THERE'S ONLY ONE MEMBER OF THIS FAMILY WITH THE RIGHT STUFF TO BE A SUPER-HERO

PBECK and I were friends in the eighth through tenth grade. In addition to his friendship, both his parents were cordial and took an interest in me.

For those of you that know my deepest peccadilloes, you may recall, it was PBECK's mom who gave me the chocolate pudding with banana chunks hidden inside. Luckily she was a champ about a fourteen-year old spitting her graciousness into his hand. Since then, I've never allowed my most hated food back in my mouth!

PBECK's dad was chatty. He always impressed me that he knew about me and cared enough to ask how I was doing. But the one thing that stands out about him was the old-fashioned two-dollar bill that he had framed in PBECK's room. It was the first money Mr. Beck ever earned and an apparent symbol for his son to be industrious.

TWO-DOLLAR BILLS WERE RARELY SEEN WHICH ADDED TO MY FASCINATION.

In the summer of 1969, a neighbor arranged my first job...supermarket inventory. I remember planning to frame one of the bills from my pay to hang my room. My idealism was lost when my five and a half hours of toil netted me a nine dollar and change payroll check. Even worse, I was caught off guard by the idea of not getting paid for the forty-five minute car ride from Canarsie to Upper Manhattan (and back) plus my personal prep time, (ah, to be so young and so dumb...I expected two more hours pay). And let's not forget the ultimate kick in the groin: getting taxed!

THE SUPERMARKET (SLOAN'S) WAS IN HARLEM. AN ARMY OF TEENAGE BOYS IN SHORTS AND TEE-SHIRTS CONVERGED ON THAT HUGE, CIVIL WAR-ERA BUILDING, (IT ONCE HOUSED A PALATIAL MOVIE THEATER).

My pay was the astronomical sum of $1.85 an hour. If that didn't leave a bad enough taste in my mouth, I didn't like getting locked inside either. The actual mission involved manually counting every item. My co-workers were all older teens. They seemed to be seasoned veterans but unlike me, they were goofy and having fun. The job wasn't difficult but without a diversion, it was as boring as hell. IT TOOK AN ETERNITY TO FINISH ACCOUNTING FOR THE CANNED VEGGIES AISLE. I FINISHED THE ASSIGNMENT BY DOING A PYRAMID OF OKRA, SAUERKRAUT OR SOME SUCH TRIPE.

I felt like I had accomplished something when I came down from the ladder. Lenny, my seventeen-year old "supervisor" then told me to go in the back and count-down the far left wall. His hot breath smelled like rancid, decomposing meat. So to get away from the odor, I gladly burst through the swinging doors that separated the public part of the store and the "back of the house."

The storage area was poorly lit and with every step I took, it got darker. At first, the stock was stored on solid wooden shelves. As I went along, those fixtures became rickety and held less merchandise. Soon the shelves were bare, splintered and in ruins. I walked under the last, flickering 40 watt bulb as a foul stench that reminded me of wet, Canadian pennies invaded my nostrils. Tucked far away from anything clean, I tip-toed between an oily, standing water lake and a congealed puddle of molten ooze before coming to the end of my journey.

I was so stupid that I wasn't afraid until I stepped on the pallet against the buckling, farthest brick wall. Several water bugs scattered under my feet as I bent down to look at the pile of deteriorated packages that I was sent to tally. Without a flashlight, the only identifiable product was the remnants of a Swanson TV dinner box. The rest of these former food items seemed fused to the floor. Suddenly, a giant greasy rat scurried under the wooden slats below me. The taste of bile rushed up from my throat. I turned and ran...only to be cut off by a group of hysterical boys.

Their laughing and finger pointing was humiliating. I was taken aside by my supervisor. I was too innocent to doubt his subsequent reassuring, yet stinky words. He led me to a gigantic, medieval-looking, wooden door with a tiny window. He unlocked the big silvery handle and we went in. This refrigerated room had cases of beer neatly stacked all around us. I noticed the lilting fragrance of stale urine. Compared to everything else, it smelled like roses. After Lenny explained a multiplication short-cut, he left and closed the door.

I was dressed for a hot August day, so within five minutes, I needed to warm up. That's when I realized that those bastards locked me in. I didn't panic...for the first twenty seconds. Then I looked through the little window, saw nobody and screamed my head off. Luckily the hazing wasn't carried off by hardcore sadists. When the geniuses came out of the shadows, they pretended to not hear my pleas for another minute or two. I was shivering when the gang led me back in the store. By that time, I was laughing with them. But I never did supermarket inventory again!

My son Andrew will be embarking on his first real job tomorrow. I'm confident that there won't be any rookie rites of passage but my wife and I are coming along for support anyway.

Andrew was hired as a party character. He will be in costume, playing Batman at the Absecon Family Fair, (Memorial Field on New Jersey Avenue, in beautiful downtown Absecon).

UP TILL NOW, ADAM WEST WAS MY DEFINITIVE BATMAN. BUT HE WASN'T THE FIRST ACTOR TO PORTRAY OUR HERO ON THE SILVER SCREEN. CHECK THIS OUT ALL YOU TRIVIA BUFFS, IT WAS LEWIS WILSON, IN 1943. OF COURSE, WE ARE MORE FAMILIAR WITH MICHAEL KEATON, CHRISTIAN BALE, VAL KILMER AND GEORGE CLOONEY IN THE TITLE ROLE. HOWEVER, I'M CERTAIN THAT MY BOY WILL BECOME THE NEW STANDARD FOR ALL FUTURE CAPED CRUSADERS.

To get this position, Andrew had to pass two tests. The first was an in depth interview. Then on another day, he was suited-up for the Atlantic City Women's Expo where he auditioned for the Batman part. Having successfully scaled both obstacles, my little guy will officially become a crime-fighting tax-payer in the morning.

EGGS-ACTLY WHAT I THOUGHT YOU'D THINK...BUT NO THAT'S NOT ME, SILLY. IT'S VINCENT PRICE AS BATMAN'S ARCH NEMESIS, EGGHEAD.

Unlike the tedium of my first job, I'm willing to bet that our latest Batman will face his harshest challenge in the form of amorous pre-teen girls.

BACK IN SEPTEMBER, DURING ANDREW'S TRYOUT, HE SAVED MANY LIVES IN GOTHAM CITY AND PUT MANY VILLAINS IN JAIL OR ON THE ROAD TO A CLEAN LIFE THROUGH BETTER LIVING.

To prove his value, our noble champion of justice has already been scheduled for two more gigs, (a school's book sale and a Halloween party). Maybe someday soon, I can find PBECK's dad and show him the framed picture in my room of Andrew's Batmobile and the DeLorean my industrious, super-hero bought me, for cash.

BAD THINGS HAPPEN IN THREES

Here in the Mid-Atlantic states, autumn is ushered in with September's last gasp of summer together with remnants of far away tropical storms. Early October signals a great change as lush green leaves gradually change to robust gold, rust and burnt orange. The beautiful celebration ends as the foliage wither and fall off the trees. November is a raking nightmare as barren limbs dominate December's ominous, pre-winter landscape.


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David Brenner was a popular stand-up comedian for decades. He holds the record with 158 guest appearances on Johnny Carson's, "TONIGHT SHOW." The Comedy Central Network placed him #53, in their, "TOP 100 STAND-UP COMEDIANS SURVEY." In the fall of 1976, he had his biggest opportunity. He was to be the star of NBC's new sit-com, "SNIP."

