THE APPLE DOESN'T FALL FAR FROM THE TREE...THE SONS OF HORTY GULIFOYLE

The crucial elements of this blog are a composite of factoids. They were related to me, by terrorized kids, (in the late 60's), from the other side of my community. The names of the guilty have been changed to protect the innocent.

The 1983 holiday film classic, "A CHRISTMAS STORY," stole the idea for their bullies from my neighborhood's, baddie-brothers, Wallace "Ducky" Mallard and Alf Anguille.

Fathered by two different men...a year apart, these "Irish Twins," lived with their never-married mother in a cold-water, Depression-era shack along the docks.
(STOCK PHOTO) THEIR MOM, HORTENSE "HORTY" GULIFOYLE WAS REPUDIATED TO BE A "HOSTESS" AT THE INFAMOUS VICE MAGNET BAR, "THE BOOM-BOOM ROOM." IN ADDITION TO HER CARNAL TALENTS, HER BROGUE CONSISTENTLY INCLUDED MULTIPLES OF HARSH PROFANITY, IN EVERY UTTERANCE.
Redheaded and freckled, Ducky the younger son, resembled his mother. An enormous, expressionless, sociopath with a short temper, he finished eighth grade and was a Brainiac compared to his brother.

Reginald Sparrow, an elementary school classmate of Ducky, once told me, "Mallard was so deranged that he bit the head off a girl's parakeet during show and tell. Even as a seven-year old, when he stared you down with his deadened hazel eyes, you had to worry that he might nail your head to the floor." Another kid, Doug O'Tracy said, "I knew a guy who purposely crapped his own pants to keep Ducky away."

The older brother, Alf Anguille was a scrawny five-footer. He resembled Popeye in that he wore a crew cut when they were completely out of style, plus, he had no teeth. I picture the shrimp wearing over-sized, hand-me-down clothes and his face and arms streaked with filth. Nobody I knew ever remembered him attending school but everyone remembered that the little they could understand him say, was laced with various forms of the F-Bomb.
ADAPTED FROM JEAN SHEPHERD'S, "IN GOD WE TRUST, EVERYONE ELSE PAYS CASH," SCUT FARKUS (left) AND HIS TOADY, GROVER DILL WERE THE BULLIES FROM, "A CHRISTMAS STORY." THEY BORE A GREAT SIMILARITY TO HORTENSE GULIFOYLE'S SONS.

Light-hearted Alf's constant toothless smile, reminded me of a court jester. But he led a tougher, almost feral life dating back before he was six. Encouraged by small-time hoodlums, he took advantage of his tiny stature to squeeze through tight spots like; coal chutes, warped wooden basement doors and half open windows, to rob homes and businesses.

On the other hand, thirteen-year old Ducky was a head taller than most kids his age. He had a naturally strong physique which was especially imposing because the students in his grade (he was left back twice) were generally two years younger. Ducky took unfair advantage of his size to subsidize his mom's habits, by regularly threatening dozens of sheep for their lunch money.
THE 1988 MOVIE, "TWINS," FEATURED VASTLY DIFFERENT SIZED TWINS. EXCEPT THE DANNY DEVITO CHARACTER WAS BAD AND ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER'S WAS GOOD.

I was fourteen when I first heard of knife-toting Mallard and Anguille. By then, they had already graduated from pitching pennies behind the bowling alley, peeing on prowl cars, vandalizing park benches and stealing fruit from pushcarts.

During this period, Ducky often entertained himself by telling Alf to beat-up a random kid. These unlucky wretches accepted the pummeling even if they could kill the puny bastard. They knew if they fought back, they may as well rip their own heads off rather than contend with his gigantic pissed-off sibling.

These petty criminals were not urban legends...they were real. In a sick way, their brutality and violence made them Bonnie and Clyde-like celebrities. Their heroic image with the locals didn't even change when, on a drunken binge, they broke into a parochial school, trashed the administration office and threw two typewriters through a third floor window...without being apprehended.

