "Top 10 Fast-Food Restaurants," and you'll see more lists than you'll ever care to read. The reason there are so many lists is because they are making judgements based on different criteria.

McDonald's is the clear leader in gross sales...yet only 4th in the quality of franchise category.
ITS HARD TO ROOT FOR McDONALD'S BECAUSE THEY SINGLE-HANDEDLY PUT ALL THE MOM & POP JOINTS OUT OF BUSINESS. CAUGHT IN THE CORPORATE TIDAL WAVE, GREAT PLACES IN MY OLD NEIGHBORHOOD LIKE; BENSON'S BURGERS, CONEY ISLAND JOE'S AND FARRELL'S GOT SWALLOWED-UP.

Starbucks is listed 4th in gross sales but I disqualify them because, I don't consider them a fast-food restaurant.

I do accept Subway as fast-food...and I embrace their healthy option tangent to success but their food would never get between me and Wendy's, Arby's or Dairy Queen.

Plus the world famous Hot Dog on a Stick (clever concept) which was the #18 franchise, I never even heard of.

So because all that matters here is my opinion, I present for you approval, THE MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND... MOUNT RUSHMORE OF FAST-FOOD.
FOR THE SAME REASON YOU WON'T FIND HERBERT HOOVER, RUTHERFORD B. HAYES OR ANDREW JOHNSON MEMORIALIZED IN SOUTH DAKOTA, YOU WON'T FIND STEWART'S ROOT BEER, AUNT ANNIE'S PRETZELS OR PAPA JOHN'S GETTING IMMORTALIZED ON MY MOUNTAIN.

Only four presidents are forever etched in our national consciousness at Mount Rushmore. Greats like Franklin Roosevelt and John Kennedy did not earn the rose of acceptance. Neither did near-greats like Ronald Reagan, Andrew Jackson and John Adams. Bottom-feeders like Millard Fillmore, Richard Nixon, Martin Van Buren and Benjamin Harrison didn't even even get votes from their descendants. And Gerald Ford's nomination was negated because he slipped down and accidentally put his name in the address section of the application. However it should be noted that, William Howard Taft was considered until they realized no one else's image would have fit on the rock.

Some of the fast-food "also-rans," were.

A virtual unknown in these parts, "THE JAMES *CONEY ISLAND AND CHILI PARLORS," are sprinkled throughout Texas.
*Note - Throughout the south, the term "coney island" refers to a hot dog.
While I was in Houston in 1976, I came across this restaurant. I had already walked all day so when I brought my tray to a table, I plopped down in exhaustion. Just as I was about the start my chili, I realized that I didn't get any Tabasco sauce. My tiredness out-weighed my need for further accoutrement. Lucky me...like nuclear fission exploding in my mouth, the first spoonful neutered my taste buds for 2 days.

During an episode of "SEINFELD," Jerry makes the statement; there's no such thing as bad pizza. While many less sophisticated people can relate...it is merely a truism...something to make you laugh. Therefore, I beg to differ..there is bad pizza! Upon closer examination, you shouldn't have to be a New Yorker to recognize crappy pizza. PIZZA HUT ranks third as a franchise and seventh in gross sales. I guess most of America has an; any port in a storm, pizza mentality. To prove how bad it is...DOMINO'S PIZZA is the #7 franchise but does not make it into the top 10 in gross sales. And while their product is also awful...it is eons better than the ketchup on cardboard at the hut ! To make matters worse, in the Raton New Mexico Pizza Hut, in their need to be regionally sensitive...included in their Italian subs, (without warning), were gobs of jalapenos.

The WAFFLE HOUSE has a special place in my heart. When RBOY and I lived in Kissimmee Florida, (summer '74), during the night, vandals switched the giant sign's "W" and "A." In my mind, I've called it the AWFFLE HOUSE ever since. More recently my son Andrew tried to order pancakes at their Elkins Maryland location. The waitress Nadine's name-tag indicated that she was a 14-year Waffle House veteran. She said, "This is the Waffle House! We don't sell pancakes!" Andrew politely replied, "Why not, you can get waffles at the pancake house, (IHOP)." Today, three years later, I bet she's still stumped for an answer.

In 1985, to acknowledge RCC's 30th birthday, I bought him 30 of his treasured WHITE CASTLE hamburgers. While I was waiting to be served, I saw a cockroach skating across the greasy floor...suddenly, it vomited. I ignored this obvious omen and ate a couple of burgers myself. The secret of these cheap little chop-meat laxatives are the minced onions. No doubt about it, they are tasty and go down easy. Unfortunately mine did a roller-coaster explosion through my system and soon there after burst out my other end. By the way, I haven't stepped into a White Castle since.

Somehow JACK IN THE BOX was listed as the fourth best franchise? I am perplexed...how can anyone "like" this place? In the 70's, I associate eating there...or should I say, winding up there, because it was the only place in my native Canarsie that was opened for 2:AM munchies. The reality check clicked-in when I ate there sober...the food was disgusting! However, ordering from the clown...even when I was 20 was still thrilling.
WHO'S RUNNING THE DAMNED SHOW? IN THE 80'S, "JACK IN BOX," HAD A COMMERCIAL CAMPAIGN WHERE THEY WERE BLOWING UP THE OLD CLOWNS...ITS WAS BOTH SATISFYING AND RIVETING. I THOUGHT THOSE BOZOS WERE MOVING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION. UNFORTUNATELY, IT WAS REPLACED WITH THIS FAR MORE CREEPY SPOKES-MODEL.

To para-phrase Sir Winston Churchill's quote about Russia, SONIC DRIVE-INS, are a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. It baffles me that their marketing strategy has them seemingly wasting millions in advertising dollars when I have NEVER...until this past summer in Las Vegas, seen one in operation. Somehow, their franchise ranked fifth and their gross sales came in at number ten. To their credit, my Andrew did score the food highly. But the smoke-screen of afternoon half-price drink specials are misleading because their competitors all offer round-the-clock self-service soda fountains and limitless refills.

So which four restaurants get to be on my MOUNT RUSHMORE of FAST-FOOD.

#1 In the George Washington position is McDONALD'S. With perhaps the single most recognized corporate logo on the planet...they are clearly the prototype of fast-food success. Founded in 1955 on the simple concept of; meat, bread, potatoes, milk and little else, Mickey D's has evolved and re-invented itself (Happy Meal, McDonaldland and Big Mac), to the contemporary needs of today's consumer. Perfect for kiddie parties, their pleasant environment is clean, consistent and friendly. They perpetuate repeat business by partnering with Hollywood by including corresponding collectible Happy Meal toys. Of course they aren't perfect. Their thick shakes resemble aerated Kaopectate and their surprise drop-ins by Ronald McDonald can be scary to little ones. Unfortunately for me, when Ronald frightened my kid in the Absecon NJ store, my tough guy was eleven.
McDONALD'S CUSTOMER SERVICE IS SO GOOD THAT THE BELCOVILLE, NJ SITE TELEPHONES A CORPULANT COWORKER OF MINE, THREE TIMES A WEEK TO LET HIM KNOW WHEN THE AFTERNOON COOKIES ARE READY.

