"SEA HUNT," IS GOOD.

"DREAM ON," was a clever adult-themed sit-com that aired on HBO from 1990-1996. Its main character Martin Tupper, played by Brian Benben, was a neurotic New Yorker coping with divorce, dating and contemporary problems while scenes from old TV shows rattle around in his head.

While "Dream On" was a hilarious exaggeration...I was still able to relate to its underlying genius. Specifically, the implication that in the 50's and 60's, TV was a free baby-sitter...and that over-exposure caused an acute short attention span and skewed developing minds, like mine.

I DON'T RELATE ASPECTS OF MY LIFE TO GOLDEN-AGE TV SHOWS. BUT I ADMIT, I DO GET WARM AND FUZZY WHEN I SEE AN OLD FAVORITE.

I recently discovered that I get the "THIS," TV network, (locally on channel 250). THIS specializes in old movies. However, its late-night line-up includes, old half-hour shows from the 50's and 60's...like, "SEA HUNT." SEA HUNT, HAD A FOUR-YEAR, 155 EPISODE RUN FROM 1958-1961.

Lloyd Bridges starred as Mike Nelson. The program's gimmick was that Nelson was ex-navy frogman, turned freelance scuba diver.

IF YOU'RE MORE FAMILIAR WITH PRESENT-DAY TV, IN THE 1990's, (30-YEARS LATER), BRIDGES APPEARED A FEW TIMES ON "SEINFELD," AS IZZY MANDELBAUM, A SENIOR CITIZEN WORK-OUT JUNKIE.

I would estimate that the last time I saw Sea Hunt, (in re-runs), I was ten. I remember being fascinated by Mike Nelson's underwater adventures and run-ins (swim-ins?), with villains while salvaging various forms of treasure.

ENVIRONMENTALLY WAY AHEAD OF ITS TIME, EACH SHOW CLOSED WITH A PLEA BY LLOYD BRIDGES TO PROTECT THE OCEANS.

The Sea Hunt, episode I watched yesterday was good. But that assessment depends how you interpret the word, "good." Think of it this way, did you ever go to a hardware store and see how they advertise the three options for rakes or driveway sealant as "good-better-best."

Good-better-best, what does that mean? Psychologically, the store is implying that GOOD - Means, worthy. BETTER - Is a higher quality version and BEST - Represents the state-of-the-art, top of the line. In reality that is not true because everything is relative. So until there's a benchmark to establish how good, good is...we can't assume the value of "good."

In street slang, the word "bad" means good. Specifically, somebody or something that is admired, envied or tight in a thorough way. On the other hand, to a coin collector, "good" means bad condition.

TATTERED, WITH THE ELEGANCE OF ITS FINE DETAIL WORN AWAY, YOU COULDN'T EXPECT TO SELL THIS 80-YEAR OLD BEAUTY IN "GOOD" CONDITION FOR MUCH MORE THAN FACE-VALUE.

So that "good" rake or driveway goop might be inferior. And the, "better," sub par and the, "best," only adequate. I'm afraid that Sea Hunt, for my current sophisticated taste didn't leave me feeling warm and fuzzy. In fact, it slipped all the way down to the "good" meaning "crappy," category.

In its defense, Sea Hunt and similar adventure shows, had to establish a setting, convey the problem and climax the show with an exciting solution...in less than thirty minutes. The job of the writers must have been difficult because they had to squeeze a salient plot, into such a short time...and rarely succeeded.

BETTER re-runs that I've recently seen like, "ZORRO" and "RAWHIDE," also suffered from the lack of top-notch scripts. What made "Zorro" stand-out was that it was produced by Disney and had access to movie studio resources like sets, costumes and make-up.

When you examine the BEST, (my favorites), like, "SUPERMAN" or the "LONE RANGER," the action was so stimulating, that the story, acting and backdrops were secondary. To a pre-pubescent like me, how can you top Superman? The dude could fly for god's sake. He had the full spectrum of possibilities that x-ray vision could provide and represented truth justice in the American way.

The poor Lone Ranger, as great as he was...couldn't compare. To the tune of the "WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE," I'd get so fired-up in the opening credits. But deep down, I knew, even at a tender young age that he was mortal and could still take a stray bullet in the back. Plus he had limited range, (even when he was riding Silver). And while it was admirable that he never stuck around long enough for his doubters to thank him...he still couldn't bend steel in his bare hands.