My only direct contact with Ducky was when he forced his way into a softball game. While my team was batting, he grabbed my glove and said, "If I make any errors with this piece of shit, Dimsdale, you're dead." Smartly, I didn't tell him my real name. After he came to bat once, he lost interest and walked away.

The one terrible thing he did that I witnessed, happened when my friends and I were playing football. Mallard and Anguille were walking along the sideline and set fire to my friend's coat. Ducky called out as the fur lining ignited, "What are you gonna do about it?" My friend did nothing. So Alf yelled, "Yeah, what the f--- are goin' to f---ing do about it?"

No one thought my friend was chicken...just practical. He knew it's only a Hollywood fantasy when, (Ralphie Parker), the kid in, "A CHRISTMAS STORY," got his revenge. In reality, you just have to stay out of a bully's way...and hope. Luckily for my friend, when Ducky threw it over the fence, the fire went out and the singed coat was still usable.

On the verge of adulthood, Ducky was a grizzled, veteran blackjack dealer, upstairs at the Boom-Boom Room. That bar was so notorious that my mother used to make me swear when I walked to the barber shop, (yeah I was still going to a barber), that I stayed on the other side of the street.
STOCK PHOTO OF A DIFFERENT BOOM-BOOM ROOM. THE ONE WHERE I LIVED HAD SUCH A FOUL REPUTATION THAT MY MOM USED TO JOKE THAT PEOPLE LEAVING HAD TO WIPE THEIR FEET INSIDE SO THEY WOULDN'T GET THE STREET DIRTY.

When I started college, Alf was running "numbers" and making small collections. The genius was so stupid that he stole a military surplus half track from a used car lot. He then pulled up to a pool hall in it and threatened a deadbeat.

An anonymous bystander pieced together Alf's blithering. I often wonder if there's a category for this statement in the, "GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS?" Because my source felt strongly that Alf Anguille's exact quote was, "You mother f---ing slippery eel, if you don't f---ing pay f---ing up, I'm going to chain you to back of this f---ing tank and take you for a f---ing scrape over to see my f---ing boss. Then you'll f---ing wish you just f---ing coughed-up the money me!"

The squirt had managed to talk his way out of other brushes with the law but even the Keystone Kops couldn't screw-up capturing someone driving a stolen German half track up Flatbush Avenue.

EPITOMIZING POLICE INEPTITUDE, THE KEYSTONE KOPS (1912-1917) WERE PIONEERS IN SILENT, SLAPSTICK MOVIES.

Before Alf was handcuffed, he didn't help his cause when he threatened to detonate the non-existent nuclear bomb under his torn, "wife-beater" tee-shirt. He went to prison and was never seen again.

Ducky was already a psychopath but without his half-pint henchmen, he started losing the scant decency he had. Mallard began dealing drugs in order to keep up with his spiraling list of addictions. His last self-inflicted dagger of vice was blowing his money on prostitutes at the Boom-Boom Room. His house of cards began their ultimate tumble in one of the private rooms adjacent to the faux-casino upstairs. That's when he was caught in a raid while a newbie trollop serviced him on their knees.

Ducky was questioned and released but not before the cop, (who knew him) said, "That's what I like about you Mallard. You know how to treat a female impersonator." The officer then spitefully forced the whore to reveal that she was a man before arresting the tramp.

Once that news spread, Ducky went crazy. He left the area. Nobody saw or heard from him for two years. That's when many of us I saw an item on the, "Six O'Clock News."

The TV news reporter was the woman who Gilda Radna spoofed on, "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE." She was on location, surrounded by countless seagulls, in the landfill area of Queens. The details were sketchy but she said that a man's dismembered body was found in several trash bags, in the dump along Jamaica Bay.
RADNA'S, ROSEANNE ROSEANNADANNA WAS BASED ON AN ACTUAL, UNSEASONED ON-AIR NEWS PERSONALITY.
A few days later on the, "Eleven O'Clock News," a film clip from earlier that day had the same reporter standing by the waterfront, along side a shanty that looked like it was ready to cave in. She reviewed the story of the corpse found in pieces and called it, "A drug deal gone wrong." Then she said that the body was identified as Wallace Mallard.