#2 In the Thomas Jefferson position I select DUNKIN' DONUTS. Featuring the convenience of 24-hour service, DD did an everyman version of the cool sophisticated beatnik coffee houses of the early 60's. Coupled with a wide selection of doughnuts that would be the envy of any bakery and an ever-expanding array of sandwiches, DD has always had a special place in my heart. Also, because the franchises are frequently owned by foreigners...they're accessible for emergency visits on Christmas Day, New Year's Day and Thanksgiving. You can even brew DD coffee at home and enjoy them with a nice chocolate french cruller or a bag of Munchkins.

#3 Hidden in Rushmore's alcove, in Theodore Roosevelt's spot is BURGER KING. I remember when you could get a free hamburger if you could say; the bigger the burger, the better the burger, the burgers are bigger at Burger King. Even though they always played second fiddle to McDonald's, BK remained a giant themself with great innovations like flame grilling and the idea of having it your way. My son Andrew disagrees but side-by-side, I have always preferred the King.

SOME OF MY LESSER KNOW FAVORITES INCLUDE; CINNABON, POPEYE'S FRIED CHICKEN and CARL'S JR...LONG JOHN SILVER'S...NOT SO MUCH.

#4 Last but not least, way back in Abraham Lincoln's spot is TACO BELL. Taco Bell bucked the trend of burger joints and rejoiced in the slogan, "go beyond the bun." Founded by an American with roots in Mexican restaurants, Glen Bell opened his first Taco Bell in Downey California in 1962. He used aggressive ad campaigns and made the Taco Bell Chihuahua an international superstar. Often imitated but never duplicated, no other restaurant of it kind has ever approached the success of Taco Bell.

Keep an eye out for coupons in the newspaper, every now and then, they have 49c tacos specials. The soft shells are so much better. And make sure they melt the cheese or you'll have the same "hot-lettuce" controversy as I stirred-up in their Pleasantville NJ store. But I'll save that story and their E Coli break-out from last year for another blog. RETRO-BELL - FROM WAUSAU WISCONSIN, THE PRE-1984 ARCHITECTURE

On January 19, 2010 Taco Bell founder Glen Bell died, he was 86. Something tells me that his recipes also included something to make me crave (gladly), his food nightly!

My only hope is that now this fast-food visionary's name will ring a bell when you hear it.

SIDE BY SIDE WITH SINATRA

Paul Reuben's antics in the movie theater not only ruined his career and tainted his image but ended, "THE PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE," TV show, at the height of its popularity. The show was canceled before my son Andrew was born but when he was four, the reruns were introduced to him.

"PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE," RAN FOR 5 SEASONS, 45 EPISODES FROM 1986-1990.

The show's fantasy was perfect for my boy and he liked the idea of a childish adult. Plus the colorful silliness, odd-ball characters, music, animals, cartoons and nutty educational/ life lessons made each show a feast for his budding sophistication.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKcYGOIJhqo
TO FURTHER ENHANCE THE PEE-WEE MOOD, GO TO THE LINK ABOVE FOR THE SHOW'S THEME SONG.

Pee-Wee was even relevant to older kids and adults. I'm not afraid to say that I was entertained too.Mostly, I loved watching my boy's interactions...like, to the "word-of-the-day." Even better was seeing Andrew's reaction to the semi-recurring "door-to-door salesman" character. Pee-Wee would answer a knock at his door. Someone dressed in a humongous head costume (complete with a suit and tie) would be there.
A voice-over spiel for the giant head would lead to, "I have an incredible offer!"

Pee-Wee would slam the door, run away with his hands over his ears and do his combined giggle/shout, "Ah salesman!"

In sympathy to Pee-Wee's plight, my boy would run out of the room and hide at the edge of the doorway until he was sure the salesman segment was over.
ON FAR RIGHT, SEE HOW SMALL PEE-WEE IS COMPARED TO THE SALESMAN. THE LAST TIME THE SALESMAN APPEARED, PEE-WEE INVITED HIM IN.

Hard to believe but true, Andrew's trait of fearing salesmen was definitely passed down from me. I remember in the late 80's, a time that I wished, I had run away from a salesman.

                                                                                *


I had a dealer training school in Atlantic City.  I was ocassionally pestered by "Cappy," (a salesman). His unwelcome drop-ins were a marketing ploy to sell (in bulk), cheesy, self-produced audio cassettes that included "can't miss" gambling systems for winning at, blackjack, craps, roulette etc.

Cappy was like the scary salesman puppet on the Pee-Wee's show. He would NEVER take no for answer. He's extoll the virtue of his product by suggesting that they'd be included as a "freebie" in each new student's welcome package. I told him it was inappropriate because we train people to become casino dealers...not gamblers.

Although some might commend his sticktoitiveness, he was nothing more than a narcissistic, time-wasting distraction.

Cappy eventually got the hint and de-emphasized hawking his tapes.  Unpreturbed, he soon returned with a new gimmick.  This new and improved schtick involved ranting on as a self-proclaimed gambling expert/consultant. To further promote this knowledge (and cassettes too), he produced, somewhere in the northern tip of rural Jersey, a regional cable-access TV show, "CAPPY'S CORNER." The program's focus was casinos, related gambling topics and entertainment that directly or indirectly dealt with the gaming industry.

A natural showman, he blended a pushy, off-the-wall personality with an earthy, obtuse intellect, to tell interesting stories. So without the specter of sales dangling over my head...he seemed more human.A couple times, if I wasn't too busy, I'd let him drone on.  At one point, Cappy was recruited to be the talent on the school's only TV commercial. Somewhere, buried in the bowels of my house, I have a VHS copy of that ad. It was a take-off of the old, "Hey Jerry, what's the story?" JGE Appliance Store commercial. I'll keep looking for it but I haven't seen it in 15+ years.

Once our commercial was aired, the prima donna visited more often and became harder to get rid of. Around the school, as they say in Latin, Cappy took on the role of, "celebriti non grata." One day, he sensed the bum's rush and tried to sweeten the pot by inviting me on his show.

I said, "I am the resident director of the school. The essence of what I do, is to oversee the day-to-day operation of the school. I can't drive almost three hours in each direction to be on your cockamamie version of, "WAYNE'S WORLD."
Cappy got defensive, "I get top flight guests and discuss only cutting edge issues."
I said, "Really!  Like who?"
"Al Lewis!"

I shrugged, "That's not quite the Queen of England..."
Cappy added, "Don't you know who he is? For crissakes, he's Al Lewis...Grandpa...from, "THE MUNSTERS!" You should be honored that I'm putting you on the same stage as him."
I said, "I'm an adult. I'm not easily dazzled by 'Grandpa' Al Lewis...and I don't need his autograph. Plus, I can't kill a day and drop my responsibilities to be seen in by dozens of yahoos in Hunterdon County."
"No," he said, "you're not dropping responsibilities, you'll be advertising. You come on my show and tell everyone how great and easy your training will be and, how rewarding of a job they can get."
I didn't think he could handle the concept of the limited impact his viewership would have on enrollment. So without a reason, I firmly but politely turned him down.