                    STILL ACTIVE, BRENNER WILL TURN 75 ON FEBRUARY 4, 2011.

"Snip," was a take-off of the hit Warren Beatty movie, "SHAMPOO" with Brenner also playing a hairdresser. NBC produced five episodes but at the last minute, without citing a specific reason, they pulled the show. However the common belief was that the portrayal of Brennan's openly gay boss was too far ahead of its time. This reversal of fortune was such a shock that "TV GUIDE," still included the program in their September 30, 1976 issue.

The "Snip" pilot never aired in the USA. However, a few episodes aired in Australia and got good ratings. But it too got sucked into the unknown maelstrom and was cancelled within a short time.
Brenner still enjoyed a great career. I remember him joking a lot about growing up in Philadelphia as well as life in his adopted home, Manhattan. In my opinion, his most memorable line was his solution to the New York City Sanitation Department strike. First, he primed the audience with descriptions of sidewalks piled high with great masses of trash heaps. Then he got into its stink and the vermin it attracted before saying, "But I never have any problem getting rid of my garbage...I just gift wrap it and leave it on the front seat of my car."

My friend ZYMBOT should have heeded Brennan's message. In the summer of 1984, Mr. Z bought a Saab.AMONGST OUR CLIQUE, A BRAND NEW SAAB WAS A MAJOR STATUS UPGRADE.


Flowglo, (Zymbot's wife) and all his friends, never saw that fire-engine red car. The reason was, on his virgin trip home from the showroom, our hero stopped off at a Hagen Daz for a celebratory ice cream. In the assumed safety of his own neighborhood, (Park Slope, Brooklyn), the genius left the car running and double-parked as he indulged his fat attack. So much for the home field advantage, when he returned, his face was as red as the Swedish nightingale that he'd never see again.

Six weeks later in early October, the collateral damage of a distant hurricane wrought havoc to New York City. During that afternoon, Zymbot, an antique dealer, drove his replacement, beige Saab through rain torrents into the Tribeca section of lower Manhattan. His luck seemed to change as the raw, violent storm magically subsided and vanished. The thick black-gray clouds parted and gave way to blue skies and a clean, crisp breeze. He turned onto a narrow, busy side street and approached his destination. His good fortune fully blossomed as a boat-like Cadillac vacated the enormous, rare and primo parking spot out front.

Zymbot resisted the instinct to grab his beat-up umbrella. He realized it wasn't raining and if it started back up that he was only fifteen feet from the door. Plus, on the way out, he'd be better off if his hands were free to carry his fragile purchases. An hour later when the last of the merchandise was safety stowed in the trunk and back seat, Zymbot went back in to schmooze a little more. While chatting, the lights flickered and a loud crack of thunder was followed with a sudden downpour.

When Mr. Z. came back out, he was initially glad that it wasn't raining. Then he became shocked to see his passenger side window smashed in. He stood in bewilderment, scratching his head trying to assess the situation. A light drizzle limited him to a brief scan of the empty street. When his booty of semi-valuable goods were accounted for, he weighed his options.

Zymbot accepted the breakage as a random act of vandalism as the rain became steadier. He decided to immediately replace the window. Homeward bound, at the crest of the Brooklyn Bridge, the skies opened up. He turned the windshield wipers onto the hyper-setting as a harsh crosswind tingled the right side of his body with cold raindrops. A wild idea came to mind; to rig his tired, old umbrella as a shield.  However, upon a quick scan of the floor where he had left it, all he found was broken glass.

Had Zymbot listened to David Brenner's schtick, he would have at least known to keep the car door unlocked, sacrifice the umbrella and avoid a broken window.
The Saab was driven with plastic covering the window for three weeks because that model was so new that the dealership had trouble locating the proper replacement glass.

On the last Sunday on October, the autumn foliage was in its prime. Together with my wife Sue, another couple, plus Zymbot and Flowglo, I drove the whole motley crew ninety minutes north, to West Haverstraw, in upstate New York.

Our outing was a three-part mission. First was to get out of the city and enjoy the scenery. Second was to go apple picking and lastly, have a country picnic.
SUE'S PHOTOGRAPH CAPTURES THE CONFUSION REIGNING SUPREME AS MIKE, FLOWGLO, DARYLE AND ZYMBOT CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHICH DIRECTION THE APPLE ORCHARD IS.

The orchard owners charge a nominal fee to get in and then you pay by the pound on the way out. To expedite the fun, everyone is provided with a long apple picking pole. This device has two key characteristics; a claw-like twisting mechanism that allows you to remove the fruit from high branches plus a basket to catch it in. WITH THE APPLE PICKING POLES, WE FORMED A GIANT "W" LIKE IN THE MOVIE, "ITS A MAD, MAD, MAD WORLD." BUT THE OUTER ARMS OF THE "W" WERE CROPPED-OUT OF THIS SHOT. AT LEAST WE STILL HAVE THE BURIED TREASURE IN THE MIDDLE.

Sue and I took home five pounds of apples. Mike and Daryle had a bigger family and took home more. Zymbot and Flowglo decided to give them as gifts, so they filled two bags. TO REDUCE THE COST, ZYMOT TRIED TO SMUGGLE OUT A McINTOSH AND A GOLDEN DELICIOUS IN HIS PANTS...UNTIL FLOWGLO BUSTED HIM.

Zymbot pretended to be catatonic after Flowglo's embittered tongue lashing over the his "apples in the sweat-pants" antics.

NICE GUYS FINISH LAST. I CARRIED BOTH OF ZYMBOT'S APPLE BAGS BACK TO CIVILIZATION AS WELL AS MY OWN, AFTER HE BAMBOOZLED ME INTO BELIEVING THAT HE WAS MENTALLY CASTRATED BY HIS WIFE'S SCREAMING.

We finished our country excursion near West Point, New York with an open air lunch at Bear Mountain State Park.
STILL PREYING ON OUR SYMPATHIES AFTER BEING SUPPOSEDLY EMASCULATED, ZYMBOT TOOK A LITTLE SOMETHING TO EASE THE IMPLIED PAIN. AND EVEN WORSE, HE WASN'T SHARING ANY WITH THE REST OF US.

Zymbot got back his repaired Saab the next day. Flowglo took one bag of apples in her car and he took the other. On that Tuesday, Zymbot was frustrated when he struck out on an antique call on Yellowstone Boulevard in Forest Hills. But he was absolutely livid when he found the new window smashed in and his five pound bag of apples...missing!

October indeed brought Zymbot many changes. From Saabs of fire-engine red to beige...to a luckier, new Oldsmobile of black. It was just about that time that Mr. Z started losing his hair. And even a thousand David Brenners couldn't make that funny.

MY HOLLYWOOD DEBUT

Frank Sinatra's mother, Natalie "Dolly" Sinatra died in a January 1977 plane crash on San Gorgonio Mountain, near Desert Hot Springs California. Six months earlier, during my cross-country escapade the previous year, I was in this tiny suburb of Palm Springs.  More specifically, I didn't set out to go to this insignificant dot in the Mohave Desert, I wound up there.  

SNOWY SAN GORGONIO IS SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA'S HIGHEST PEAK.

This road trip celebrated my last summer of childhood together with our country's bicentennial. The majority of my travel was by bus. At the time, Greyhound offered its Ameri-Pass. This great deal provided sixty days of unlimited travel for $250.00. Even better, Greyhound had a reciprocal agreement with Trailways and other smaller lines, so theses passes were honored by the other companies. The catch was, in 1976, there were tons of places that were still inaccessible by public bus. Therefore, my trip included a lot of hitchhiking.