The camera zoomed-out to a wider shot. A six-foot, Phyllis Diller-like woman was identified as the victim's mother. Then she made the classic rookie reporter's blunder, "Mrs. Gulifoyle, your son has just been found murdered in garbage dump...how do you feel?"

A skewed expression on Horty's face suggested that her grief was getting overcome by the excitement of being on TV. She glanced off-camera, had a moment of recognition, puffed-up her bird's nest hairdo and spit out her gum. Then she said, "It's Miss Gulifoyle."

The reporter was nodding as she continued, "My Ducky...I mean Wallace...was a good #$%&!# boy. Maybe once a month he'd bum a #$%&!# cigarette." The reporter didn't realize that the vulgarities could be edited out of the tape and tried unsuccessfully to interrupt.

Ducky's mom plowed on, "I loved scoping-out the #$%&!#, "RACING FORM," with him very, very much. My Ducky...I mean Wallace was a winner! He never made a #$%&!# two-dollar bet in his life and always put his money on the #$%&!# nose."

The reporter wanted to wrap things up but Horty added, "I'd invite you in and show you all the #$%&!# baseball trophies he won and all the model airplanes that he never got around to gluing together but the #$%&!# house is a mess." Suddenly, the camera cut back to the live anchorman in the studio.

THE LANDFILL (in the background) HAS BEEN A LONG-TIME BODY DUMPING GROUND. IN THE 1930's, A GROUP KNOWN AS, "MURDER INCORPORATED," STARTED THE TREND. THIS HANDY WORK BY OTHERS, CRESTED IN THE 70's. EVEN AS RECENT AS 2006, MORE HUMAN REMAINS WERE UNEARTHED THERE.
My cousin was on the scene when Ducky's mom was interviewed. He said that they completely cut out other parts like when she said, "When my other son gets out of stir, I'll get my justice." Then the camera crew started snickering when she strayed off-topic and said with a straight face something about Ducky's recent return. "I didn't know if he was #$&#!# full o' blarney or what but he was complaining about a one-eyed midget named Kierkegaard following him. And even more #$%&!# nutty, a twelve-foot thunderbird that he nicknamed Mothman telling him to come home to me."

We'll never know if Alf got out and granted his mom's wish. But I do know that many of my friends...and me, are still haunted by their memories of Ducky...even from his grave.

Many years later while visiting my parents, my wife and I went for a neighborhood bike ride. Two blocks from Ducky's house, I told her this story. At his corner, I was still so spooked that I diverted her the other way. When we passed another hovel that looked like it should be condemned I said, "That's where they lived."

BURGESS MEREDITH; TIME ENOUGH AT LAST

When I first got cable-TV, I thought I'd never leave the house. Alas, I was wrong, because like any new toy, after a while it gets old. Also, what might seem like the panacea of unlimited programming, turns out to be an awful lot of tripe and duplication. Plus, if you're not sharp, you can be lured into buying more and more cable tiers because you'll always feel like you're missing something.

Now that I have admitted having that knowledge, I confide in you that I'm considering getting NETFLIX. Yes, in these days of economic uncertainty, I'm still tempted to take the plunge and splurge...and when I get it, I promise to occasionally leave the house.

Netflix is an on-demand Internet streaming media company. Or simply, a subscriber movie and TV show (on DVD), rental by mail service.

ESTABLISHED IN 1997, THE COMPANY BOASTS 100,000 TITLES. THEIR FLAT-RATE MONTHLY SERVICE NOW INCLUDES DIRECT ACCESS TO YOUR COMPUTER OR TV.