                          LOVABLE "GRANDPA" AL LEWIS FROM, "THE MUNSTERS."

The next time Cappy dropped-in he excitedly said, "Wanna be on my show next Thursday?"
I said, "Nah."
"Don't say no so fast. This time you're gonna want to kiss my ring.  NO!  You'll want to kiss my damned feet."
I looked at my watch and lied, "This isn't a good time for me now."
In a sing-song voice Cappy said, "You'll never guess who's gonna be appearing with you?"
"I dunno. Who?"
"Aw, c'mon guess."
"You just said, I'll never guess...don't play games. You wanna tell me--then tell me."
"SINATRA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" "OLD BLUE EYES," THE PRIDE OF HOBOKEN NJ, FRANCIS ALBERT SINATRA.

I was never big on Sinatra but appreciated that he had to be the best entertainer...EVER! I also knew three people who had photos of themself with Sinatra...and I thought having "our" picture on my desk would be priceless.
I said, "Yeah, I can adjust some appointments for Sinatra."
Cappy said, "You know Steve, I operate on a shoestring budget.  So while my regular guests wait to 'go on' in what I call our Green Room, they don't get much more than a bowl of Skittles.  But Sinatra likes a little nip before going on.  And to go with the liquor I'm having trail mix, chips and dip.  The friggin' works."

I managed to say, "Cool..."  

He plowed on, "Imagine being side-by-side with Sinatra...just chewing the fat." Plus, you'll treasure the on-camera experience and chit-chat with me and him for the rest of your life."
"You don't have to sell me...count me in!"
"Good."

Starstruck I blithered, "I loved him in "GUYS AND DOLLS." And, "FROM HERE TO ETERNITY," and "THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE," and "OCEANS 11," and "VAN RYAN'S EXPRESS," and..."
"No, no, no," Cappy interrupted, "Not Frank Sinatra, Frank Sinatra...Junior!"

WORLDWIDE THEY REALLY GO FOR FRANK SINATRA...JUNIOR, NOT SO MUCH!

God-damned salesman, you can see why Andrew hid and Pee-Wee Herman ran from the door screaming.

HE CALLS HIS MOM, "DON CORDELEONE."

Please bear with me...I still feel like talking about moms.

From 1986-1990, I owned a casino dealer training academy in Atlantic City. One of the oddball things I had to deal with was a sudden rash of thefts. Some of the problems were harmless pranks. Others involved souvenir hunters and gaming equipment collectors who targeted the school's dice, craps stick and valueless practice chips.

Others chose to steal, a clock off the wall, our coffee percolator, an adding machine, a gold Cross pen and petty stationery supplies.

The bigger thorn in my side was the loss of student property. The easiest mark was our coat rack. It was obscured from plain sight in an alcove, so it didn't take a master criminal to rifle through pockets or walk-off with some of the better jackets.

Security measures were put in place so that the instructors were accountable for their gaming items, office doors were locked when not in use and a large sign above the wardrobe reminded everyone that personal items are left at the owner's risk.

It seemed that the reign of robberies was over when a young, scatter-brained (bleach-blond), named Debbie knocked on my office door.
She angrily said, "I've been robbed!"

In frustration I thought; Oh no, not again.
Debbie made a quick list of three swipings, (as she put it), suffered by other classmates and added, "And now me!"
"What happened?" I huffed.

"I found my coat on the floor and my pocket was empty!"
I sighed, "What was taken?"
She said, "Cash!"
"How much?"
Debbie looked me with disdain, "Five cents."
I let out a cleansing breath, looked the knucklehead in the eye and opened my desk drawer.
"Debbie," I said. "Was it a nickel or five pennies?"
"A nickel!"
I picked a dusty nickel out from under some paper clips and said, "I'm sorry your coat fell on the floor but you're in luck, someone just turned this nickel in."
After she examined it Debbie said, "Thanks," and scampered away like a woodland sprite.

I was patting myself on the back for having side-stepped another disaster when the phone rang.

It was the mom of a 19-year old student whose leather jacket had been stolen right after we hung the warning sign. I tried talking her down. She loudly told me that she didn't care about the instructor's warning or that her son knew the risks. After cutting me off twice, she eloquently said in her harsh Brooklyn accent, "I don't give a f****** rat's ass about your f******sign." At one point, her rant was so intense, I thought she was going to suck my whole head into the telephone. After insulting every member of my ancestry as well as everyone else I ever knew, she shot-out one last "FU!" and slammed down the receiver.

The next day my right ear was still smarting when that student approached me. I started to apologize about his jacket but he stopped me and insisted I accept his apology. He added that his mom is half Portuguese, half Sicilian and 100% emotional.

In appreciation of his humor, I smiled.
"Actually," he added, "what she gave you wasn't so bad. You're lucky you didn't have to see the tongue-lashing I got...AND...that was nothing compared to what I've lived with my whole life."

In 1990, I told my business partner to shove the school up his ass. In a short time, I took on my present position as a casino dealer. Coincidentally, the student who had hs jacket stolen and I became co-workers and eventually close friends.

Ironically, our friendship blossomed at a rival dealer school when we randomly wound-up in the same roulette training class. Despite a 14-year age difference, we were able to relate to each other. I guess that either means, he was mature for his age, or I wasn't.

During that course, we began sharing intimate details of our lives. I told him about the irreconcilable, philosophical differences I had with my business partner and he told me several powerful bipolar, PMS-driven stories about his mom.

Please note, before he told me anything specific, he prefaced everything by saying, "My mother ruled with an iron fist. She was so bad, I nicknamed her Don Cordeleone."

TOSS THE GUN AND TAKE THE CANOLIS. THERE WERE MANY TIMES THAT MY FRIEND THOUGHT THAT SHE WAS GOING TO HAVE HIM SLEEPING WITH THE FISHES.

A single mom with a hot-blooded Mediterranean temper, she combined a warm, loving home with episodes of physical and mental abuse.
Her common catchphrase was, "I love you...you *lousy bum." *But she didn't really say lousy bum.

I'm sure that lifestyle was difficult to grow-up in. But my friend is so well-adjusted as an adult that he has dedicated himself to ending the cycle of negativity that infected his mother when she was growing up.  Far better, my friend is able to twist a humorous spin into every awful incident he was forced to endure.

My favorite Don Cordeleone story involves his family trip to Macy's on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. He's about four, his sister is six and his mom is experiencing the edginess of tunnel-vision while power-shopping.

Any young children would feel bored if they were being dragged through every aisle in the womens-wear department. In what had to feel like an eternity, my friend and his sister began to wander and whine for candy, balloons or whatever else they saw. Everyone would have been better served if mom provided such a simple diversion. Instead, the Don couldn't be bothered. So, to combat or at least minimize the distractions, mom responded with a series of threats, screams and slaps.

