TAKING THE SCENIC ROUTE TO HARTFORD HALL

In May 1974, RBOY drove me home from Brooklyn College. We decided to go for a bite and took the scenic route to Original Pizza, on Canarsie's fabulous Avenue L.

 












TODAY'S ORIGINAL PIZZA, THE LAST VESTIGE OF THE "L," FROM THE 70's.

While we ate, summertime plans dominated the conversation. RBOY mentioned that getting jobs in Florida at WALT DISNEY WORLD (WDW), might be a fun "working-vacation." I was intrigued as RBOY told me more. We got back into his car. As his enthusiasm for this great adventure grew so did mine. My house was only ten blocks away but I was sold before we got to Avenue M.

He said, "We should call down there today."
Reflexively I said, "Stop the car, we can use the phone in Grabstein's." LIKE AVENUE "L," THE REST OF OUR NEIGHBORHOOD CHANGED. THE STALWART KOSHER DELI FROM THE 50's TO EARLY 90's HAS BEEN REPLACED BY A CHINESE TAKE-OUT, APTLY NAMED, "LONG WON."

In the back, three steps up from the dining room, between the two restrooms, Grabstein's had an old-fashioned sit-down pay phone with the louvered door. RBOY armed with a load of loose change sat down and started the process. I stood next to him and paced like an expectant father in the narrow passageway that separated the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant.

RBOY was told that there was a wealth of entry-level positions open for the summer. We decided to proceed without a promise of employment. In mid-June, we packed our bags as soon as our our semester was over. Coincidentally, RBOY's folks were driving down south, so we rode halfway with Millie and Bernie.

Our scenic route to Orlando continued when we were dropped-off at the tired, old bus depot in Rocky Mount, North Carolina. Before we went in, we learned two lessons from a blond bus driver loading suitcases. These insights helped shape our realization that there is a different and at times cruel world beyond the bounds of what we think is right and/or used to.

First, that southern accents were difficult to understand. The driver's answer to our question about the next bus to Orlando was answered in an unintentional Foghorn Leghorn voice and concerned the fact that he already had lunch. We all had a good laugh after we sorted that all out.

Our next question involved the bathroom's location. This gentleman made it clear that we shouldn't use the small one on the ground floor because it was, "for the help." When we saw the set-up, his statement became a grim reminder of a by-gone time when segregation and Jim Crow Laws were the norm.

RBOY and I arrived in the Orlando Greyhound station only to find out that we still had another one-hour bus ride to Disneyworld. Sixty minutes later, we were brimming with positive energy as WDW came into view. The bus dropped us off in front of the employment center. Complete with luggage and looking disheveled from 24+ hours on the road, we entered the serene office. Fifty teenage applicants dressed as if they were going to the sophomore prom plus another twenty clerical workers all stopped to gape at us as if we were Ratzo Rizzo and Joe Buck from, "MIDNIGHT COWBOY."

We took a number and to the beat of elevator music, filled-out forms. When we were finally called to a woman's cubicle, we were told before she even looked at our applications that the only jobs available were food service or sweepers. I pictured us flipping burgers over a hot grill in the Florida heat. RBOY agreed that was a bad idea.

We chose to be sweepers, at $2.40 an hour, at a time when $2.25 was minimum wage. The interviewer then whispered that for an extra nickel an hour, we can follow the horses in the parade. RBOY and I certainly would have failed the concept of, "anything for money." We politely turned her down.

She continued scanning our paperwork, grimaced and asked, "Where do you live now?" We had already told her our saga of coming from New York so she was concerned when we said, "We'll start looking for a place after we get the job." She said, "Sorry, we can't hire you unless you have a permanent address and reliable transportation."
She took our case to a higher court. Luckily, her supervisor gave us the number of a place that catered to seasonal Disney employees AND provided shuttle service.

We called "THE YOUNG AMERICAN INN, (YAI)," in Kissimmee and they still had limited availabilities.

YAI was a failed Ramada Inn. They offered a modern, yet standard motel room with two king-sized beds...and no TV...for $95.00 a month. YAI had a pool, restaurant, gift shop and an hourly shuttle to Disney. We said okay even before we realized it was a teenage Disneyland of its own. But they wouldn't give us the room without a job. It was the classic CATCH-22 until we put both parties on the line at once and begged.

Disney orientation was long and boring. When it was suddenly over, RBOY and I were caught off-guard. We only heard the part about reporting to Hartford Hall. Being knuckleheads, we were too inhibited to ask the presenter to repeat himself.
WE READ A DISNEY MAP AND COULDN'T SPOT A RIDE, ATTRACTION, SHOP OR RESTAURANT CALLED HARTFORD HALL.

Our first stop was the Hall of Presidents. Nobody there could help us. It was the only place on the map with the word "hall." While continuing to aimlessly wander, we invented a system of looking pitiful and asking pretty girls for directions. Some of them loved our foreign accents and we loved their lost-puppy sympathies. Others must have felt threatened by our yankee-ness and ignorantly led us astray. All of their help left us zig-zagging the park for over an hour. Along the way, we saw other sweepers using two tools of our trade that we learned about in orientation.

The "AVAC" machine was a 1974-era, industrial strength-sized, state-of-the-art garbage disposal. On the outside, it looked like a porthole. Inside the round door was a mnemonic-like tube that sucked trash underground to be treated and carted away.