SALTER BUS LINES (NEW ORLEANS TO RUSTON LOUISIANA),  STOOD OUT AS THE WORST OF THE SMALLER BUS COMPANIES.  COMPARED TO THE COMPETITION, THAT DILAPIDATED RATTLETRAP LOOKED LIKE IT WAS FROM A 1940's, THIRD WORLD COUNTRY.  MY BUS WAS FILLED WITH LITTER, THERE WAS NO AIR-CONDITIONING AND NOXIOUS ENGINE FUMES WERE CONTINUOUSLY BOMBARDING THE RIDERS.  IN RETROSPECT, AN EXTRA FEE, TO TAKE YOUR CHANCES SITTING ON THE ROOF WOULD HAVE BEEN WORTH THE RISK.

I only had one problem with Greyhound. Somewhere in the 285 miles between Las Vegas and Los Angeles, they lost my luggage (backpack).

YOU MIGHT NOTICE THAT I'M ON CANADIAN SOIL, (BANFF ALBERTA).  FORGET THAT!  THE SIGNIFICANCE HERE IS, I'M CARRYING ALL MY CROSS-COUNTRY POSSESSIONS...A BACKPACK AND A SHOULDER BAG.

In Los Angeles, a Greyhound public relations representative named Norman Gildersleeve (his real name), told me they "tracked" down my bag in Idaho. He told me that I'd be paged on the PA system when my back pack came in the next day.  Unfortunately, it took a week, (maybe there's a town on Guam called Idaho).

I spent nearly all my time, for the next three days, at or near the bus station.  On a limited budget, this inconvenience forced to wear the same clothes. I felt like a vagrant. At night, I even rode the bus back and forth from San Diego, so I could sleep.

THANK GOODNESS THE WAITING ROOM HAD PINBALL MACHINES AND COIN-OP TV's, (20 MINUTES FOR A QUARTER) CONNECTED TO THE HARD PLASTIC CHAIRS.

I was playing pinball just after dark when I struck up a conversation with a guy my age named Bryan Friend, (his real name). He suggested eating at a taqueria around the corner from L.A.'s enormous bus depot.  Bryan led me past a wall of a twenty opaque exit doors until we got to the rear entrance. This taco stand was in the heart of Skid Row. A who's who of annoying undesirables lined the streets as well as the inside of this greasy spoon. Bryan told me he was going back home to Desert Hot Springs. At that point, as I dreaded the walk past the unsafe dregs of society, I asked him if I could hang-out with him for a couple of days until my stuff was returned to me.

AT THE CORNER OF SKIDMARK AND SYRINGE, THE BACK ENTRANCE OF THE LOS ANGELES GREYHOUND STATION.

Bryan lived up to his last name by making me feel like a good friend. On the midnight bus to his town, I found out that even your best buddy can leave-out vital details. Early in our ride, he mentioned that his "baby" was a brown, 1969 Pontiac Le Mans. Later, he said that he lived nine miles from the Palm Springs bus depot. When we arrived, after 2:AM, that was when he found it fitting to share, "Oh yeah, my car's parked at my house."

Palm Springs is not only a ghost town in the wee hours but the open road on the outskirts of this desert oasis (even in summer) left us exposed to a stinging breeze. I was shivering my ass off as we combined walking and hitchhiking. In thirty minutes, five hundred tumble-weeds bounced past us but only three cars. Luckily the third, a 1960 Ford Meteor, stopped for us.

PICTURE THIS CAR AS A CONVERTIBLE...EXCEPT IT'S A RUSTED-OUT HEAP WITH NO ROOF, WINDOWS OR WINDSHIELD...BECAUSE THEY WERE ALL SAWED-OFF.

The fifty-ish, pot-bellied driver was wearing checkered black and white pants, a white tee-shirt and a bloody chef's apron.  His ensemble was accessorized with a tattered gray scarf around his neck and a pair of funky World War I aviator goggles. We told him where we were going and he slurred in a heavy German accent, "Get in, schnell." It was desperation time, I would have taken a ride from Charles Manson...and perhaps I did.

Bryan sat up front. I discovered, (the hard way), that the back seat had no upholstery, so I sat on exposed, rusty springs. Within a half-mile of swerving, we knew our savior was a sloppy drunk as he accelerated out of town.

At 75MPH without a windshield, this would be the last time I remember my hair getting in my eyes. But far worse, the tiny, omnipresent, airborne, desert dust particles continuously stung my face. Between this sot speeding, me freezing, getting sand blasted and having a raw spring up my butt...the situation couldn't get worse...WRONGO!

Our driver said he was a cook at one of the hotels in Palm Springs. He starting complaining about Ed Goldfarb, his manager. Between hiccups, he turned his eyes off the road and asked me, "Neither of you boys are Jews...are you?" I found lying to be prudent. Seconds after he turned back around, he slammed on the brakes, skidded to a stop and said, "Let's get something to eat." He was making a derogatory comment about his Asian ex as we bounced over the curb and into a SAMBO'S restaurant parking lot.

SAMBO'S WAS FOUNDED IN 1957.  BY 1979, THEY HAD 1,200 OUTLETS IN 47 STATES.  AROUND THAT TIME, CIVIL RIGHTS GROUPS PROTESTED THAT THE NAME AND INTERIOR DECORATIONS WERE OFFENSIVE TO BLACK PEOPLE. LAWSUITS WERE FILED.  DESPITE CHANGING THE NAME AND OTHER CONCESSIONS, THE COMPANY CRUMBLED.  TODAY, ONLY THE ORIGINAL RESTAURANT IN SANTA BARBARA CALIFORNIA REMAINS.

In the nearly empty restaurant, Baron von Richtofen told us to get anything we wanted.  A chubby waitress took our order. Bryan and I just got coffee. Our host pinched the girl's derriere as she turned away. She responded with a harsh glare.

During our awkward wait, a Latino motorcycle cop came in and sat at the counter. The waitress hustled over, whispered to him and pointed in our direction. The officer approached, "Werner, you okay to get home?" I was shocked that the policeman knew this nimrod's name. Rather than nod our chauffeur blasted, "Ya, ya leave me and mein friends alone." The cop asked Bryan and I to identify ourselves. When he was satisfied that we weren't run-aways, he gestured towards the waitress, "Werner, be a nice fella and keep your mitts to your self."

Werner MF'ed the police, Hispanics, blacks, Jews and Asians as we sped away. To avoid being bludgeoned to death in his sleep by this potential psychotic, Bryan had us dropped off three blocks from his place.

On the frosty walk home, we passed dozens of identical, tiny, shack-like houses. In the distance, I sighed in relief when I spotted a brown Le Mans. Up close, beyond the weed-infested, white pebble garden, Bryan's flimsy house looked like four pieces of galvanized sheet metal stapled together.

Inside, up against the bare cinder block wall, Bryan pointed to a beat up sofa and said, "I'll get you a pillow and blanket." I emptied my pockets onto a coffee table that was a sliver of wall paneling set atop three stacks of, "POPULAR MECHANICS," magazines. I asked, "Where's the bathroom?" Bryan pointed to a finger-shaped sign above the kitchenette's door that read: REST ROOMS OUT BACK. To this day, other than port-a-potties that would be my only exposure to a genuine outhouse, (yes it did have a crescent moon cut out of its ramshackle wooden door). In the morning, I found out that the shower was also out back.