My friend needed the restroom but was intimidated to ask for favors. When it became an emergency he sheepishly flinched, "Mommy, I have to go poopy."
Don Cordeleone held a fuchsia blouse against her chest and looked in a mirror. Her four-year old repeated himself. She was too absorbed to hear him as she inspected the same blouse in lavender.
The daughter tugged on mom's elbow and exclaimed, "He has to go poopy!"
The Don glared down and rasped, "I don't care if he shits in the street!"
Mom did a pirouette and checked her posterior in the mirror as the little boy...with his sister right behind him advanced towards the exit.

My friend pushed his way through the heavy brass-framed glass door and stood outside. Amid the din of jack-hammers and honking taxis, he lowered his pants. Disgusted rubber-necking pedestrians on Fifth Avenue gawked in disbelief as he squatted down. Then to the shock of his sister on the other side of the glass, he did his business, (my friend always makes a point to describe the dumbstruck look on his sister's flattened face as she pressed upon the window).
UNFORTUNATELY, YOU CAN'T SEE HIS "MESS" FROM THIS ANGLE BUT IF YOU SQUINT, YOU CAN SEE TWO OF THE "GODFATHER'S" TUFFS IN THE DOORWAY HOLDING THEIR HANDS IN THEIR OVERCOAT POCKETS.

When he came back into Macy's, his sister grabbed his hand and marched him back to mom. The Don, unaware they had gone, had an arm full of clothes and impatiently snapped, "Stop running all over the friggin' store before you get us thrown out!"
Sister said, "But mom..."
With a terroristic snarl Don Cordeleone looked down at her and barked, "Shut up!"
The little girl squeaked, "But he..."
The Don interrupted and roared, "When I tell you to do something..."
She continued raving for over a minute. When the noise was over, the kids knew mom had made the proverbial offer they couldn't refuse.
Mom sighed, "Now, wait right here while I try these on."
The sister went against everything that was holy and reflexively shouted, "BROTHER MADE A POOPY IN THE STREET!"
"WHAT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The girl explained the whole story.
When mom was about to explode her daughter added, "But you told him you didn't care if he shit in the street."
The Don screamed so loud that employees came running over. Instinctively, she dropped the clothes onto a display table. She grabbed her packages, shoved sister forward, took the boy by the ear and hustled them out...and all the way home.

It was tough for my friend back in their apartment. But at least his most torturous and boring day was cut short. Plus, he was never brought along when the Don shopped for herself. When my friend looks back at that day he likes to say, "I wish I had told my mother, 'taking a dump on Fifth Avenue wasn't personal...it was business.'"

I guess it's safe to say, "Due to circumstances beyond their control, not all women make good moms...after all, babies don't come with an instruction manual."

SOUNDING FISHY...IS NOT THE PROBLEM

I will soon be celebrating my eleventh year of power-walking. In that time, I have seen many interesting things but the most incredible come from the animal kingdom...more specifically, the animal kingdom's "road-kill" division.

This part of South Jersey has a wide variety of wildlife. So seeing fresh, dead critters on my three neighborhood jaunts each week is almost common.

I think splattered squirrels, field mice, bats and rabbits got what they deserved. Squashed turtles, snakes and chipmunks, as sad as they might be, are no big deal. And raccoons, deer and foxes should have enough brains to avoid jaywalking. However, there has been three circumstances of road-kill that were not only eye-opening but disturbing as well.

About ten years ago, I got the crap scared out of me on Great Creek Road. Ahead, I saw a clump of furriness and upon closer examination became startled when I realized it was an animal, (my first up close look at a possum). At that moment I didn't know what it was but its haunting smiley face and ferocious rows of razor-like teeth seemed poised to rip out a section of my Achilles Tendon.WHEN CAUGHT OFF-GUARD, FLATTENED POSSUMS LOOK A LOT LESS CUTE AND CUDDLY.

More recently on Wrangleboro Road, I saw a pair of long, thin plastic tubes glistening in the distance. As I neared them, I noticed they led to a grayish brown lump in the weeds. My heart then jumped in my throat when I realized that these lines were intestines pulled from a gopher's innards.

This morning, I saw the granddaddy of all unusual dead animals! I was power-walking in a remote corner of the parking lot, in the Garden State Parkway's rest stop when I saw a big, grayish, aquamarine-colored fish. I hustled over and discovered it was a three-foot shark. I can't identify many sea creatures but this was definitely mini-jaws.

My wife Sue on the other hand...could probably tell what species of shark it was. In her youth, she had plenty of fishing experience. She proved her expertise in the mid-80's when we took my parents for a stroll, along the Emmons Avenue marina in Brooklyn's Sheepshead Bay. In the late afternoon, the fisherman set up makeshift booths along the sidewalk and sell their catch. As we went past, Sue named every fish.

I stored her appreciation for fishing away. Five years later, we went to Ocean City Maryland with another couple. They brought rods and reels and were surprised that I didn't bring mine. They couldn't believe I was going to a fisherman's paradise without any intention of fishing. The guy then laughed in my face when I said, "I never fished in my life." They encouraged (badgered) me for quite some time until...I, the ultimate land-lubber...for the sake of my wife, agreed to pull up my land anchor and take the plunge.

We made reservation for the following morning aboard a chartered party boat.

Our hotel had an aquarium attached to a fountain in the lobby. The place's atrium affect gave each room a view of it from the balcony. That night, after we said our good-byes, the other guy phoned my room and asked me to meet him outside the room. I found him in the corridor leaning over the third floor rail, with fishing rod in hand.
I saw the colorful carp swimming below as he stood erect, cast his line and said, "I'm gonna catch me some fish tonight too."
I groaned, "See you in the morning," and turned back towards my room.
I heard strong rolling thunder in the distance as he said, "Wait, I'll let you try after I get one."

At 6AM, the fog was so dense it looked like nighttime. It had stormed during the night and the parking lot was partially flooded. I put on the Weather Channel. They were reporting a clear afternoon and especially rough seas. I called the other couple and told them my findings.
He laughed at me and said, "We're ready for breakfast."

We parked at the western end of Division Street and boarded the boat. Even though you could barely see a hundred feet into the bay, the glass-like water was calm. Our moods were high as our "GILLIGAN'S ISLAND-like," three-hour tour began.

Ten minutes later, we were peacefully chugging out of the bay. I was getting a feel for handling the fishing rod when I started a series a sea-sickness jokes. Soon all four of us were topping each other with clever synonyms for vomit.

We were just getting into the open ocean when an employee wearing a yellow rain slicker delivered the bait. My eye caught a glimpse of the disgusting cut-up fish. It didn't bother me but I made a point to avoid looking down into the bucket again.

Soon, the sun was trying to poke through the haze as the choppy Atlantic intensified. We were still giddy with excitement as the wind's direction changed. In retrospect, I should have moved to avoid the stink, because I wasn't savvy to the affect diesel fumes would have on me.