"ZIP-ZORB," was a saw-dust-like substance that was spread over vomit. It's job was to dry up the mess, absorb the stink and make it easy to sweep-up. I vowed to RBOY that I'd run the other way before getting involved with that.
RBOY (right) BECAME THE GREAT TOILET MAVEN OF FRONTIERLAND. HIS JOB WAS KEEP ALL THE PAPER FILLED IN THE THOSE RESTROOMS AND SWEEP-UP THE AREA. I WAS A REGULAR SWEEPER IN FANTASYLAND. HE LASTED THE WHOLE SUMMER. ME, I DIDN'T DRINK THE DISNEY KOOL-AID. I DIDN'T SEE HOW CLEARING $78.38 FOR A 45 HOUR WEEK...WITH A 90-MINUTE COMMUTE IN EACH DIRECTION WAS A PRIVILEGE. I QUIT DISNEY AFTER THREE WEEKS AND BECAME A WAITER AT RED LOBSTER.

Under the broiling sun, we were exhausted. Our scenic route to Hartford Hall felt like we had walked 20 miles. RBOY declared that we were completely buried. He spotted an older hostess, (she was probably younger than we are now), and said, "Let's ask her." To save face, I went through the preliminaries of saying stuff like; its our first day, before saying, "They told us to report for our first assignment at a particular building. But its not on the map and nobody ever heard of it." She said, "Oh. Where did they send you?" RBOY shrugged, "Hartford Hall." The woman's reaction combined shock, anger and sarcasm, "You two finally found the one person in the park that could help you." Her pause caused our eyebrows to raise in anticipation before she added, "Wanna know why you can't find that building...because Hartford Hall ain't no building...he's a person...he's my son."
MY WORKING VACATION IMPROVED WITH RED LOBSTER. MY HOURS, PLUS COMMUTING TIME WERE CUT IN HALF AND MY INCOME MORE THAN DOUBLED. I EVEN OPENED UP A SAVINGS ACCOUNT AT OSCEOLA SAVINGS BANK ON ROBINSON AVENUE, (KISSIMMEE'S MAIN DRAG). IT WAS NEXT TO SCHULTZ BROTHERS USED FURNITURE AND UP THE ROAD FROM THE WAFFLE HOUSE. PHOTO TAKEN IN THE YAI PARKING LOT.

LUNDY'S

In the late 80's, I drove-in several times from Atlantic City to see my folks in Brooklyn. During the day, if my dad was working, mom and I took advantage of the rare one-on-one opportunity to have lunch. Our favorite spot was Randazzo's, on Emmons Avenue, in Sheepshead Bay.

RANDAZZO'S HAD SUCH A GREAT REPUTATION FOR SEAFOOD THAT I DON'T EVER RECALL TRYING ANYTHING ELSE. I EVEN TOOK THE CHARACTERS IN MY SHORT STORY, "SCREAMERS," THERE TO INTRODUCE THE INDIANA FARM BOYS TO REAL FOOD !

In my lifetime, Randazzo's grew from a tiny storefront clam shack, to a popular hang-out for a snack and beer, to a full-sized restaurant specializing in Italian-style seafood. A typical visit for my mom and I included splitting a dozen little necks, a bowl of chowder and ordering our own entree. She liked shrimp oreganata and I gravitated to either scungilli or calamari (or a combination of both) over linguini fra diablo.

MY SON ANDREW HAS NEVER HAD THE PLEASURE OF RANDAZZO'S. I ONCE OFFERED HIM A TASTE OF MY SCUNGILLI SOMEWHERE ELSE. HE ASKED WHAT IT WAS AND I SAID, "ITS A SHELLFISH CALLED CONCH." HE WANTED NO PART OF IT. I COAXED HIM INTO IT AND HE'S BEEN A SCUNGILLI-MAVEN EVER SINCE.

Mom and I would lop-up every speck of Randazzo's spaghetti sauce during our great conversations. Sooner or later we'd get around to poking fun at my dad who liked to say about such delectables; I wouldn't eat that with your mouth!I MET A WOMAN WHO OWNED AN ITALIAN RESTAURANT IN WEST VIRGINIA. I TOLD HER MY SON LOVES CALAMARI AND SHE MADE ME TELL HER WHAT IT WAS. WHEN I SAID, "SQUID." SHE CURLED HER LIP AND SAID, "NEVER HEARD OF IT!"

The irony of eating at Randazzo's was and still is...a hallow joy. Because a half-block away was the empty, cathedral of all fish restaurants...Lundy's. To walk-off our dose of Randazzo's, it was our custom to go by and reminisce. So regardless of how filled we were, we were never fulfilled... because we felt like we were missing-out on the real prize.
At the turn of the twentieth century, Irving Lundy sold clams from a pushcart. In 1907, he and his five brothers started a tiny dockside eatery. Two brothers died in a boating incident in 1920, so the remaining four opened a formal restaurant in 1934. The Lundy Brothers continued expanding and by the time the restaurant closed in 1977, it was the largest in the United States...with a seating capacity of 2,800. LUNDY'S WAS DECLARED A LANDMARK IN 1992. IN ADDITION TO ITS GREAT LENGTH, IT WAS ALSO WIDE AND HAD A LARGER DINING ROOM ON THE SECOND FLOOR. IN ITS HEY-DAY FROM THE LATE-50'S TO EARLY-70's, THEY COULD SERVE 15,000 MEALS ON MOTHER'S DAY.