Bryan lent me some clothes and took me to a laundromat. He was out of work so we spent most of the next two days watching TV, (yawn), seeing both local points of interest (YAWN!) or visiting with his CB friends, (DOUBLE YAWN !!). We ate all our meals in burger joints but on the last day to show my appreciation, after he turned down my offer of gas money, I treated him to a regular restaurant. He chose Sambo's.

BRYAN DROVE AN HOUR IN EACH DIRECTION TO THESE SAHARA-LIKE SAND DUNES.  ALL FIFTEEN MINUTES THERE WERE MEMORABLE.

After two days, Bryan dropped me off in the Palm Springs bus station. I slept the whole ride into LA. I hoped that my odyssey would end when I retrieved my back pack. Instead I wound up arguing with Norman Gildersleeve until he gave me a small stipend for my four nights in motels, (I did good considering I didn't have receipts). I also got him to extend my bus pass, eight days.

I decided to get away from Southern California and chose San Francisco. I had two hours to kill before departure. I wanted to go to the taqueria again. I was passing bus the station's long wall of doors when I realized that it would be a shortcut to leave through the side rather than the back. But all the exit doors had yellow, emergency tape on them. I didn't care, I ducked underneath the tape and pushed through an opaque door. Simultaneously, someone outside yelled, "CUT !" Then another voice profaned me. I had walked into the middle of the set during a filming of TV's, "BARETTA." I wasn't embarrassed that I ruined the scene.  I even thought it was cool until some assistant to the assistant director gave me the bum's rush past Robert Blake and Antonio Vargas. He escorted me beyond the rope that cordoned off the public...and was told to stay there.

I watched the actors complete their scene and went for more tacos.

IRONICALLY, I'VE BEEN TO LOS ANGELES SIX TIMES AND I'VE NEVER LAID EYES ON THE ICONIC HOLLYWOOD SIGN.

At Christmastime, I sent Bryan a holiday card and thanked him again for his hospitality. In my note, I included my Baretta experience in LA-LA-Land. Jokingly, I finished with, "I wonder if my debut in Hollywood was lost on the cutting room floor. " My "friend" never responded.



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EDITOR'S NOTE - A FRIEND OF MGTP, RGERM7, WAS LIVING IN LAS VEGAS IN JANUARY 1977 WHEN FRANK SINATRA'S MOM WAS KILLED IN THE PLANE CRASH MENTIONED ABOVE.  RGERM7 WAS, (STILL IS), SUCH A SINATRA FAN THAT HE AND HIS PARENTS RENTED A LIMO TO PALM SPRINGS AND SUCCESSFULLY CRASHED MRS. SINATRA'S FUNERAL.

SANCTUARY: THE DUFF'S SHED

In the 1950's and 60's, my maternal grandparents spent their summers at a bungalow colony in South Fallsburg, New York. After Labor Day when I was five, my poppa, ala Steve "The Crocodile Hunter" Irwin, went into the wild and wrestled a turtle. In a ten-second feat of strength and wills, the critter finally succumbed to Gramps' superiority.

NEAR MONTICELLO, IN THE HEART OF THE BORSCHT-BELT, THE MEGALOPOLIS OF SOUTH FALLSBURG TODAY HAS A POPULATION AROUND 2,200. ABOVE, IS THE STREAM WHERE MY POPPA CAPTURED THE TURTLE. IT IS ALSO THE PLACE WHERE I DEVELOPED MY LIFELONG DISTASTE FOR FISHING.

The turtle was strapped like a trophy to the hood of my uncle's Rambler and hauled back to Brooklyn. In mid-September, it was presented as a gift to my sister and I. This was not the common half-dollar-sized green beast you bought in pet stores. Therefore we couldn't get away with one of those clear bowl-like cages with the cute little island and plastic palm tree.

Our turtle was a huge, five-by-three inch monster...and mom wasn't going to allow that filthy gargantuan in our house. Instead the poor amphibious bastard was left to languish outside, at our back door...in a wobbly (convex bottom) metal bucket.

Sis would bring daily bits of chopped meat or lettuce and fill a tiny water saucer. And because at age seven, she was infinitely more aware of anatomy than me, she searched (unsuccessfully) for the physical evidence that would identify our "bucketeer's" sex. As soon as she was convinced of this stalemate, she dubbed our box turtle, "Henry-Henrietta." I never bought into this ambiguity. Based solely on gender-bias, I called HIM Morty...and I couldn't have been more prophetic.

My sister allowed Morty exercise time in the backyard. He preferred to roam the lawn and flower beds rather than the long concrete alley that led to the driveway...and eventually the street. She was also sensitive to the elements. Sis would drain rain water and/or place the bucket in a drier spot. On a couple of occasions, the bucket toppled. Morty seized those opportunities to escape but because our hero was a country-bumpkin, he lacked the necessary criminal instinct and was always found, gamboling or lolly-gagging on the grass.

Two months went by. After a frosty, rainy night, the first cold snap of the season enveloped Canarsie. In the morning, we were shocked to see Morty encased in ice. Although our pet's horrible suffocation death rattled us, the wintry weather postponed any ceremony that would have honored him.

A few days later, the temperature rose to the high thirties and our walk home from school was highlighted by warm sunshine. We went to the yard and found that somebody had kicked Morty's bucket. Sis righted his pitiful excuse for a cage and discovered a miracle. The ice had melted and she proclaimed our little friend to no longer be dead! Immediately, he was re-classified as; missing. While sis tried to explain the concept of hibernation, we scavenged our yard. We saw a rut under the fence that divided our property from the Duff's next door.

We ventured into the vast unknown of the Duff's backyard. We searched the narrow strip of land between our common fence and their shed.

IS THAT JEAN-PAUL BELMONDO IN FRONT OF THE DUFF'S SHED? NO, ITS MY DAD IN 1968, WHEN HE AND THE SHED WERE IN THEIR HEY-DAY. THE LAST TIME I SAW THE SHED, MAY 2010, IT WAS SO DILAPIDATED THAT IT WAS BARELY STANDING.
I was looking behind the shed when I noticed that the property around the corner also had a shed that wasn't flush to the fence. I concentrated on that sliver of space and my imagination deemed it a great hiding place...especially when I was old enough to climb over the chain-links.

My daydream was interrupted when my sister said, "Uh-oh, the Duff's are home." I came around to see Mr. Duff pull into the driveway. His kids got out, paid us no mind and ran in the house. Duff summoned us to him. He lectured us about trespassing and staying on our side. This blithering continued as we followed him to the curb. He was retrieving his trash cans when we were mortified to notice in the gutter that Mr. Duff's car had just smooshed our Morty.