By today's standards, all these shows had stupid plots. But Sea Hunt had no big name studio behind it and the uniqueness of the underwater peril and fight scenes quickly wore-off. Therefore, without fireworks or bells and whistles to occupy a child-like mentality, the viewer is forced to notice the weakness/implausibility of the script. That's what happened to Sea Hunt. And that's why the show was merely good. It was so good at being GOOD that in celebration of seeing it for the first time in 45 years, I shut it off after ten minutes...here's why.

The lame episode I saw, opened serenely in the living room of Mike Nelson's friend. Nelson is trying to convince this much older diver to retire. With the essence of this man's masculinity and livelihood at stake, an argument breaks out. The shouting stops when a vase next to an open window crashes to the floor. Was this a smart symbolic ploy to establish the ferocity of their differences...no! When the man looks out his window, the scene abruptly and comically cuts to stock-footage of hurricane scenes...duh !

Back in the living room with no sound-effects to suggest such a violent storm is taking place, the older man turns on a transistor radio. They listen as the intensity of the weather is explained by a news reporter. Another voice-over interrupts with an emergency news flash...a local fishing boat is missing at sea. Nelson and the older man identify the boat as their friend's. On his behalf, they start making phone calls in an attempt to help him.

The audience is reminded that after an hour of trying, they are unsuccessful in getting any new information. Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. The ship captain whose boat was lost at sea is ushered in. Despite the hurricane and his ship going down in rough seas, he is completely dry as he calmly said, "I guess you heard what happened?" THEY MUST HAVE HAD A SERIOUSLY LIMITED BUDGET. IF THE CAPTAIN WAS AT LEAST COVERED IN SEAWEED, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN LESS INSULTING TO THE VIEWER'S INTELLIGENCE.

At that point, I shut Sea Hunt off, perhaps forever. I bet "Dream On" only flashed back to Sea Hunt when they were out of "good" ideas.

JOHN WAYNE WOULD HAVE BURNT CARNEYS POINT TO THE GROUND

Have you ever had a gun pointed at your head? I have. Even if you're innocent and the gunman is a police officer....its not a good feeling.

In Las Vegas (1980), I was pulled over for a routine traffic violation.
I moved too quickly for my credentials and the cop shouted, "Stop!"
I turned around and found his service revolver an inch from my temple. After a sigh of relief by both of us, all my paperwork checked-out. He maintained his tough-guy stance but, he did let me slide. I guess he recognized how closely we (me), escaped disaster.

Ten years ago, I told that story to a police officer friend. He said once you are pulled-over for a routine traffic stop...you want everything to be...routine. To further assure that the situation is handled smoothly, he suggested keeping both hands on the top of the steering wheel. When the officer approaches, avoid sudden movements and speak politely. At night, the dome light should be flicked on.

Assuming you don't feel that you are being profiled or unjustly stopped, this simple gesture implies that you are no threat. It signals to the police that you want to make the distasteful procedure safe, easy and quick for both parties. My friend went on to say that there is a chance that the officer might be more lenient by your sensitivity to his risks and danger potential.

Of course, you never know the mindset of a policeman. He might be a jerk or having a bad day or going through personal problems. I have been lucky down through the years because I have heard horror stories. I'm proud to say, I have no horror stories. In fact, I have had so few moving violations that I bet I remember just about all of them. Today we'll concentrate on the first and last.

My first ticket was when I was eighteen. I was threatened by my folks into volunteering to drive my paternal grandmother each spring, to and from, a hotel in Ellenville New York. The first few times, my mom kept me company. Her job included alerting me to short-cuts and speed-traps. The two main speed-traps were in the tiny towns Sloatsburg and Tuxedo New York.

TUXEDO NEW YORK IS IN ORANGE COUNTY NEAR THE NEW JERSEY BORDER. THE TOWN GETS ITS NAME FROM "TUCSETO," THE LENNI-LENAPE INDIAN NAME FOR BEAR LAKE. IN 1886, JAMES POTTER GOT AN IDEA FOR AN ALTERNATIVE TO THE WHITE-TIE STYLE OF FORMAL DRESS AFTER VISITING ENGLAND. HE CAME TO A SWANKY DINNER PARTY IN TUXEDO WEARING A SHORT SMOKING JACKET. OTHER MEN COPIED HIM AND EVENTUALLY IT WAS NAMED A TUXEDO.

The necessity of mom's expertise always came into focus when she reminded me where to slow down. Inevitably, we'd pass someone being ticketed. So it was an accomplishment to never get caught speeding there.