Just being in Brooklyn with its 20 gazillion residents should have been enough but Lundy's had a great location too. Being convenient to the subway and bus traffic was one thing. But both Manhattan and Brighton Beach were nearby with mega-Coney Island only a little farther.

It sounds like bragging but Lundy's had the best everything! More importantly, the prices were reasonable and the portions were big. Every item on the menu from the lobster to the hash browns, to the peas and homemade pies were all incredible. Plus, I didn't even mention their famous shore dinner, signature biscuits and a Manhattan clam chowder...to die for. My favorites main courses were broiled scallops or blue fish. I always left room for desert because in-season, they'd give you an eighth of a watermelon. Other times, I went with the huge scoop of the creamiest coffee ice-cream.
My dad was the real champ. Not only because he'd foot the bill but he wasn't a big fan of seafood. He was happy ordering a bland fillet of sole and watching the rest of us feast. I DON'T RECALL A SINGLE BAD EXPERIENCE. MY EARLIEST MEMORY OF LUNDY'S, WAS 1963, ( I WAS 8). IN ALL THOSE YEARS, WE NEVER LEFT ANYTHING OVER AND I DOUBT THEY EVEN OFFERED A DOGGIE-BAG OPTION.

Lundy's was also quirky. You literally had to give up a lot to reap its benefits. The most important problem occurred when they were extremely busy. Lundy's had NO hostess service. That meant it was YOUR job to scour the place for a vacant table. During summer weekends or holidays at prime dinner hours, you were left on your own to compete with other families to scout-out this two-level football field-like dining room. It should also be noted that Lundy's had other smaller, intimate nooks and crannies in the labyrinth of rooms along Ocean Avenue.

In emergencies, we traveled in pairs to hunt down unoccupied tables. If there weren't any, one of us would stake a claim on a table while the existing party was finishing. Then the other would run to alert the rest of our clan.

Being in Brooklyn, the atmosphere was loud. There were always clanging dishes, boisterous conversations and bickering among the staff. The dress code was casual but because we went there on special occasions when I was young, I recall being forced to wear a shirt and tie.
Another drawback, (to me) was the dingy, dark decor. It was called Spanish Colonial Revival but it was ugly to me. The Lundy boys must have had a love of 4o-watt light bulbs because the place was a cave. The sand-colored stuccoed walls gave the place a mausoleum feel and the black tiled men's room complete with black stalls didn't help. The rest of the architecture featured sloping red mission tile roofs, arched entrances, corbel tables, decorative ironwork and leaded glass windows.

Once you were seated, the service was decent except that the all-Caribbean waiter team fought over silverware. Arguments broke-out when one of them was caught looting another man's horde.
While waiting for service, each table had Oysterette crackers to snack on. They tasted great but my sister and I preferred to use them as missiles against each other as our folks were enjoying their pre-meal cocktail. Unfortunately, my family's size dwindled and by the early 70's, we weren't going in hard-to-seat gangs of ten or more. That's when we discovered that the food was just as delicious on Tuesdays in November.

When I was old enough to drive, I took one date to Lundy's and on other occasions brought friends including SLW. He and I liked the clam bar. Sometimes we ordered the fried oyster dinner, (at $3.95...it was the cheapest entree on the regular menu). As long as no one was standing behind us later that night, nobody's nose got hurt.
THE CLAM BAR ENTRANCE. BACK IN '77, YOU COULD GET A DOZEN RAW CLAMS FOR $1.35 AND A SIX-OUNCE PABST BLUE RIBBON BEER FOR 20c. WE ALWAYS PRE-TIPPED THE CLAM SHUCKER AND GOT PLENTY OF EXTRAS AND FREE BEER.

A short time after the last Lundy brother (Irving), died, the restaurant closed. The building stood vacant and decayed for twenty years. Finally, an Asian group re-opened a smaller version using the same name...I heard it was good but it wasn't the same. They lasted ten years. Today, just west of the Knapp Street exit of the Belt Parkway, you can look down and see what Lundy's has become, a sub-divided mini-mall with professional offices.

You can see how the joy of Randazzo's was easily tempered by the memories of Lundy's. After all, my Uncle Al never mistook a finger-bowl for "clear-broth" at any other place than Lundy's.
The last time I took mom to Randazzo's, we didn't get a chance to stroll down Lundy's Memory Lane.

When we came outside, a man approached us. He was a little disheveled but sincere when he politely asked, "Could you drive me to Albany?" I said, "Sorry, Albany Avenue is out of our way, we're headed to Canarsie." The man said, "No. Not Albany Avenue, the state capital in Albany."
Mom and I laughed so hard, we didn't go towards Lundy's. And the laughter that little story gave us, remained strong for the next twenty-plus years !

THE LAW FIRM OF IMPERIALE, IANUCCI AND IZZO !

In early 1979, I befriended three coworkers at my first casino job, (Slots-A-Fun). Interestingly, they all shared four traits; craps dealers, Italians, (Imperiale, Ianucci and Izzo), New Englanders, (Connecticut, Massachusetts and Rhode Island), and being rather large fellows.

SOMEHOW WITH ALL THE BIG-TIME RENOVATIONS TO VEGAS, THE TOILET ACROSS FROM THE RIVIERA CALLED SLOTS-A-FUN, STILL EXISTS.