We didn't blame our tragedy on the Duff's. Over all, they weren't bad neighbors. But considering that they had a daughter my sister's age and a son my age, it was surprising our families (parents too) never connected. For a short time, years later, our relationship temporarily brightened when they bought a dachshund puppy.
THE DUFF'S NAMED THEIR POOCH, AUGIE. IN THAT ERA, THERE WAS A LAW REQUIRING EVERYONE TO GIVE THEIR MALE WEINER-DOG THAT NAME. THE INSPIRATION CAME FROM, "AUGIE DOGGIE & DOGGIE DADDY," A SECONDARY CARTOON ON THE, "QUICK DRAW McGRAW SHOW," (1959-1961). THE CRUX OF THE SHOW WAS DOGGIE-DADDY INSTRUCTING AUGIE IN A KNOCK-OFF JIMMY DURANTE VOICE. HIS MAIN CATCHPHRASES WERE, "MY SON, MY SON," AND, "DAT'S MY BOY."
I was ten when Augie got lost. He was gone for some time before Mr. Duff figured he had a full-blown crisis on his hands. A reward of a bottle of Coke was offered to us kids and the whole street was mobilized to find the brownish red devil. I was tempted to join in but the sweet six-ounce allure wasn't enough. Instead of searching through other neighbor's shrubberies and gardens, I chose to satisfy my long time fixation.
I took the situation as a green-light to go into the Duff's yard, in the name of hunting for their pup. I went behind their shed. I was shielded by the small wooden building so nobody could see me easily scale the back fence which had become my Everest. Equally important, the shed around the corner blocked my view from their side.
Ironically, after I came back on the street to re-join the Augie search, the bugger was found safe...in the shed. Just think, one little bark or a stinking whimper and I would have scored on both ends...
At night, in the summertime of my adolescence, we played, "Freeze-Tag," our version of, "Man-Hunt." The Duff's had moved away and I made regular use of the space between the back-to-back sheds. My friends never figured out my clever vanishing act and until now, I never shared the genius of my 100% success-rate escape route. Then one day, I made practical use of it...in reverse.
I attended Hebrew School, Monday through Thursday for four years. After a long day at public school and a three city-block walk home, I had the added drudgery of four more short blocks and another long one. During my last year of parochial training, when I was twelve, the ninety-minute session was from 4:30 till 6:PM.
On one snowy day, the class was especially tedious because I anticipated a colossal snowball-fight after school. Although there was a flood light along side the Synagogue, our battleground was mostly in the dark. I was already armed with a stout projectile when I saw my friend with his back turned. I flung my best fastball and WHAM ! It was the shot of the century...a bulls eye to the back of his neck. In the split second that I reveled in it remaining stuck, straddling his shirt collar and dripping down the back, I was horrified to see it WASN'T my friend. My victim was an older bully who was there for Bar Mitzvah lessons.
I could see by his budding anger that he wasn't going to accept this as a simple case of mistaken identity. When he called me a SCHMENDRIK, I ran. He followed. Luckily I was wearing sneakers and was able to use the tire ruts in the slushy street. He was older, more athletic and faster but he was wearing heavy boots. I reached the corner and he was still coming. For the next three blocks, every time I rested and looked back, my dogged pursuer, like Inspector Javert from, "LES MISERABLES," was obsessively on my tail.
On the street before mine, I had an epiphany. If I cut down the wrong block and used my secret escape hatch...in reverse, then maybe, he'd be tricked into thinking I lived on that street. And hopefully, when he couldn't find me, he'd become frustrated and forget the whole mess. For good measure, I ducked into the yard before my jump-off point with the relentless ruffian steadily advancing. I then snuck behind that house into the yard behind the Duff's. Hidden by their shed, I jumped the fence to the sanctuary of the Duff's yard. Cloaked by darkness, I skulked onto my property.
I was home early. Mom always calculated some dawdling time after Hebrew School so dinner wasn't ready. I ran upstairs to sneak a peek at our street to see if he was still after me. Mom noticed my bizarre behavior and called me down. She saw recognized my expression of guilt and asked why I was huffing and puffing. When I hesitated, she accused me of cutting class. I wasn't even lying when I said, "It was cold, so I ran home."

ROBERT E. LEE AND THE $500 BILL.

"THE TONIGHT SHOW," starring Johnny Carson was a hit late night TV talk show from 1962-1992, (4,531 episodes). The format combined guest performances and interviews. To fill in timing gaps, the show produced its own comic segments. My favorite of these routines was, "CARNAC THE MAGNIFICENT."

Johnny portrayed the mystic, Carnac. His sidekick Ed McMahon, would introduce him while holding sealed envelopes for the audience to see. Accompanied by exaggerated applause, Carnac came on stage dressed in a flowing black robe and turban with a rakish plume. McMahon would then hand the envelopes to the clairvoyant and say, "Carnac, these envelopes have been hermetically sealed and left in a mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnalls porch since noon today. Nobody knows the contents of these envelopes. But you, in your infinite wisdom will ascertain the answers to these questions without hearing the question first." Johnny's wry response would be something like, "That's right bean-bag breath."
CARNAC WOULD HOLD THE ENVELOPE TO HIS TEMPLE AND CONCENTRATE ON DIVINING AN OUTRAGEOUS PUN FOR AN ANSWER. I THINK THE BEST EXAMPLE WAS, "INFIDEL." ED McMAHON WOULD TYPICALLY REPEAT THE ANSWER AND CAUSE A SARCASTIC REMARK FROM CARNAC. THEN CARNAC WOULD SAY IT AGAIN, "INFIDEL." AFTER HE OPENED THE ENVELOPE, HE'D READ THE NOTE INSIDE AND ANNOUNCE, "WHERE'S CASTRO'S LIVER?"

I can't count how many dozen Carnac skits I saw in my youth but I was in college when finally looked-up; hermetically, in the dictionary. It means; airtight. In practical terms to assure that something is airtight, you might want to use a sealant like hot wax. Other than Carnac, this hermetic sealing concept has only popped-up one other time in my life.
It all came back to me, yesterday, when my wife Sue and I attended a meet-n-greet with my son Andrew's new teachers. Three of them were strictly business. They discussed their personal teaching credentials and bored us (me) with in depth discussions about their grading system. His fourth teacher was the light at the end of the tunnel. He was the one that my boy claimed had a Kermit the Frog voice.
LIFE ISN'T EASY WHEN YOU'RE GREEN AND ITS NO JOYRIDE EITHER WHEN YOU SOUND LIKE KERMIT THE FROG.

Andrew was right ! While the parents were settling in, every time this gentleman spoke, I burst-out laughing. Sue thought it was funny too but she controlled herself. A pattern developed when he listened to someone, I calmed down. Then when he said something, I'd crack-up all over again. My antics were pissing Sue off. I considered walking-out but he began his full-blown teacher spiel. I buried my face in the desk and muffled the giggles enough to avoid being a distraction.
The other stand-out was his Anatomy teacher. She was so cool because she never mentioned her name or grading system...she just listed every class activity and made them sound exciting and fun. She was even cut-off by the bell so she could only point-out, in the farthest corner of the room, the big crescendo, year-end project. While looking back there, I noticed a closet of skeletons.
SKELETONS IN ONE'S CLOSET IS A PHRASE USED TO DESCRIBE; HAVING PAST SECRETS THAT YOU PREFER NOBODY KNOWS ABOUT.

Those skeletons spurred my memory of Robert Edward Lee. He was my friend and fellow craps dealer in my Vegas years. Nobody had more skeletons in their closet than him. But, in my 32 years in the gaming industry--hell, in my entire life--he (Bob) was the most universally beloved person I ever met. Few people can satisfy rabid casino customers, fellow dealers and bi-polar management stooges like Bob.

Bob seemed to always be happy, funny, smart and generous. Because of that greatness, I have dedicated one of my short stories; "A TALE OF THREE CITIES," to him and in another story, "MEN IN WHITE," he was a prominent character.BOB LEE WAS BORN IN RURAL TENNESSEE. HE WASN'T RELATED TO THE FAMOUS CONFEDERATE GENERAL, BUT HE WAS NAMED AFTER HIM. MUCH OF BOB'S RICH PERSONALITY WAS INFLUENCED BY HIS MASTERY OF SOUTHERN CHARM AND HOSPITALITY.