In my mind, I have produced a line-up, (or as Netflix calls it, a queue), of about fifty titles that I want to see. I picture having a pile for each month. On my dresser, I imagine September's with, "ZELIG ," or "A CLOCKWORK ORANGE," on top. On the entertainment center, my batch of spooky October goodies would include, "MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000" and "THE SIXTH SENSE." Sitting on the floor, November's selections would have, "THE ARISTOCRATS" and "BROADWAY DANNY ROSE." And in December, obviously that stack of movies will be left on my mantle next to my stockings. Then as usual, I'll wait till the 25th, for one of my all-time favorites. Only this year, I won't be distracted by a million commercials when, "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE," comes on the CW Network, (formerly UPN). THIS NETWORK IS KNOWN FOR TERRIBLE CONTENT. I BELIEVE THE "CW" STANDS FOR "CONSISTENTLY WORTHLESS. IF YOU RECALL, IT TOOK OVER THE EQUALLY INEPT UPN, IN 2006.

I don't think its a coincidence but this fantasy Netflix project of mine makes me think of Oliver "Burgess" Meredith. More than a screen actor, his remarkable, diverse and enduring career spanned over sixty years. Meredith's lengthy list of credits also includes starring roles on Broadway, TV, radio programs, commercials and more.

Please note that during the (Joe) McCarthy-Era, had he not been suspected of being a Communist and blacklisted by the House Committee on Un-American Activities for seven years, his prolific career would have been even greater.AT 30, BURGESS MEREDITH...NOVEMBER 16, 1907 - SEPTEMBER 9, 1997.

One of the gems in my Netflix want list is, the oldest of Meredith's work that I am familiar with. It's his starring role in 1939's, "OF MICE AND MEN." In this adaptation of John Steinbeck's classic novel, he plays street-wise migrant farm worker George, opposite Lon Chaney Jr.'s feeble-minded Lenny.

I was always drawn to, "Of Mice and Men," because in seventh grade, it was the first novel I had to analyze in class...that I had seen the movie. It's special place in my heart was strengthened by the fact that the Lenny and George-type characters appeared in several old cartoons. By understanding the literary basis of that humor, the animated silliness took on intellectual overtones and made me feel smarter because I was in on the joke.

SET IN DEPRESSION-ERA CALIFORNIA, MEREDITH'S ROLE HAS HIM STRUGGLING AGAINST THE ODDS TO FULFILL HIS DREAMS, WHILE HOLDING ONTO A MEAGER JOB AND PROTECTING HIS OVER-SIZED, CHILD-LIKE FRIEND.

Another Burgess Meredith movie that Netflix can put in my hands is 1945's, "THE STORY OF G. I. JOE." In it, he portrayed famed World War II correspondent Ernie Pyle. Meredith received top billing and high acclaim in this factual story centering around the reporter's human interest articles about the grunts on the front lines from 1942-1945.

General Dwight Eisenhower called this the finest war film he ever saw. Probably because Pyle didn't write about the politics, battles or generals. Instead, he filled American newspapers with insights into the loneliness of command as well as the capacity to survive drudgery and discomfort during the terror of combat.

MEREDITH (LEFT). THE MOVIE WAS FINISHED BEFORE THE WAR ENDED. THE LAST LINE WAS, "FOR THOSE BENEATH THE WOODEN CROSSES, THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN DO, EXCEPT PERHAPS TO PAUSE AND MURMUR, THANKS PAL, THANKS." AFTER THE WAR IN EUROPE ENDED, PYLE CONTINUED HIS WORK IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC...HE WAS LATER KILLED IN ACTION ON OKINAWA.

Netflix also offers countless, vintage and current TV shows. Therefore for those so inclined such as myself, TV's ultra-campy, "BATMAN," is available. Be sure to look for Burgess Meredith's renowned role as the villainous, "Penguin."
AS ROBIN MIGHT SAY; WHOLLY CUCUMBERS BATMAN, WE SURE ARE IN A PICKLE. "BATMAN," RAN 120 EPISODES FROM 1966-1968. MEREDITH'S PENGUIN WAS TIED WITH CESAR ROMERO'S JOKER AS BATMAN'S MOST FREQUENT NEMESIS. MEREDITH ALSO APPEARED IN THE 1966, "BATMAN," MOVIE.