Once a week, the four of us went out on the town. At 185 pounds, I looked like a Lilliputian compared to them. Ianucci and Izzo were both about the same height as me but weighed 260+. And Imperiale, a former college football player, was a less than svelte 6 foot 5, 310-pounder.

Slots-A-Fun was one of the worst toilet jobs in Vegas. For a forty hour week, we grossed $150.00. Even thirty years ago that was a paltry pittance. So we were forced to spend our entertainment dollars carefully. We gravitated to downtown, specifically the El Cortez Casino.

The "Tez," was away from the other "Glitter Gulch" clubs. It catered to locals and won our hearts with a twenty-five cent craps game, free liquor and a $3.95 steak dinner, (it should be noted that my friends and I usually bought two dinners each).

Other casinos had similar amenities. But the El Cortez's allure to knuckleheads like us was, it had the feel of being in the wild west. The first week I was in town, a drunken old-timer in a wheelchair was denied a spot at a crowded craps table. He got pissed, pulled a gun and got off three shots. Luckily, the lowlife didn't hurt anyone. .Management must have figured that the three bullet holes...in a slot machine, wall and ceiling was good for business, (it certainly attracted us).
30 YEARS LATER, THE "TEZ" IS STILL SO UGLY THAT ALL ITS GLAMOUR SHOTS MUST BE TAKEN AT NIGHT.


To keep things fresh, on three occasions, we went to the jai-alai fronton in the MGM Casino. That's the ballgame that originated in the Basque region of Spain. Similar to racquetball, jai-alai players use a long hook-like basket, (cesta), to catch and throw a ball, (pelota), off a wall. Each player has odds based on their ability and spectators place bets...like at the racetrack. THE SAFEST BET IN THE WORLD IS THAT JAI-ALAI IS RIGGED. NOTHING IS MORE FRUSTRATING THAN SEEING YOUR ACROBATIC GUY CLIMB THE WALL, FLING A "KILL-SHOT" FROM A MILE AWAY AND THEN WITH THE GAME ON THE LINE, DROP ONE THAT FREDDY MULLER'S 93-YEAR OLD GREAT-GRANDMOTHER FROM CANARSIE COULD HAVE RETURNED...WITH HER GOOD EYE SHUT.

The admission to jai-alai was $2.00 But the REVIEW JOURNAL had a dollar-off coupon every Thursday.
The last time we went Izzo said, "We don't need no freakin' coupons no more. I gotta connection, I'm gettin' us in for free."
At the turnstile, he mentioned the name Tompkins and we were welcomed in.

That night was the only time I ever won anything big. I gave my friends a deuce to bet while I went to the bathroom. When we were re-united, I was handed a ticket for the 5-2 exacta but I wanted the 2-5. I called them, "The idiots from the law firm of Imperiale, Ianucci and Izzo." But it was too wordy, so I switched it to the Law Firm of, DEWEY, CHEATEM AND HOWE. They liked the "THREE STOOGES," reference and after that "wrong" ticket won me $56.00, the nickname stuck.

WE HAD NEVER MADE A THREE STOOGES REFERENCE BEFORE THEN BUT AMONG MEN SO MANY OF THE ICONIC ROUTINES; LIKE DEWEY, CHEATEM AND HOWE ARE UNIVERSAL.

When I returned from cashing in, we were approached by a wealthy looking little guy wearing Bermuda shorts and an Izod shirt. He was leading a posse of three zoftig security guards. The whole night, we had been immature, loud and profane. We guessed that they were dropping by to read us the Riot Act. Everyone got quiet and we took our feet off the movie theater-like seats in front of us. Like four choirboys ready to spazz-out into laughter, we sat-up, ready for our warning. The little guy in the shorts did all the talking but he was a stutterer.

We were already giddy so fighting off our snickers was almost impossible as he stammered, "J-j-j-just, w-w-w-where, d-d-d-do, y-y-y-you, g-g-g-get off." By the time he got that far into his statement, my eyes were glued to the floor to hide my hilarity.
Finally, this fellow burst through and announced, "Just where do you get off using my n-n-name to get in here !?!!!?"
We were ejected and under the threat of being arrested, permanently barred from returning.
That meant we had to become more creative for our next entertainment idea.  And the solution was a less traditional form of gambling.

One unseasonably warm April afternoon, we decided to go horseback riding. Somewhere in the middle of the desert, south of McCarron Airport was a stable. Before signing-up, we shot some pool in the barroom and threw away a few dollars each on their nickel slot machines. The cowboy dude at the window was indifferent to us. He made it seem like a chore to ask one of the three girls in the office to serve as our trail guide. They said it was too hot for the horses.

But Izzo defiantly pointed his Slim-Jim at the attendant and said in his pronounced mock-Bostonian accent, "Lookit, we came all the way from Providence..."

A tanned, hyper-skinny girl about 20, in long pig-tails stood-up and snarled, "I'll go."
When we were finished paying, she came out wearing tattered jeans and an open, buckskin vest over a white tee-shirt.

She didn't introduce herself. We managed to get a fast look at her rugged, bony, plain face that was dominated by a big hooked nose...before she turned to lead us outside. When her vest shifted as she looked back at us, her shirt's thin material revealed the sharp, erect nipple of her left pancake-sized breast. I grinned because Ianucci crowed, "Her headlights are on!" Then the law firm of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe began the competitive, clannish ritual of metaphorically banging their chests as if to signify that Olive was their "goyl."