On rare occasions, Bob Lee like all of us, had his less than perky moments. Once I got to know him, it was surprising that he could be such an extreme contradiction. There were times that he was miserable, dead serious, dumb as a sink and selfish. For instance, he was a health food nut but no stranger to barbiturates and so worldly, yet ignorant to the feelings and needs of his wife and son. More importantly, at age forty-eight, despite a smallish frame, graying kinky hair and a wrinkled, leathery face, he was an incredible and successful babe-hound. With that in mind, even the sensitivity for maintaining his most peculiar, carnal skeletons in his closet, he freely made common knowledge.

EDITOR'S NOTE - (None of Bob Lee sex-ploits are in this blog. If that's all your interested in, contact me and I'll send you one of HIS short stories).

I was twenty-five years younger than Bob when we met. He took a liking to me and in a short time, he became my mentor. He was giving with his time and energy and taught me about the stock market, gardening, real estate, do-it-yourself home and auto repairs and so much more. Even though we chummy, I still thought it was strange that he confided in me, a need to hide the bulk of his tip earnings from his wife.

One night at work, Bob tried to turn me onto a penny stock. Lereck Oil was selling at twelve cents a share. On less than five hours sleep later that morning, he was going downtown to see his broker. Based strictly on being somewhere other than in my bed at 9AM, I balked at the opportunity.

A week later, Bob came by my condo to show off the white, 1963, split window coupe Corvette he just bought for cash with the sale of his Lereck Oil stock. We wandered into the backyard that he had helped me cultivate. The former cement-like flower beds were now flourishing as a vegetable garden. I remember the first time he chopped through the crusty earth and how surprised I was to see the moist the soil, inches below the cement-like desert surface.

Bob held up a stout zucchini and made sexual jokes about its length. Suddenly he snapped, "After paying for the car, when I added what was left from my stock money to the stash I was telling you about, I counted $30,000.00 laying around the house...now I really have to hide it from my wife." I said, "How much did you invest?" He ignored me, clawed at my soft, fertile soil and said, "You just gave me a great idea. I gotta go."

Two months went by. While we were at work, I was trying to think of a way to ask Bob if he reached a solution to his hidden money dilemma. Those thoughts were interrupted when a player tried to buy-in on our craps game with a $500.00 dollar bill.THE $500.00 BILL FEATURES THE PORTRAIT OF OUR 25th PRESIDENT, WILLIAM McKINLEY. IN 1934, THE U.S. GOVERNMENT, TO REDUCE THE RISK OF COUNTERFEITING AND SMUGGLING, STOPPED PRODUCING ALL BANKNOTES OVER $100.00. BIG BILLS ARE SO RARE TODAY, THAT THE ONE I SAW THAT NIGHT IS ONLY ONE I EVER SAW IN CIRCULATION.

Before the player was given his chips, my immediate supervisors stopped the game to examine the bill. I don't know what they were looking for, but they resembled a forensic team searching for traces of plague. We were still standing around until the pit-boss came by. He was perplexed too. The casino manager was paged. The big boss took a scant glance and said, "Drop it and get a f*****g roll." Bob called out, "Wait!" The casino manager said, "Now what?" Bob said, "Can I buy the bill off the game right now?" The big boss motioned for the bill to be plunged into the drop box and said, "Yeah but not here." Bob said, "But?" And the manager continued, "If you want it that bad, meet me at the casino cage with the money at 8:AM sharp! If you're ten seconds late, I know plenty of mugs who collect that kind of shit."

The next night when I asked Bob if he got the $500.00 bill he said, "Yeah and its the best thing that ever happened to me." I asked, "Why?" "Because like an idiot, I buried that thirty grand under my rutabaga patch." I said, "So?" "You know when Carson does Carnac, right? Well, I buried the whole business in a mayonnaise jar." I said, "Okay." "Well I decided to dig it up and put the 500 bill in with the other money. To my surprise, a lot of the bills were in real bad shape. They were getting greenish-black from mold and the edges were disintegrating." I said, "Geez." Bob continued, "Remember in the Carnac routine when Ed McMahon said the envelopes have been hermetically sealed...well that's what you have to do when burying paper. If you don't, when moisture seeps in, BAM, in no time, it fritters away to nothing." I said, "You are lucky." He said, "Its a good thing Vegas has a million casinos." I said, "Why?" "Because, I didn't want to explain to a bank why I buried undeclared income in my garden. But money grubbing whore casinos take anything, no questions asked...even if you wiped your butt with every bill you brought in with." I smiled, "You're right." Bob finished by saying, "Now, all I have to do is "launder" at least half of those hundreds...one at a time."

THE NEGATIVE LOTTERY

September 11th has become a day of remembrance, honor and respect. The day encourages us to reflect on the victims as well as the heroes who helped minimize the carnage. Then while appreciating those heroes, just imagine, how does an ordinary person prepares them self for the most abstract and dire possibilities?

I was too young to realize that New York had a state lottery as early as 1967. In fact, I was ignorant of the word until a sophomore year English assignment when it appeared in the title of Shirley Jackson's classic yet controversial 1948 short story, "THE LOTTERY."

Jackson's story was shocking because a small New England town is excited over its upcoming lottery. However, the reader is misdirected...lottery winner wasn't to be showered with money or extravagant prizes, they were to be stoned to death as part of a ritual sacrifice.

The shock value was lost on me because people familiar with lotteries were expecting something wonderful to happen....but not me.

The next time I came in contact with the term was in regard to the Vietnam draft. Luckily, when I became eligible in 1973, it was the first year that there was no draft. But towards the end of the war, the Selective Service Board had set in motion, a lottery by birthday system, to fairly determine who to send. That system remained in place after the draft was abolished, just in case an emergency forced it to be reinstated. Once again the word lottery became negative to me because my birthday was selected sixteenth...and virtually everyone up to number 150 was certain to go.

The third time the negative lottery came up was when I became a cab driver in August 1978. I took this crappy job because I wanted to avoid being a financial burden to my family. So I decided to use those earnings to pay for my own craps dealer training.

Hidden among a collection of ex-convicts, morons, drug fiends and other dregs of society, a group of unmotivated college kids which included several of my friends worked for a local, radio-dispatched taxi service. I was nervous getting ready for my interview. The friend who recommended me told me, "Relax and just be yourself." When I didn't respond in a positive way he added, "You're competing against guys who can't get any other kind of job...you're gonna stand-out. Even the manager (interviewer) owes the bookies big time, the dispatcher after midnight is a junkie and half the drivers have been in jail."

I was hired by a pleasant guy who could barely keep his eyes off the, "DAILY RACING FORM." He told me the basics like where to buy gas, the necessity of fixing my own flats plus the tedium of company policies and procedures. An hour later, in car #16, I was on the road. As a added bonus, I could see the road through a gaping hole in old #16's floorboards. If that wasn't enough, this late-model Plymouth had no defroster or jack. I mentioned that to a friend and he said, "After dark, even if there was a jack, you don't want to be changing tires...even in a good neighborhood. Ride the rim all the way in even if you're coming from Oshkosh. Trust me, no jury would convict you."