I wasn't a big fan of the "ROCKY" movies but the original from 1976 is still worth another look. Meredith's memorable role is of Mickey Goldmill, Rocky's intense, gravel-voiced manager.

MEREDITH ALSO APPEARED IN ,"ROCKY II" AND "ROCKY III."

The "SYFY," network occasionally hosts 24-hour marathons of Rod Serling's original, "TWILIGHT ZONE." But Netflix can bring these Emmy-clustered beauties into your home whenever you like. In addition to the puzzling stories, it's also fun to spot the famous actors who were either at the end of their career struggling for work or newcomers vying for stardom.

Burgess Meredith appeared in four "Twilight Zone," episodes. But the one that immediately came to mind when I imagined piling up Netflix movies all over my living room was called, "TIME ENOUGH AT LAST." This episode touches on such social issues as; anti-intellectualism, reliance on technology and the difference between solitude and loneliness.

Meredith plays Henry Bemis a nearsighted bank teller who is intimidated by his nit-picking boss at work and dominated by his overbearing wife at home. All he really wants out of life is some quiet privacy to read. During his lunch hour at work, he finds an underground sanctuary, in the bank vault. As "luck" would have it, there is a violent explosion above him. The bookworm claws through the remains of the building. In the street, he discovers that the much ballyhooed nuclear holocaust had taken place while he was safe in his subterranean oasis.

"TV GUIDE," RATED, "THE TWILIGHT ZONE," #26 IN THEIR, "TOP 50 TV SHOWS OF ALL TIME."

Bemis can't fathom his dire situation. He wipes his thick eye-glasses and aimlessly staggers through the devastated streets. He comes across riches like money and jewelry, understands their new insignificance and falls into despair. Bemis' depression worsens when he sees that he has enough food to last forever, but that there is nobody to share it with.

All seems lost when Bemis senses that he is the last man on earth and finds a revolver in the rubble...until he comes across a huge library. He walks up the concrete stairway and begins to pile up all the salvageable books he ever wanted to read. He is about to start his literary joy ride when his glasses fall off and shatter.

Surrounded by the books he'll never read, the virtually blind Bemis laments, "That's not fair. That's not fair at all. There was time. There was all the time I needed. That's not fair."

A section of Rod Serling's narrative conclusion alluded to a Scottish poem; The best-laid schemes of mice and men, often go awry.

Unfortunately for me, I have experienced a Henry Bemis moment myself. The long rumored lay-offs at my wife's main part-time job were just made official. Worse yet, her secondary job is on shakier ground than we anticipated...and now my place has announced mid-September lay-offs as well.

I hate to admit it but with all our employment in jeopardy, the CW Network can open its arms and embrace me yet again. Ahh, nothing beats the smell of ten-minute segments of, "APOCALYPSE NOW," intertwined with five-minute blocks of commercials...in the morning. That means, to be on the safe side, I'm not taking the splurging plunge of Netflix. I'm going to save my eight dollars a month and put my date with movie destiny, temporarily on hold.

THE DEATH OF THE DEATH CARD !

Stop! Sift out the white noise and listen. If you concentrate, you'll be able to hear the theme song of, "PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE," fading out. It's volume is getting drowned-out by the whining drone of distant bagpipes. Unfortunately, the carefree days of my monthly poker games are over and all that's left are ashes and the Royal Scotsmen playing somber funeral dirges.

DURING THE CANDLE LIGHTING CEREMONY AT MY SON ANDREW'S BAR MITZVAH, MY POKER BUDDIES WERE USHERED UP ON STAGE TO THE THEME OF, "PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE."

Today, with heads hung low, we are gathered here to pay our respects and to say something nice about my deceased poker game. It's hard to believe, but now that my cherished night out with the boys is gone...it seems that I will never play in a regularly scheduled game again.