The guide brought four saddled horses and one bareback pinto into the paddock.
"We're going for a walk," she said. "These mares don't like running."
She helped me saddle-up first. When I got on, the horse neighed loudly.
I said to my friends, "Mine is bragging because he lucked into the skinny guy."
The guide said, "HE'S a mare. That means, he's a she."
I said, "Oh. What's HER name?"
"Bessie!"
I said, "Good. And yours?"
She groaned, "Sunbeam." I said, "I meant your name, not the horse." The guide said, "Sunbeam is my name." Moon-eyed Izzo aggressively stepped forward and grinned, "Sunbeam? Are you an Indian?"
"No! I'm a Native American."
Trying to be funny he said, "Are you sure you're not from the O'Houlihan tribe?"
Sunbeam huffed, "I'm, part Choctaw and part Hopi...if that's what you mean?"
Izzo tossed what was left of his beef jerky on the ground and said, "Even if you're not a thoroughbred, you're very pretty when you're angry."
She gave him a dirty look and muttered, "Pig."
Izzo said, "What did you say?"
She ignored him and said to Imperiale, "Mr. BIG, you're riding Gussie."
Izzo walked back to face her, "Hey missy, after work, what do you do way out here for fun?"
Sunbeam looked past him and said to Ianucci, "You got Bella."
Izzo crowed, "You're saving me for last, I bet you give me something special."

Without speaking, the guide lifted the last horse's left, front hoof. She shook her head and led it back into the stable. Seconds later, she came back with a different, much larger horse. Behind her back, Izzo pantomimed grabbing Sun-Beam's rear-end.  He then gaped at her as she helped him mount-up.

Izzo was secure in the saddle as he stared down at her meager chest and said, "What's my cute little horsey's name...Cupcakes?"
Sunbeam self-consciously put her hand across her bosom and said, "His name is Budweiser! And like most WISE-guys, he spooks easy."

Sunbeam let out a primal scream, ran up behind her pinto, and like in the movies, she bounded up onto the horse's back. I was impressed.

Our journey on the desert trail was ugly, boring and slow. The encrusted, cement-like, brown terrain had much more people litter and horse crap than anything else. The only enrichment I got was the harmless jokes the other three made at the expense of the ranch and Sunbeam.
UNLIKE THE PHOTO ABOVE, THE PART OF THE DESERT WE WERE IN WAS NOT THE WILD, PRISTINE LANDSCAPE I EXPECTED. INSTEAD, WE WERE SUBJECTED TO BROKEN GLASS, ABANDONED MAJOR APPLIANCES AND TONS OF HOUSEHOLD TRASH.

Izzo said, "C'mon honey, you ain't no real Indian...I mean Native American." When she didn't respond Imperiale added, "I bet she's from Cleveland and her real name is Sally Smith, Mary Jones or Shirley Quackenbush."

I was the only one not laughing so Sunbeam rode along side me.

In a short time, the glaring sun took its toll.
Izzo looked at the wasteland all around us and moaned, "Where can we go for a drink?"
Sunbeam said, "The horses will be okay until we get back."
He said, "I was talking about us. Us humans."
She whipped out a small crescent-shaped leather pouch from her back pocket, squirted water in her mouth and said, "You came into the desert unprepared?"
Izzo said, "You're as funny as an IRS audit."

Imperiale said, "Is that why you guys don't like coming out here?"
She said, "We usually only come out in the morning this time of year."
Ianucci said, "We aren't halfway through spring...what do you do in the summer...ride at night?"
"You city boys wouldn't understand."
Izzo said, "Yous ain't the kind of earners I'd want in my world. What are you guys, a non-profit organization."
Sunbeam said to me, "Yeah, you guys sound very organized."
I played dumb, "What do you mean?"
"You guys remind me of my dago grandfather."
Loud enough for all to hear I said, "Dago? What's a dago."
She said, "You know, a wop, a guinea..."
I said, "Heh?"
She said, "Are you sure you're an Italian?"
I said, "Positive, I'm not Italian at all."
"Oh," she said. "I thought you and your jack-off friends were all Mafia goombas."
I called back, "Hey Imperiale, Ianucci, Izzo...Sunbeam here, doesn't like you olive-skinned Mediterraneans. She thinks you're all Mafioso !"

Izzo coaxed Budweiser forward and rasped, "We been nuthin' but nice to you SUNBEAM and all we got back is attitude. Now turn your redneck ass around and take us back."
Suddenly there was a sharp hissy, clicking sound as a rattler arose from between two rocks. The snake startled Budweiser.  The huge horse reared-up like a bronco and Izzo screamed like a twelve-year old girl. Budweiser as if a firecracker exploded in his butt, took off. Izzo slipped sideways off the horse and hung on with his torso parallel to the ground.
Imperiale said, "Aren't you gonna help."
Sunbeam said, "Sure!  But I'll wait till your lard-ass Italian stallion hits the ground."

Like a fine Arab charger, Budweiser galloped for a half-mile before stopping. Somehow, Izzo didn't fall off. When we got to him, he was as pale as a sheet and swayed in the saddle like he was stoned. I expected him to pass-out or wretch. Sunbeam waited until Izzo was focused on her before offering a sip of water. He whined, "I'm one hurtin' buckaroo," as he made a feeble attempt to snatch her leather water pouch.  To stabilize Budweiser, she grabbed his reins to make it easier for Izzo.  Then she led us back.