The "party" boat began a continual series of climbs and crashes in the ten-foot swells. Amid the pukey wisecracks, the bait and the boat's exhaust, I felt my first twinge of stomach discomfort.

At the same time that my laughs and smiles were eroding into a somber melancholy, a senior citizen in a tattered white, naval officer's cap approached. He was collecting money for the, "catching the biggest fish pool." I had my head down trying to find two singles to buck-up with when I got a full facial blast of the old-salt's cheap cigar. In the exact second I gave away our two-dollar entrance fee for the contest...I gave away whatever I had for breakfast.

Within seconds, my mess was being hosed-down as torturous taunts from my sea-faring brethren began. Their sarcastic jeering inspired me to stumble to the railing to give my dinner from the night before...a decent burial at sea.

My wife was supportive as she escorted her fallen warrior into the cabin. She situated me on a wooden bench and left me laying there like a lox. She then went and asked a member of the staff to turn back because I was sick.
He had a good laugh at her "joke" and said, (insert pirate accent here), "Aye, give 'em time, half these people will be chummin' right along side your darlin'."

Simultaneously, my nausea and cold-sweats temporarily subsided. This lull in my suffering allowed me to realize how pissed-off I was for being in my predicament. I thought I would die if this was going to keep up for two more hours. I tried to sleep but the taste of bile in my mouth wouldn't let me relax. My thoughts wandered as I held my belly and stared out the window. The listing ship caused the scenery to a have a regular cadence. In predictable intervals, I saw sky, sky, sky...water, water, water. After four sets of that, the queasiness shot through me again...I made a mad dash to the "head" and gave back the previous day's lunch.

The other couple came by to see how I was and my wife made a couple of non-conjugal visits too. Luckily, I slipped in and out of sleep for the rest of the voyage.

The storm during the night had churned-up the ocean so much that few people caught any fish. That tidbit and the first sighting of land didn't give me any solace as my sea-sickness evolved into the dry-heaves.

Our boat was inching into port as I shakily arose. The fresh air, still-water and bright sun lifted my spirits until I heard my group laughing and talking about going for lunch. As dizzy as I was, I made sure I was first in line to disembark. As soon as we docked, I staggered down the gangway. Back on terrafirma, I got on my hands and knees and kissed the ground.

I swore I'd never go ocean fishing again...and never have.

As for the dead shark in the parking lot...when my son Andrew and his two friends came home from school, I mentioned it to them. They wanted to see the beast, but I warned them it might not still be there, six-plus hours later. Propelled by their curiosity, we took the 5 minute drive. Well, it was not only there but the shark became an iPHONE sensation and the highlight of their day. THE SHARK'S CONDITION DETERIORATED DURING THE DAY. TORN APART BY SEAGULLS, I CAN'T BELIEVE I DIDN'T WRETCH. HOWEVER, THE TEENAGE LUST FOR HIGH ENTERTAINMENT WASN'T HINDERED BY THE VICTIM'S PLUCKED-OUT EYE, DARKENED COLOR, PUTRID STENCH OR SWARM OF FLIES.

If the shark wasn't there, my story would have sounded like an exaggeration or a lie...instead the boys got more than they bargained for...a FISHY fishy.

The only way to top today's fishy shark tale would be if I saw and smelled a dead skunk on my next power-walk. If I do, maybe that will send me back out to sea?

"HUT TO PEEN AND SMOOTH SAILING"

Do you know who Officer Joe Bolton and Captain Jack McCarthy are? If you do, that means you watched a lot of TV as a kid, you're from the New York City area and/or you're very old like me.

Before the idea of Educational TV, "SESAME STREET" or the "TELETUBBIES," Bolton and McCarthy were the face of New York's, matinee programming. From the mid-50's to early 70's, these stalwarts of my youth appeared as hosts for kiddie-shows, exclusively on Channel 11, (WPIX).

Joe Bolton came to WPIX as a weatherman in 1948. In 1955, he began hosting the "LITTLE RASCALS" reruns. Dressed like a patrolman, on a set that was made-up to resemble a police station, Officer Joe would do local commercials between the episodes. Also, using his cop image as a positive role-model, he'd propagandize his viewers with moralistic tidbits like; eat your vegetables, help mom around the house, do your homework, be kind to younger siblings and respect your elders.

Bolton was kept on at WPIX after the station lost the rights to, "Little Rascals," in 1958. His role remained the same when the programming switched to, "THE THREE STOOGES." In 1970, after parents groups cited the violence caused by Moe, Larry and Curly, was effecting children negatively, the show was cancelled. The affable Bolton survived the purge and was invited to host "THE DICK TRACY SHOW" cartoons.

ON AUGUST 13, 1986, JOSEPH REEVES BOLTON III DIED, HE WAS 75.

Jack McCarthy was the host of Channel 11's St. Patrick's Day Parade for 42 years. I didn't know that...until today. What I do know is, his character was a direct result of Joe Bolton's success. Dressed as a naval officer, "Captain" Jack hosted, "POPEYE THE SAILOR MAN," cartoons from 1963-1972.

McCarthy's set looked like a ship's deck. He'd open each show behind an old-fashioned ship's wheel, ring the bell above his head and say with a touch of an Irish brogue, "Its four bells...time for the "POPEYE THE SAILOR MAN SHOW."

Like Bolton, his spiel between cartoons included advertisements and reminders of the golden rules, like; treat others how you'd want to be treated, keep your room ship-shape, be kind to animals and steer clear of bad kids. However, unlike is counterpart, he claimed his performances were unscripted. Plus, he occasionally mixed-in some cute Irish anecdotes and folklore.

The Captain closed each show by ringing the bell and making this signature statement, "Hut to peen." Then in a military way, he'd salute his viewers and add, "And smooth sailing."
"CAPTAIN" JOHN JOSEPH McCARTHY LIKED TO SAY, "I WAS BORN ON 52nd STREET AND FIFTH AVENUE."AFTER PAUSING HE'D ADD, "FIVE BLOCKS OFF, (FIFTH AVENUE)."  NYC'S, "MR. ST. PATRICK'S DAY," DIED ON MAY 26, 1996, HE WAS 81.

Like most little kids, I accepted the use of the phrase; hut to peen and smooth sailing. But by the time I was in college, I became haunted by its origin and true meaning, and sought a solution. The Internet was still eons away way, so I had asked many folks with naval backgrounds...but came-up empty.

The mystery was solved in early 1975. However, the groundwork for this monumental discovery was laid on Sunday, November 10, 1974. A day so special, it remains on the highlight reel of my life.

That weekend, I was visiting ZYMBOT at Fredonia University in western New York, (please wish the Big Kahuna well, he faces heel surgery today). In the wee hours of the morning, I met a pleasant young lady. We spent the next ten hours together and went for lunch, a stroll through the woods and hung-out at the lake.