On one of those trips (c. 1973), we were cruising home through the Bronx. When we reached the Triborough Bridge, (it links the Bronx to both Manhattan and Queens), we hit a major traffic back-up. I was inexperienced, (mom never learned to drive), so I thought I was really cool by flying by hundreds of vehicles in the vacant right lane that channeled cars onto Wards Island. When I tucked back into the bridge traffic, I crossed a double-solid line. An officer on foot was hidden behind an abutment waiting for drivers to make that illegal move.
THE TRIBOROUGH WAS RENAMED THE ROBERT F. KENNEDY BRIDGE ON NOVEMBER 19, 2008.

The officer used his finger like a gun and pointed me in an intimidating manner to the shoulder. I'll never forget, his name tag read, M. McKinley. He asked for my ID, shushed me when I tried to defend my actions and issued my summons without uttering an unnecessary word.

My last brush with the law was in 2005. We had just bought a new Honda and decided to break it in with a test-drive to Virginia. From here in South Jersey, a GPS would send you west on the Atlantic City Expressway, to I-295 south, to the Delaware Memorial Bridge and then to I-95. I never go that way. I think its better to take Route-40, the back road scenic route through megalopolises like Newfield, Mizpah, Franklinville and Elmer.

My memory of the speed-traps in Sloatsburg and Tuxedo kept me mindful of how small towns supplement the coffers in their community chest. So I'm always careful of the speed limits. The town of Woodstown is the last red flag. After slowing down there, its wide open unincorporated farmland to the Jersey border, through Cowtown and Pennsville to the last burg, Carneys Point.

In the shadow of the Delaware Bridge with no signs of a city, village or hamlet in sight, I had few cars to compete with. It was mid-morning and our spirits were high. Suddenly, in the rear view mirror, I noticed a police cruiser. Instinctively, I let up on the accelerator and noticed that I was doing 60 in a 55. I wasn't worried. Within seconds, the police car neared and the rack-lights on his roof were activated. I thought he was going after someone else so I moved over a little, to let him pass as I slowed down . But he wasn't chasing anyone but me.
VIEWING THE DELAWARE MEMORIAL BRIDGE FROM BEAUTIFUL DOWNTOWN CARNEYS POINT.

I stopped and assumed the position my cop friend suggested with both hands on top of my steering wheel. I greeted the overweight, Carneys Point sergeant through his mirrored sunglasses and pleasantly asked, "What's the problem sir?"
Impatiently he said, "License, registration and insurance!"
To avoid further upsetting him, I gathered my papers and asked, "Why did you stop me?"
"Sixty-one in a forty-five."
"No it was a 55..." He used rudeness as a force-field to support his authority and interrupted, "Son, it was a 45." "Huh? Hey, uh sir, I was just keeping up with traffic..."
"Be quiet! Or I'll also cite you for failing to pull-over for a half-mile!"

Despite being polite and non-threatening, I was treated coarsely and received a ticket for $105.00. I didn't like it but I got caught in a speed-trap and saw no other recourse but to pay.

When I got home, I re-read the ticket. That doughnut-chomping weasel-cop stuck it to me. That one extra mile per hour (61 rather 60), over the limit added $20.00 to my fine. I was seething because I knew it was intentional.

I wanted to forget the ordeal as soon as possible. That's when my eye caught the phrase; save a stamp, pay on-line. So I plodded through several personal information screens. On the last page, I accepted my responsibility and pleaded guilty. However, the one thing that pissed me off all over again was at the bottom, in the field next to the "send" link. It read; I accept a $3.00 computer processing fee. What sneaky, petty bastards! After schtupping me for an extra twenty and unnecessarily stealing ten minutes of my private time under the guise of saving me a 37-cent stamp, they rammed the joy of E-PAYING, up my...umm, a...nose!

I'M POSITIVE THE "DUKE" WOULD HAVE STAMPEDED A HERD OF LONG-HORNS THROUGH MAIN STREET OR FOUGHT TO HIS DEATH BEFORE BEING HOOD-WINKED INTO PAYING THAT $3.00. I DIDN'T. I GUESS THAT MEANS IF I WAS IN HIS SHOES, I WOULD HAVE KEPT THE NAME MARION MORRISON AND NEVER LEFT IOWA.

When I go that way, I still drive the back roads of Route-40...but a lot slower. And while I'm puttering around, I often wonder if John Wayne ever had a real gun put to his head !

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.