Ten minutes later the stables were in sight. Izzo felt stronger and cursed like a longshoreman the rest of the way back. He was particularly ignorant to the snake and gave an earful to Budweiser and the ranch. But at no time did he swear at Sunbeam.

We were all pretty quiet when we dismounted. Imperiale, Ianucci and I politely thanked Sunbeam. Then Izzo took Sunbeam aside and gave her a ten dollar tip.

She thanked him and said, "No hard feelings?"
"Of course not. And I'm sorry if I insulted your heritage." Sunbeam smiled, "No.  Don't apologize.  You were actually right. I'm what you would call Heinz-57.  But there's no Native American blood in me.  It's just a good act for you eastern tourists." Izzo scratched his inner ear with his pinkie and said, "Any dago red flowing through your veins?"  She smiled awkwardly, "Yeah, my dead-beat dad..."  "It don't matter," Izzo said. "And to prove how bad I feel, let me take you out tonight?"
Sunbeam frowned and handed him back his ten.  Izzo said, "Don't be that way.  Lookit, we're not tourists...we're craps dealers at Slots-A-Fun..."

Sunbeam silently turned her back on him and disappeared inside.

THE OTHER AMAZING RANDY

I have recently overhauled my short story, "AMOS 'N ARCHIE." I will try to get it out to everyone. A commonly asked question about it is...what happened to that car?

In 1969, my eight-year old cousin was on the live, kids TV variety show, "WONDERAMA." Wonderama, in varying forms was broadcast on New York City's Channel-5, from 1955-1977. Over the years there were nine hosts. I grew-up in the Sonny Fox-era but I also recall, Jon Gnagy, Sandy Becker and Bob McAllister.

The program resembled a game show with other segments like, interviews with children, civics lessons disguised as skits and celebrity guests.

My greatest memory of the show was when kids danced to top-40 music. In this instance, behind the discotheque-like dance floor, a single child, (my cousin), stood in the middle of their shot. Luckily, he wasn't picking his nose but he was beyond bored. The director didn't like the exciting imagery of his "art" being ruined and sent someone to shoo my cousin away. At home, with our eyes glued to cousin's every move, we howled in laughter. Suddenly, it got better. From the wings somebody got his attention. My cousin pointed at himself as if to say; who me?...and walked off camera.

Ah, the magic of live TV. Most young viewers missed that trick but for real magic lovers, Wonderama also featured, the "AMAZING RANDI." In my pre-kindergarten years, Randi was my first exposure to magicians. I always looked forward to his act and from him, grew to appreciate Houdini, Morris Gold, Penn & Teller and my all-time favorite, David Blaine.

Randall James Hamilton Zwinge was born in Toronto Canada on August 8, 1928. He originally billed himself as James Randi but eventually settled on the stage name, "The Amazing Randi." Randi enjoyed a long and prosperous career as an illusionist, (he still owns the world record for being sealed 104 minutes in a casket as well as being encased 55 minutes in ice). After being on over 50 TV shows, plus movies and personal appearances, he retired from his craft in 1988.

I TOLD YOU HE WAS AMAZING, RANDI IS STILL ACTIVE AT AGE 81.

Randi switched careers and gained more notoriety as an author and skeptic of paranormal activity. Along the way, he won a law suit over Uri Geller and disproved James Hydick, Peter Popoff, W. V. Grant and Ernest Angley. Randi also came up with his "Million Dollar Challenge." This offer is a big cash prize to anyone with evidence of the supernatural or occult power or an event. The money remains untouched, gathering dust. I'M GLAD THAT DAVID BLAINE IS NOT ON RANDI'S DEBUNKING HIT-LIST CRUSADE. HE IS SO GOOD, HE BRINGS OUT THE KID IN ME AND MAKES ME BELIEVE IN MAGIC.

Indeed, Randi is amazing. But I know a far more amazing guy named Randy.

I dealt craps at downtown Vegas' Hotel Fremont from September 1979 until March 1980. The casino teamed-up regular craps crews but, like a revolving door, the employee turnover was so high that I worked with different dealers all the time.

It should be noted that on my third day, I bought a beat-up car from a player who was down on his luck, (see my short story, "AMOS 'N ARCHIE)." I drove it until I got hired at the Stardust.

Dealing on the fabulous Las Vegas Strip, as a new member of the aristocracy, I immediately realized that image was everything. I recalled the following profound statement by Joe Vanilla...Canarsie's Patron Saint of Parking Spaces, "The only thing more important than what you drive, is the quality of your parking spaces." So I rushed out and bought an all new and improved, used car.

THE UGLY, FADED GREEN, 1971 FORD LTD I BOUGHT FOR $95.00 WAS IN SLIGHTLY BETTER CONDITION THAN THIS ONE.

On a few occasions, this second Amazing Randy and I worked together. One-on-one he was a nice enough person. Plus his wild sense of humor and charisma generated a lot of tips, (tokes). But in reality, he was a shady, lying thief. He came from a small mid-western town and got caught-up in the bright neon lights and the sex, drugs and rock 'n roll lifestyle. He embodied the theme of all my stories; Vegas is a nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to live there.

Randy drank himself to sleep and took amphetamines to wake-up. He frequented prostitutes so much that he knew the beginners. To prove his cunning, he targeted their naivete by paying the rookies with worthless chips from a dealer school that shared the same name as a casino.

But his main vice was gambling. And if you chose to believe him, he had plenty of outrageous stories that usually started with; I was down to my last...