Back on campus, en route back her dorm, I spotted a TV in a communal lounge. My team, the New York Jets were playing their cross-town rivals, the New York Giants. While they equally stunk, (both teams were 2-7), this was the first time they ever faced each other in the regular season. Thus, this game even though it was being played in the Yale Bowl in New Haven Connecticut, was bally-hooed in the "Big Apple," as if it was the Superbowl.  Or as Captain Jack McCarthy said, "The Big Shamrock."
THE NEW YORK (football) GIANTS, AFTER MOVING FROM THE POLO GROUNDS, PLAYED AT YANKEE STADIUM FROM 1956-1973.  IN 1973 AND 1974 WHILE WAITING TO MOVE INTO THE MEADOWLANDS, THEIR HOME GAMES WERE AT THE YALE BOWL (above).  THEN FOR ONE SEASON, 1975, THEY PLAYED AT SHEA STADIUM.

The Fredonia girl and I sat down and watched the big game.  It was already late in the game and of course my Jets were losing, (20-13). But with legendary QB Joe Namath at the helm, they drove to the three yard line.

At this advanced point of  "Broadway Joe's" ever-cool career, his bad knees made him a cripple. So with the super-bowl of the two shitty New York teams at stake, he sent all his troops right.  He then faked-out the defenders, cameramen, the fans and maybe his own team...because no one dreamt he'd keep the ball. Namath hid the ball on his outside hip, in what is termed a "Naked-Boot-Leg" and walked/limped to the left, untouched for the tying touchdown.

I was so satisfied with that, that the girl and I continued back to her dorm. Later, my great day somehow got better when I found out the Jets won in overtime.

Months later at "THE JOLLY BULL TAVERN," (near Brooklyn College), I was enjoying their world-famous, watered-down draughts with twin brothers, TICKLEMEERIC, (TIC) and IMPORTANCEOFBEINGEARNEST, (IMP).

I told them the story of my special moment in Fredonia and TIC said, "You think that's great? We went to that game."
IMP said, "Yeah, it was in New Haven Connecticut at the Yale Bowl, we took AMTRAK."
I said, "Heh?"
TIC said, "You drunken idiot, we took the train."
"I'm not drunk!"  Between hiccups I added, "I'm as sober as the day is long...or something like it..."
IMP said, "Speaking of drunks, you'll never guess who saw in the club car?"
I said, "Ulysses Grant's wet nurse."
TIC said, "You ARE a drunken idiot."
IMP said, "No really, we saw the immortal, Captain Jack McCarthy...going to the game too."
TIC said, "He even let me buy him a drink...if I promised to stop calling him Captain."
IMP said, "We told him we were big fans of his Popeye show."
TIC said, "He was wasted, we could have said anything."
IMP said, "Anyway we're pulling-in to our stop and I said...'hey Jack I gotta know one thing'..."
TIC interrupted, "Yeah, let us in on the big secret..."
Captain Jack was carefully pouring the remnants of his drink into a hip flask and cut TIC off, 'I know, you wanna know, what hut to peen means.'"
IMP said, "Hell yeah! What does; hut to peen and smooth sailing mean?"
TIC said, "Jack leaned in, burnt my face with scotch breath and said, 'Don't mean nuthin'.' I made it up."
The startled brothers looked at each other and said in unison, "HE MADE IT UP!"
IMP said, "The train door opened and without further clarification, the good captain got lost in the stampede."
TIC lamented, "And he was going to buy the next round..."
I said, "And you thought I was drunken idiot."

Just when it seemed that one of my finest moments (November 10, 1974) seemed to be etched in stone...a couple of months later, IMP and TIC managed to improve it. Unfortunately, to commemorate the occasion properly now, I would need a ship's bell...but don't have one handy.  So maties, imagine you hear one as I say, "Hut to peen," (insert military salute here) and smooth sailing."

IF IT'S TUESDAY, THE EDELBLUMS MUST BE IN BELGIUM.

Whenever I celebrate my mother's rich life, I like to focus on 1968. In that time-frame, she envisioned the number one highlight of my childhood and pulled it off with deft precision.

What she did for me was choreograph an atypical, two-pronged Bar Mitzvah experience.

                MY BAR MITZVAH PARTY. THAT'S ME, CARNATION IN LAPEL, ( June 9, 1968).

At a great personal sacrifice, over a year in advance, mom took on a full-time job to help finance my golden moment.

Living on a strict regimen of cottage cheese, black coffee and not much else, mom dedicated herself to dieting. To support her effort, I sometimes held her ankles when she did sit-ups. Even though mom didn't need much...she trimmed down. When my command performance came, she looked dynamite.

          MOM AND DAD WITH HIS PARENTS, TWO MONTHS BEFORE MY BIG DAY.

The religious Bar Mitzvah ritual (entering a Jewish boy into adulthood), and ensuing festivities, succeeded in making me feel special. But mom's dedication to this crowning achievement didn't only benefit me. Within a sea of general positivism, 1968 became the best and most identifiable era for us as a family. Because my mother's master plan went further than just my lavish party.

Remember the 1969 movie, "IF IT'S TUESDAY, IT MUST BE BELGIUM?" Well it may as well have been written about us. The second prong of mom's brainchild was a 22-day, seven country European vacation.

Our jaunt NEVER landed us in Belgium. However, we enjoyed similar frantic and funny episodes, full of dramatic clashing personalities, international intrigue and sex...which resulted in a lifetime of fond memories.

While I'm certain we would have adored Brussels, we had to settle for; London England, Paris France, Vienna Austria, Rome, the Vatican, Naples, Pompeii and Capri in Italy. Then back to Cannes on the French Riviera, Geneva Switzerland, Madrid Spain and Lisbon Portugal.

MY FOLKS TOOK FULL ADVANTAGE OF PARIS' ROMANTIC NIGHT LIFE. THEY WENT TO A NIGHT CLUB WITH OTHER COUPLES FROM OUR GROUP. ONE OF THE ACTS THEY SAW WAS A YOUNG, SIEGFRIED AND ROY.

Along with 30 or so other tourists, our package-deal was dominated by organized motor coach transport to each city's most popular venues. However, there were also down-times. Sometimes we ventured off with smaller groups and on a few occasions, we went off on our own.

My 42-year old European memories are fresh. The list of museums, monuments, palaces, castles, cathedrals and other meccas of sightseeing are lengthy. But the true theme of the trip that I hold most dear was brought to light by a family excursion to Vienna's Stadtpark, (City Park).

TO GIVE MY PARENTS MORE "ALONE TIME," (THEY SAID THEY WERE "PACKING" ), MY SISTER AND I, TOOK A TAXI ON OUR OWN TO THE EIFFEL TOWER. CRAZY BY TODAY'S STANDARDS, SHE WAS 15 AND I WAS 13.