I worked from 7PM till 1AM, five nights a week and cleared an average of $40.00/day. That was after getting gouged for the two-way radio rental, some other miscellaneous fees and getting extorted by the overnight junkie dispatcher, (no lay-offs...no calls). I lasted one month.

On that first night, one of my friends was sent to a two-family house a few blocks from the office. A woman holding an infant came running down the steps as he pulled up. She looked disheveled from the distance but up close, she was a bloody mess. An angry man stormed after her as she got into the back seat. She cried, "Go please, just go." The man screamed, "Cabby, if you go, I'll find you and kill you!" The woman begged, "Go, please go." My friend said, "Lady, I took this job because, I hate being pressured into decisions." Amid the woman and baby both hysterical, the man pounced on the locked backdoor. It was only then that my friend peeled-out.

A few days later as the sun was beginning to set, I picked up two girls. In broken English they said, "Madison Square Garden." I asked, "Where are you from?" One of them said, "Czechoslovakia." We were still in my neighborhood, waiting for a red light when a Mercedes-Benz going in the opposite direction also stopped. Suddenly another car zoomed around him...stopped and went in reverse to block his path. Two guys ran out and one of them began pummeling the Benz driver through the car window. To get away, he floored the car backwards, put the car in drive and sped off. Then all three men from the other car pulled out guns and started shooting. It was over in 5 seconds but the girls were screaming until I said, "TV, Kojak." They smiled and both said, "Yeah, yeah Kojak...very nice."

One of the burnt-out college kids that I befriended was called into the office. Five twenties were spread on the desk and the manager said, "You wanna make this 'C' note for one day's work?" "Yeah, what do I have to do?" "We'll drive you to Kennedy (airport) and you'll fly to North Carolina. A man named Tompkins will meet you when you get off and give you the keys to his van. And all you gotta do is, drive it here...I'll even throw-in an extra twenty for food and expenses." The kid said, "Cool. What's in the van?" He was fired on the spot.

In my third week, the midnight dispatcher sent me to a bar on the other side of Brooklyn to pick up a package. I hated being sent on that lowlife's private errands. I knew it was shady because trips like this weren't "logged-in," and drivers were paid the standard rate, under the table. Plus these missions were time consuming and never included a tip.

A few days later that dispatcher and one of the drivers were arrested at the office for, possession of heroine with intent to distribute. Even though he was the manager's nephew, he threatened to kill his uncle on his way out.

The next night, one of the other drivers took a fare to the Kings Plaza Mall. It was one exit away on the Belt Parkway, (a three-lane highway in both directions). The customer asked to sit in the front because its easier to talk to someone that way. On the parkway, the fare slide next to the driver, put his foot on the gas and grappled for control of the wheel. The beat-up taxi was zig-zagging through traffic and veering onto the shoulder at 70MPH. When the customer let go of the steering wheel, he reached across the driver and momentarily opened door. When he failed to push the cabby out, he suddenly relaxed and said, "Pull over. Let me out."

That same driver on the last day in September was stopped at a light at Grand Army Plaza, (a major intersection near downtown Brooklyn). In broad daylight, a man poked his head through the passenger side window and said, "Take me to Hunterfly Street." When the driver explained he wasn't permitted to pick-up fares, a confederate of the first man came up from the driver's blindside and put a knife to his throat.

When he quit that night, he said, "I'm not taking any chances, bad things happen in threes."

On Monday, October 2, 1978, just before midnight, I was sent to Newark New Jersey. Unfortunately, it was a company sanctioned package pick-up. The comedy of errors started at the Wilson Avenue exit of the Pulaski Skyway.
THE SKYWAY IS NAMED AFTER CASIMIR PULASKI, A POLISH GENERAL WHO TAUGHT WARFARE TACTICS TO COLONISTS IN THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. BUILT IN 1932, THE ROADWAY IS A SERIES OF TALL BRIDGES IN NORTH JERSEY DESIGNED TO ELIMINATE THE NEED FOR DRAWBRIDGES.

My driving directions indicated that I should get off the highway and go straight. When I got to the bottom of the off-ramp, there was an abutment blocking me...I could only go left or right onto Wilson Avenue. I was out of my two-way radio's range and even if I spotted a pay phone, there was no way I was going to let myself become a human target by getting out of my cab.

That part of Newark looked like a nuclear bomb had hit an industrial park. There was no one around to ask for help at that hour...not even a police prowl car. The way it looked, I bet there wouldn't be too many people around even in midday. Alone, I canvassed the area looking for Delancey Street. For an hour, I criss-crossed every street in the area. I was wondering how I would handle a flat tire in that hell-hole when I noticed an all-night gas station. A Latino was caged-up in the tiny kiosk. There were thick, jail cell-like bars over Plexi-glass surrounding the little booth. I pulled up next to the transom and asked, "Can you tell me where Delancey Street is?" In a strong accent he said, "You want gas?" I said, "No. I need to find to Delancey..." He said, "No habla Ingles," as he slam closed the money-entry chute.

I eventually found my way. The building was a warehouse adjacent to the barbed wire fence that separated the neighborhood from the freight-forwarding section of Newark Airport. Like the speakeasy days, I knocked on a door that had a second miniature door at eye-level. Through the boxy hole, a tough man in a suit, puffed on a nauseating cigar and stared me down. After looking past me, he asked inane questions until he was satisfied that I was the authentic courier . When he was certain, he passed me a squarish, fist-sized box. It was wrapped like a gift, in plain, brown paper. He then snarled, "Don't open it, don't shake it and don't smell it. If you know whats good for you, go straight back to base and give it to your boss. You better hurry, I'm calling him now." I did what I was told.

I had seen enough of the seedy part of life. The concept of high-risk, low-reward made my decision easy because I knew it was just a matter of time before my "number" came up. Without getting into specifics, I borrowed my tuition money from my gracious dad.

The next morning before dealer school, I stopped into the office and quit. The manager told me not to, "Burn down my bridges." I lied and said, "I'm not unhappy, just tired...and I don't want the job to interfere with my studies." He was pleasant, "Oh, what are you studying?" I said, "I'm gonna be a Vegas craps dealer." He threw down his, "OFF-TRACK BETTING PROGRAM," and his face contorted, "Don't do it kid, its the friggin' negative lottery. Sure it all looks like fun and games in the beginning but once it gets a little exciting...you're hooked." I checked my watch as his speech accelerated into a rant, "You start chasing that rush, but it never comes. And even if it somehow does...in the end, everyone loses." I was tuning him out. I even injected a fake yawn hoping he would take the hint. Instead he kept yammering, "Maybe after a short time, you come to your senses and try to get out, but by then you get involved with the wrong people...and you never want to owe the wrong people... and BAM! You regret it the rest of your life." I said, "That won't happen to me..." The manager interrupted, "Kid, I got no family any more. No house, no car, no friends, no life. Even now, whatever I get, it ain't mine...you understand...they own me. I used to be a good person, now I gotta do shit for them that I would never have dreamed of." He reacted to a creak in the floor outside the office and whispered, "Don't do what I did or you'll wind up like me."

I just "celebrated" my 32nd anniversary of being the gaming business. I'm pleased to say that the taxi manager was wrong and that my career has been successful. I rarely gamble and when I do its simple, inexpensive entertainment. I guess I'm giving up the infinitesimal possibility of hitting it big, in exchange for it the slight chance that gambling becomes an addiction.

Too bad life isn't that simple...I would image that the victims of the 9-11 terrorist attack in New York City, Washington DC and rural Pennsylvania would have given anything to avoid hitting the negative lottery.