On one of our shifts together, our craps crew amassed, one dollar and seventy-five cents...to split four ways.

Randy told us, "I never lose. Let's parlay this shit into a thousand."

He marched us to the Keno parlor and we bet our collective pittance. And lost ! Randy then suggested that we go down the street to the Western Casino to play craps. That casino was featured in my story, "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE."

I turned down the gambling opportunity because I felt awkward returning to the cheap clip-joint that I had once worked in. Plus, I didn't want to further exasperate my poverty.

The Western was the worst of the worst. It ranked with the Big Nickel Rendezvous, The Nevada Club and the Orbit Inn at the bottom of the casino job pecking order. That meant that working at a toilet like the Lady Luck would have been a clear improvement.

The Western's one craps table had a fifty-dollar maximum. Randy and the other two dealers from my crew bought-in for $20.00 each and proceeded to break the bank. The Amazing Randy won $1,800.00 and the other two, made twelve hundred each.. The next day, the Western fired all their craps personnel and removed the table. Amazingly, a week after that Randy was broke again.

I missed out on that windfall but stayed with the Fremont long enough to be hired at the Stardust. The intricacies of Randy's habits which included stealing chips from the casino to pay-off drug dealers, eventually got him fired. He became a retread dealer and bounced around from one bad downtown job to another.

Months later, on the exact day I bought that new (used) car, I bumped into Randy at the Friendly Club's bar. He was wearing a Nevada Club uniform. He bought me a drink and we settled into a pleasant conversation, (I got the next three rounds). Randy remembered my LTD and asked what happened to it. I told him its in the classifieds for $250.00. He offered me $200.00.

I said, "Great, give me the two-bills and I'll have it here in an hour."

He said, " Can I give you twenty and owe..."

I said, "Forget it."

He took my number and said, "I always win at the Golden Gate. I'll call you later when I run these two Hamiltons into two Franklins."

As he left I said, "Good, because I don't take casino chips."

He grinned.

When I got his call he wasn't laughing, "I was down to my last two bucks..."

We arranged for the buy to be on Carson Avenue behind the Four Queens.

I checked for counterfeits when the lucky bastard handed me two hundred-dollar bills for my heap. He didn't care that the drivers window was stuck 3/4 of the way up and that the smashed-in trunk was unusable. He shrugged when I told him that there was no A/C and he wasn't listening by the time I mentioned that the jack was on the floor, in the backseat.

I neglected to tell him that the license plates had expired and that the car used as much oil as gas. Randy was given a hand written receipt. And like when I bought the car, he got no title or registration card.

Months later, I spotted Randy wearing a Lady Luck dealer shirt, at the Horseshoe bar. I tried to duck him because I thought he'd bust my balls because of the car. Instead, I got a big pat on the back and he bought me a drink.

He brought up the car and smiled, "I ran that bad-boy into the ground. Then, I owed Petey Watson three-bills and gave it to him."

Instead of getting the next round, I said, "Good-bye."

Randy called me back and asked me to spot him a twenty...I said sorry.

I returned to the east coast in early 1984. In December, I moved into my first South Jersey apartment. Part of the cable company's new client enticement was a thirty day free-trial of their premium package. My wife and I were watching the PLAYBOY CHANNEL. Between features, a gorgeous blond reporter, in a bunny costume was on Fremont Street stopping people and asking them to tell a dirty joke. I couldn't believe it, my Amazing Randy was handed the microphone. I thought his joke was lame but the blond remained locked on his every word and giggled when he was finished. Something tells me, off-camera, he lured her into an alley with a handful of dealer school chips.

THIRTY-FIVE YEARS LATER...STILL A PERFECT FIT !

I was never a slave to fashion. But in 1975, RCC and another friend dragged me to an Army/Navy Store, in the notoriously cut-throat section of Brooklyn called, Red Hook. Luckily the store waived their two tattoo minimum and after getting frisked, we were permitted in.

RCC was familiar with the place so he steered us past the grave-digging equipment boutique, beyond the jail-breaking outfitters and the cocaine purifying paraphernalia. Finally, in the furthest alcove, next to the do-it-yourself, portable thermonuclear bomb center...we found the shoe department.

This store was a real trend-setter, I had never seen footwear chained to shelves. It seemed inconsistent that the howitzer and bear trap in the aisle weren't shackled to the floor. But my friends didn't seem perturbed by the uneven security precautions. Nevertheless, the idea of chaining down shoes soon spread throughout New York City, the country and the world.

In a synchronized formation, we descended on our prey like vultures. We clawed open boxes, ripped apart the decorative tissue paper and feasted on the soft, fleshy underbelly of the elusive, discounted Frye boots.

The three of us strode (clomped) to the heavily barricaded cashier wearing our $46.00 trophies. The twenty dollar savings was actually bettered when RCC name-dropped his connection to the man in the Plexiglas booth.

After the cashier got a price-check on fifty yards of barbed wire for a one-armed woman named Nunzio who was wearing pink battle fatigues...he croaked, "You're friends of Koozie, forty-six flat, no tax."
We all rejoiced in a silent..." COOL !"
RANGING FROM CASUAL TO DRESSY, FOR HEAVY-DUTY WORK OR PLAYING IN THE GREAT OUTDOORS, FRYE BOOTS WERE THE EPITOME OF MID-70'S STYLE.