In Vienna. dad, (a musician), found out from the hotel concierge that the nearby equivalent of New York's Central Park was featuring a waltz concert. When we got to Stadtpark, we found a band-shell, complete with dance floor adjacent to an outdoor cafe. My sister and I rolled our eyes at first because the music was so corny. But the amazing pastries and cocoa soothed us enough to eliminate outward complaining.

This event perked-up when local teenagers in vintage Austrian peasant costumes demonstrated different waltz-steps. The show's final crescendo had the dancers mingle with the audience and encourage folks to waltz with them. My dad would have none of that. He stood-up and was so gallant as he asked my mother to dance to Strauss' "THE BLUE DANUBE." With a stupid grin on my face, my eyes remained glued on every romantic, elegant and joyful move mom and dad made.

        STATUE OF THE WALTZ KING, JOHANN STRAUSS IN VIENNA'S STADTPARK.

At thirteen, the concept of my parents being very much in love was preposterous. So getting educated at that moment by seeing the spontaneity of the lovers, together, so enthusiastic, eyes locked on each other, unrestrained by day-to-day pressure, kids or anything else...has left the most pleasant and profoundly lasting impression on me. So much so that during my son Andrew's Bar Mitzvah, I made certain that the "BLUE DANUBE'S" big finale was used to usher my mom up, during the candle lighting ceremony.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KE7Zk-qaJAs
CLICK ON THIS LINK FOR A 6+ MINUTE PERFORMANCE OF, "THE BLUE DANUBE," BY ANDRE RIEU'S JOHANN STRAUSS ORCHESTRA.

My wonderful mom passed away, three days ago, on New Year's Day. The last five of her 79 years were spent painfully as she suffered through a prolonged, losing battle with both emphysema and cancer. During those difficult times, her sense of honesty, fair play and dignity never wavered. Without bitterness towards tobacco companies, she maintained her strong-willed presence, remained both real and gracious and never stopped using her wry humor.

I didn't always agree with mom but my appreciation for her motives...specifically; love, family values, common decency, intelligence and the arts, are beyond reproach. I can only hope that I absorbed a fraction of those treasured traits. Therefore, the greatest compliment I can be given is being told; you remind me of your mother.

IT DIDN'T MATTER IF IT WAS THE VATICAN'S SISTINE CHAPEL, THE MONA LISA AT THE LOUVRE, GOYA MASTERPIECES IN THE PRADO OR A JUNKYARD DINOSAUR SCULPTURE IN FRONT ROYAL VIRGINIA...MY MOM INTRODUCED MY SISTER AND I, TO A WIDE RANGE OF CULTURE AND ALLOWED OUR OWN TASTE TO DICTATE WHAT WAS GOOD.

In the end, I believe if mom could have gotten one message across it would have been; the human body is beautiful. Let your inside beauty match the outside...don't be mislead by the seemingly cool allure of smoking...never light-up...the end result leads to personal tragedy and much sorrow for those who love you.

HERSCHY'S KISSES

Can there be a better way to commemorate the close of this decade than recalling my brush with death at the end of the 1970's?

The tale below, is an excerpt from my short story. "RIDE-OUT, WHITE-OUT AND RIGHT-OUT." Its theme is, the mastery of; people, equipment and directions, in order to keep your Las Vegas casino job...or in this case, keeping your head!

December 31, 1979 would not be an ordinary Monday afternoon. It was the last day of the decade, the last day of the year and nearly...the day of my life.

Shortly before 10:00AM, my dealing craps shift in Vegas' Hotel Fremont was about to start. 
To my surprise, a player known only as Mr. S., (wearing a custom-made, thousand-dollar black suit), was standing inside the dice pit.  Maybe he was clairvoyant and knew he was going to attend a funeral that day?

THREE MONTHS EARLIER, GETTING THE FREMONT JOB WAS THE KEY TO MY GAMING INDUSTRY SUCCESS.

Even stranger, our floor supervisor Teddy Rideout, (in a raggedy, misfitting checkered sports jacket that he got at K-Mart) was giving Mr. S. a two-minute tutorial on how to be a boxman.
MY FREMONT CRAPS DEALING CAREER (SEPTEMBER 1979 TO MARCH 1980) WAS SHORT.  THAT'S WHEN I WAS PROMOTED TO THEIR UPSCALE PROPERTY, THE STARDUST.

Mr. S. had a reputation as being a demanding, high maintenance player. He hated everyone especially working stiffs (like us) and the penny-ante gamblers that the Fremont catered to.

We knew him as high-roller "don't come" player.  His action stood-out because he made several three-hundred dollar bets when the rest of out clientele was risking the table minimum (75c) or close to it. More importantly, Mr. S. might have been around craps tables forever, but he had little practical knowledge in aspects of the game that he didn't play...and zero knowledge in supervising it.

Despite being over seventy-years old, Mr. S. was a hulk. At six-foot three, his athletic body suggested a lifetime of heavy manual labor.  He had the scarred face of a brawler, (a boxer or a bounce)? To complete his ogre-image, his deadpan scowl and gravelly voice was acutely intimidating too.

The staff knew he was a big-shot and a golfing buddy of the casino manager. In his gambling days, the dealers and lower management avoided challenging him rather than risk their jobs. Few people looked at him and only the bravest souls directly addressed him. If that wasn't enough, there were also rumors that he had ties to organized crime.

Teddy Rideout was a good choice to indoctrinate the newcomer. Rideout's corporate swag and upbeat, urban personality had as much appeal in the back alleys of his native Detroit as it had in the baccarat pit of his former employer, Caesar's Palace.

While explaining to Mr. S. the Fremont's procedures, policies and boxman duties, Rideout was thorough, patient and professional. Later, he confided in us that Mr. S. couldn't even keep-up with the use of normal craps lingo and that the fossil continually said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah," or "whatever."

Maybe Mr. S. wanted to learn but he definitely didn't want to be taught. That's why I didn't perceive his indifferent to Rideout's assistance as racism, I took it as elitism. More simply, he was used to giving orders...not taking them.

Rideout realized the old man wasn't listening.  He light-heartedly changed the subject to the stool Mr. S. was going to sit on and said, "This antique is busted." He demonstrated the intricacies of raising the seat and adjusting the testy swivel mechanism of the boxman's stool. He added, "It's also bottom heavy. It weighs a ton.  Don't try moving it because the wheels were crushed and fell off years ago. They should..." Teddy stopped himself before implying that the place was cheap. Instead he coughed, "Umm, uh, they should tell newbies that this chair feels like it's bolted to the floor."

When my crew came on duty, Mr. S. rose above his apathy and thanked Rideout.  He shook all the dealer's hands, introduced himself as Herschel Schtiermann and added, "But you guys can call me Hersch." When he got to me, his huge, calloused meat-hook enveloped mine and his vice-like grip felt like every bone in my hand was going to break.

At first, our game was light and Hersch seemed human. The old man took a liking to me because I picked-up on a few of his Yiddish phrases. Soon he told me that he just retired and moved from Peoria.  And, rather than gamble every day, his friend (our casino manager) juiced him into this cushy, part-time job. 