In the long run, the terrorist plot actually backfired because they never counted on our county's resolve, the creation of Patriots Day and a greater, focus, appreciation and protection of the American way of life.

A TRIBUTE TO JOHNNY UNITAS

This, "TRIBUTE TO JOHNNY UNITAS," was written prior to the advent of, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND." I understand that the original is floating, light years away, in the infinite void of the cyber-universe. Unfortunately, a computer crash robbed me of my copy and I can't find where it is on the Internet, so I'm re-writing it in blog form.

Johnny Unitas died from a heart attack on September 11, 2002. That day was the first anniversary of the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. His death was overshadowed by the remembrance.

THREE-TIME NFL MVP AND HALL-OF-FAMER JOHNNY UNITAS WAS ONE OF THE GREATEST QUARTERBACKS IN NFL HISTORY. AFTER BEING DRAFTED BY THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS, HE WAS CUT BEFORE THE 1955 SEASON. THE NEXT YEAR, HE WAS PICKED UP BY THE BALTIMORE COLTS AND BECAME A LEGEND, (1956-1972). HIS LAST YEAR, (1973), WAS WITH THE SAN DIEGO CHARGERS.

To help support the memory of this great man, both on and off the field, I would like to share my 1989 chance meeting with him on the Ocean City, Maryland boardwalk.

First, we must go back to 1974. That summer, RBOY and I enjoyed a working vacation at DISNEYWORLD. It was so great that we didn't want to leave.

RBOY AND I WERE SWEEPERS. MY TURF WAS FANTASYLAND AND AS YOU CAN SEE, MY AREA WAS SPOTLESS.

To prove how good that summer was, we went back the next year in hope of a repeat performance. But due to circumstances beyond our control, we only stayed a week and came back to Brooklyn.

That first year, RBOY and I lived in Kissimmee Florida, at a former Ramada Inn that re-opened under the name, the YOUNG AMERICAN INN. The YAI accommodated only Disney employees. That meant that he and I split $95.00 a month while our hormones exploded with a couple of hundred kids our age.

Kissimmee is a skyrocketing community these days. But 36 years ago, it was a rural cow town with a single, stark roadway (the East Space Coast Highway), running through it. The main business district was at the junction of Robinson Avenue. All I recall being there were; a Zayre's Department Store, a bank, Schultz Brothers Used Furniture and a Waffle House. The streets rolled-up early so that we denizens of the YAI had to make our own fun.

RBOY and I worked at Disney until midnight. So when we got "home" other than watching out for stray alligators or re-routing giant tortoises back into the marsh, our clique hung-out and hobnobbed until the wee hours. On a few of occasions, we piled into a car and had a road trip to civilization...Denny's.

The 15-mile mystery-ride through the swamps of "Gator-Alley" took us to an even smaller hamlet, Taft Florida.
BACK THEN, DENNY'S WAS ALL TAFT HAD TO OFFER. OVER THE YEARS, THEIR IMAGE HASN'T CHANGED. THEREFORE, THIS IS THE BEST PHOTO OF IT THAT THE INTERNET HAS TO OFFER, (in 2000, the population was 1,938).

The restaurant attracted folks from miles around. Most of them were senior citizens and it seemed that where ever they were coming from, they were well-dressed.
AS THE ONLY OPTION WE KNEW IN OSCEOLA COUNTY, DENNY'S WOULD BE HOPPING AT 1:30AM.
RBOY always ordered, "MEAL ITALIANO." I think that translated into industrial meatballs and canned spaghetti. Being a connoisseur of fine dining, I was aware that there were few authentic Italians cooking-up gourmet specialties at a Central Florida Denny's, in the early morning. Therefore, I avoided the risk and ordered the old reliable cheeseburger deluxe with an ice-cream soda.
For these outings, our party was typically six or more. The conversations were loud, obnoxious and punctuated with outbursts of laughter. We got used to the stares, dirty looks and stink eyes...and never relented.
One time, Denny's was so busy that we had to wait ten minutes for a table. When we were seated, I had a clear view of the entrance. Two elderly couples came in after us and approached the hostess. The men were both wearing three-piece suits. One man held his jacket across his left arm. Something about the shade of his blue suit caught my eye. Considering that I am color-blind, it was unusual for me to be distracted to the point of gaping at this man over a color.
When the hostess led them our way, I figured it out. His suit was the distinctive Baltimore Colts "speed" blue. A second later as they passed, I saw on the back of the man's vest, a white, football uniformed-sized, number 19. THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID HE HAD A HUGE, WHITE NUMBER 19, SEWN INTO THE BACK OF HIS SPEED-BLUE VEST!
In an incredible combination of discovery and disbelief I cried out, "That guy thinks he's Johnny Unitas!" The gentleman slowly turned, stepped up to our table and snarled, "I may NOT be Johnny, but I am Mr. Unitas!"
I don't embarrass easily but getting set straight by Johnny Unitas' father did redden my face.
Fifteen years goes by. My wife Sue and I are in Ocean City Maryland.
WE VACATIONED IN OCEAN CITY, 13 CONSECUTIVE JUNES FROM 1988-2001. WE LIKED IT THERE SO MUCH THAT WE WOULD HAVE DONE TESTIMONIALS OR TV COMMERCIALS, FREE!
On this particular cloudy, breezy afternoon, the boardwalk was empty. Sue wandered into her 40th gift shop. I couldn't stand another schlock-store. So I filled-out several "REMAIN OUTSIDE" waiver forms and completed them in triplicate. If Sue denied my application, I was prepared to hammer a Bic pen into my good ear. After citing my many grammatical flaws, the misses opted to overlook (this one time), my ineptitude. And instead, she began to lecture me on the proper protocol for such written requests. Twenty minutes later, I was permitted to stay outside under the condition that I didn't meander too far away...to an eatery, bar or arcade, (of course, I still would've but I didn't want to fill-out more forms).
In a recess of the building, I found a spot sheltered from the wind. I stared out at the crashing surf and became mesmerized by my sudden calm. After being transfixed, I realized that someone was standing beside me...doing the same thing. I looked up at him and recognized that it was Johnny Unitas.
I knew from the feedback that I received from Baltimoreans that Johnny U. was not only approachable but that he was a friendly and warm individual. I stuck up a conversation. Although he continued staring at the ocean, he was cordial and receptive to my compliments without giving me eye-contact. I told him I was a New York Jets fan and reminded him of the Super Bowl and another game that he played great but was out-done by Joe Namath. He remained interested so it was with great confidence, I told him when I met his father in Taft Florida in 1974. Johnny looked at me for the first time. He glared deep into my eyes and with utter sincerity said, "My daddy died when I was five." Like I said, I don't embarrass easily but this was the worst moment of my life. I was unable to mask being mortified and stammered, "S-s-s-sorry." I slunk away. There would be no Kodak moment of us shaking hands, no autograph, no nothing!

Years later, but before I had Internet access, ESPN did a biography on Unitas. In it, the pre-mature death of his father was verified. I guess if that man in Florida WAS Mr. Unitas, he must have been an uncle or something.

All Johnny wanted to do was stare at the ocean and not be bothered...and I burst his bubble. Maybe to get back at me, he put a whammy on my Jets. Or maybe my team stinks on their own and Mr. Johnny Unitas was the heroic gentleman that his legions of fans believe him to be. To prove it, he was willing to spend a little time with an admirer...until I ruined it.