I wore those boots frequently to school, when cruising bars, on dates and job interviews. PRE-FRYE BOOTS ! OR WHEN I WAS STILL A SUBSTITUTE ON THE BROOKLYN COLLEGE FRISBEE-GOLF TEAM.

One of my favorite memories in those boots was the Thanksgiving-1976 ski weekend in Killington Vermont. Twelve people chipped-in and rented a chalet. At the time DRSCHLUFF, (the best man at my wedding eight years later) and I barely knew each other. Thrown together by circumstances, our future bond was cemented by two occurrences.

DON'T LET THE DEEP SNOW FOOL YOU, I'M WEARING MY FRYE'S TO FELL THAT LARCH. REST ASSURED, I PLANTED SIX OTHER TREES TO MAKE UP FOR IT.

The first occurrence was largely due to the fact that those boots and a pair of gardening gloves represented my only foul-weather gear. The good Doctor wasn't dressed properly for Vermont either. We rented skis, took lessons and found out we sucked at skiing simultaneously with our dungarees becoming sopping wet. Once we starting freezing our asses off, it was time to find alternative diversions. WE LOVED TOBOGGANING - EXCEPT WE CAME SCARY CLOSE TO CRIPPLING A FIVE-YEAR OLD CROSS-COUNTRY SKIER.

The second significant event was our road trip at night, through a blizzard into town. Two girls, Doc and I got stuck in a strange, stranger's Trans Am. The driver, Joe, seemed to be a zaftig version of the, "JERSEY SHORE," mentality. To show off, he sped through the dark, unfamiliar, winding country roads. Despite skidding twice, he ignored our pleas to slow down. To make matters worse, he had only one eight-track, "CITY TO CITY," by Gerry Rafferty and the anal bastard kept replaying the same cut, "BAKER STREET," over and over.

We met our other friends at a bar featuring a Springsteen cover band, (If SLW remembers, I came back to Brooklyn a big Springsteen fan and he said, "Don't get excited, Springsteen will burn himself out...he's all hype").

Three hours later, against our will, we wound-up in Joe's car again. And the journey back was more horrific. Even if the concept of a designated-driver had been invented, no one was going to take buzzed Joe's keys. The snowy conditions were ever-worsening, we had less patience for his fast-paced bravado, the Baker Street tune was boring a torturous hole through our heads and the next skid could end all our lives. The more we complained, the more ignorant Joe got.

We made it to the outskirts of our sub-division. From the top of a hill, we could see our place in the distance. Joe recognized the danger of that icy decline and tightly kept his foot on the brake during our descent. Safe at the bottom, he easily navigated the soft left turn.

Then the moron stopped and said, "What a rush! Let's try that again!"
He ignored our protests, shifted the Trans Am into reverse and maneuvered to the base of the incline. For a few seconds, he floored the car backwards. The two girls screamed as we backed up the slippery slope. When the car lost momentum, the doofus put the car in drive. Even though he didn't accelerate, we knew immediately that he wasn't going to make that one little turn. With a loud thud, the car lost the road. For an instant, we went airborne. Then BOOM! We came down to earth on a snow bank.

Everyone was fine. We got out, and saw the body of the car perched on the white mound with all four wheels spinning off the ground.
Joe said, "Go get help!" We laughed.

The house was an icy, quarter-mile walk. My Frye boots couldn't get traction, I slipped and crushed my knee. But my pain didn't stop me from making jokes at Joe expense. Back inside, the others asked where Joe was and we said, "Baker Street," and resumed partying.
THE NIGHT BEFORE, I CONSIDERED CHOPPING JOE'S HEAD OFF. INSTEAD, PLEASE NOTICE HIS EIGHT-TRACK TAPE, IN A THOUSAND PIECES UNDER THE WOOD.

I loved those Frye boots so much that I had taps installed to slow down their wear. I waxed them and made sure they were always polished. Years later when they finally wore-out, I had them re-soled.
During my time in Vegas, (1979-1984), they were replaced by shark skin cowboy boots. When I returned to the east coast, the cowboy boots' two-tone design, (light blue on dark blue) didn't have the same masculine appeal as they had out west. So I decided to switch back to my old reliable Frye boots. To my shock, Nevada's lack of humidity dried them out and cracked the leather but I didn't throw them out.

While in Canarsie for ten months, I never considered going back in the war-zone known as Red Hook and there was no way I was going to pay full price at the Kings Plaza Mall.

Here in South Jersey, I rung in the Grunge-Age with a pair of Chugga-Boots.

My town Galloway, is generally blessed with mild winters. Unfortunately, this season, in addition to December and January snowstorms, we have endured two blizzards in the past ten days. It was no joy shoveling 20-inches out of our driveway on February 7th. I wore my ancient grunge boots and they kept my feet warm and dry. But upon pulling those drenched, synthetic-leather puppies off, the left shoe, above the heel, tore.

Deemed useless, the Chuggas were sent to that great Jersey landfill in the sky. In the back of my mind, I figured I'd have ten months to replace them. BUT NO ! Two days later, on February 9th, my area was again humbled by nature's white fury. There was too much snow to shovel in sneakers and the Chuggas were in old shoe heaven. Then I got my epiphany...in the darkest corner of the most remote part of my garage was, my forgotten scruffy, holey, cracked, spider-web infested Frye boots. And unlike any of the other old articles of clothes I have retained over the centuries for the sake of sentimentality...my thirty-five year old Frye boots DIDN'T shrink !

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.