We were getting along well. In a grandfatherly way, I liked my new senior citizen buddy.  He was comfortable enough with me that he shared private information like his wife's latest face-lift, his string of ladies ware factories in the Midwest and the mansion he was having built inside a gated community. Nevertheless, I never lost sight of his reputation for having a volatile temper. So it seemed prudent to let him dominate the conversation.

Hersch's humanity was about to vanish because it was New's Year's Eve, the busiest, craziest day of the year.  Just before noon, the crush started.  Soon, we all realized that Schtiermann was buried, (in over his head), when I asked him for a "buy-button" and he barked, "What the fuck is a buy-button?"

Eric, one of the other dealers on my crew was a born-again Christian. Hersch became agitated when Eric's religious sentiments were constantly being injected into the game. Hersch had told him to stop when the game was calm. But Eric ignored him.  When our game became frantic Schtiermann whispered to me, "This schmuck doesn't know who he's screwing with...if this Jesus shit keeps up, he's going to sucking his trafe through a straw...for a long time!"

By 2:00PM, our game was swamped. The party atmosphere had started but we did well to keep the game moving.  The mood was suddenly broken when a redneck in a chewed-up, straw cowboy hat made a claim for a missing, six-dollar place bet.

Hersch pissed the player off by saying, "Six bucks? Tex, don't waste my time with your petty fantasies."

To soften the situation, Eric cited chapter and verse before suggesting, "In good faith, let's give him the benefit of the doubt."

Our floorman Teddy Rideout saw how angry Hersch got at Eric and said, "This is small potatoes. Let's keep the dice in the air. Set-up this gentleman's action and watch him more carefully."

Hersch would have none of it. His allegiance was with the casino's best interest. He grabbed the dice off the game.  Rideout objected to the action stopping.
Schtiermann called him, "An incompetent moron," and demanded the pit boss.

The pit boss was a cut-throat little Cuban with hair plugs named Tulio Encarnacion.
Tulio couldn't be bothered by such trivia and said, "Dios mio!  Hersch, forget this jackass.  Just move the dice, you can't stop the game over bullshit.  Get a roll."

DESPERATE BALD MEN PAID THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS FOR THE STATE-OF-THE-ART TECHNOLOGY OF HAIR PLUGS.  FEW ENJOYED TRUE SUCCESS WHILE THEY ALL MADE THEIR "PROBLEM" MORE NOTICEABLE.

Hersch wasn't craps savvy enough to know he had won his case.
He was muttering profanity-laced racism aimed at Blacks, Hispanics white trash just loud enough for the dealers to hear as the hillbilly shouted, "What about my six-dollar eight?"

Tulio put his hand on Hersch's shoulder and said, "My man has thirty years experience..."
The hick interrupted, "I don't give a flying fuck.  He's wrong!"
Tulio pointed at the player and snapped, "I said forget it!"

The good ol' boy's face was as red as his neck as he yelled, "I don't have to take no shit from no dartboard head!"
I controlled myself from laughing as Hersch cut-off the dude's disgruntled rant and insisted that he apologize to Tulio.
The redneck mockingly said, "Yeah right."

Schtiermann lunged from his seat and swiped his left arm at the man.  While the good ol' boy recoiled to avoid the attack, Hersch's glittering gold cuff link and huge matching Rolex were exposed.  When the argument escalated, Mr. S. leaned forward and spit on him.
Everyone was in shock as he snarled, "Pick-up your shit and get out before I throw you out!"

Hersch looked like he was going to hyperventilate as he plopped back down on his heavy, anvil-like stool, as the player screamed vulgarities on his way out.

Later, our madhouse of a game was littered with rowdy drunks.
Luckily, Schtiermann had long regained his composure until Eric said, "Steve shorted two from the stick fifty-cents."

In the middle of all the chaos, Hersch tapped my arm and said, "Give that guy half-a-buck."

I stood straight up and smiled. I gestured to the other eight bets I still had to pay and joked, "Don't you think I have more important things to do first?"

I continued my progression until a commotion by the players caused me to peek behind me. Hersch was standing, his eyes ablaze with his two-ton stool cocked over his head like a ten-ounce Wiffel baseball bat. Just as it was coming forward to club me over the head, Teddy grabbed Hersch and the chair crashed harmlessly down.

The whole casino reacted to the thunderous noise. People were rushing over as I noticed that Hersch was seething.  He had white gauze at the corners of his mouth as three other supervisors got between us and subdued him.

I still hadn't fathomed that Teddy Rideout had narrowly saved my life or at least prevented some level of brain damage.  At the same time, Hersch kept hollering profanity while being ushered to the pit-stand. The casino manager hustled into the pit. Moments later, the big boss led his friend Mr.  S. away.  At the edge of the pit Hersch pulled away, leered at me and roared, "I swear, I'm going to kill you!"

I sweat-out he rest of the day. I assumed I was getting fired and worried that the old-timer was going to make good on his promise.

At 6:00PM, the shift was over. Tulio brought my crew to his podium. I figured everyone was getting fired because of me. Instead he said, "You guys are coming in tomorrow at 8:00AM, right!"

One of the other dealers said, "No, we got New Year's Day off."

Tulio said, "What's the matter, you pendejos can't read?" He pointed to the weekly schedule. In the coveted New Year's Day box, the black, typewritten word "off" had been whited-out. In its place, written sloppily in red ink was, "8:00AM." Tulio added, "You're lucky you all weren't shit-canned. Just take this punishment as a goddamned gift."  When Eric protested him taking the Lord's name in vain Tulio growled, "Shut up and be here sober...at eight!"

Hersch never worked again at the Fremont.

I ESCAPED HERSCH'S WRATH AND DEALT AT THE FREMONT THREE MORE MONTHS.  I WAS SO WELL-THOUGHT OF THAT FOR A SMALL FIFTY-DOLLAR BRIBE TO TULIO, I WAS TRANSFERRED IN MARCH, TO THE STARDUST AND MORE THAN DOUBLED MY TIP INCOME.

Two years later, I saw Herschel Schtiermann one other time.  I was on one of my breaks while dealing craps at the Stardust as he and his wife crossed my path outside the sports-book.

THE STARDUST WAS THE PEAK OF MY CRAPS DEALING CAREER, (THE GOLDEN NUGGET WAS A CLOSE SECOND).

The Stardust was a grind joint on the fabulous Las Vegas Strip.  So Hersch, despite being over-dressed in a tuxedo, still looked like a thug. His wife, trim and elegant for seventy, was wearing a flowing evening gown and looked like a million dollars...in cosmetic surgery. I nodded to acknowledge Hersch.  He gestured me over.

He smirked, "Kid, I had the power to make your life a lot easier. Instead, you hadda be a fuckin' wise-ass. You have no idea how close you came to the kiss of death."

Mrs. Schtiermann gave me a dirty look, grabbed her hubby by the crook of his arm and said, "C'mon Herschy, remember your heart...we came to Vegas to forget that stuff."