You see, I started playing poker when I were ten years old. That introduction featuring wild, one eyed-jacks was completely harmless. But as fourth graders, my pal HJ and our other friends, felt that as gamblers, we were cool renegades, breaking the law.

The older brother of one of the kids on my street and his toady were the organizers. These games set the stage for those jokers to advantage of us younger kids, for years. But in this case, they weren't squeezing us for much because the stakes were incredibly low...even for pre-adolescents.

We used red, white and blue poker chips in these games. Whoever finished with the smallest chip stack had to forfeit one Strat-O-Matic baseball card to the biggest winner.

A BOARD GAME, "STRAT" PRODUCED INDIVIDUAL PLAYER CARDS FOR EACH MAJOR LEAGUER. THEN BASED ON THE PREVIOUS YEAR'S PERFORMANCE (WITH THE HELP OF THREE DICE), A REALISTIC BASEBALL GAME WAS PLAYED. PLEASE NOTE THAT THE CARD ABOVE WAS TOO GOOD TO BE GIVEN AWAY AS A POKER LOSS. SCRUBS, SCHLOCKS AND DUKIES LIKE MARV THRONEBERRY, JAY HOOK AND CHOO-CHOO COLEMAN WERE MORE LIKELY CANDIDATES TO BE DISCARDED.

My appreciation for poker wouldn't resurface again until my working vacation at Disney World with RBOY. At our apartment complex, I met three disgruntled Disney employees from rural South Carolina, (Bob, Ronnie and Brad). After quitting, they became waiters at Red Lobster. Later, they got me a job there too. Once our friendship bloomed, on many occasions, we had poker sessions on the floor of their place. We mainly played "DR. PEPPER," for chump change, (RBOY was invited but never played and neither did ZYMBOT when he came for his prolonged visit).

AUGUST 1974 IN KISSIMMEE FLORIDA. THAT'S ME WITH TWO-THIRDS OF THE SOUTH CAROLINA MAFIA. AT OUR POKER GAMES, THERE WASN'T A LOT OF MONEY CHANGING HANDS BUT I THINK I ALWAYS CAME OUT AHEAD.

Oddly, I was intimidated from playing poker during my Las Vegas years, (1979-1984). What makes this even stranger was that the World Series of Poker was a budding giant. Several of my friends and acquaintances were players or dealers; like SK28 and John Imperiale. But their horror stories made competitive poker against strangers seem to be anything but fun.
THE "WSOP" EVOLVED FROM BENNY BINION (IN 1970), INVITING THE SEVEN BEST (MOST KNOWN), PLAYERS FOR A SINGLE TOURNAMENT. WHEN I LIVED IN VEGAS, THE WSOP HAD GROWN. BUT STILL SMALL ENOUGH THAT BINION'S HORSESHOE ONLY HAD TO TEMPORARILY REMOVE A FEW BLACKJACK TABLES FROM A REMOTE ALCOVE OF THE CASINO TO ACCOMMODATE IT. IN 2010, THE MAIN EVENT, WORLD CHAMPION'S PRIZE WAS NEARLY NINE MILLION DOLLARS. TODAY THIS INCREDIBLE, TEXAS HOLD 'EM TOURNAMENT IS HELD IN A CONVENTION HALL IN ORDER TO SUPPORT CLOSE TO 20,000 ENTRANTS.

The one time I was lured into a Vegas poker game was by LTJEFF. Two of his fellow Mint Casino craps dealers, ran a private Cajun poker game called, Boo-Ray. The gracious hosts, (Big Jim and Buffalo Joe), supplied an array of cold cuts, salads and other snacks, plus a fully stocked bar. Later I found out that for discrete guests, a wide range of narcotics were available too.

This friendly game had two major rules. First, each pot had a small rake to defray the cost of the "refreshments." Rule two was anyone who reneged had to match the pot.

While I was playing, when the antes were low, a department store manager reneged and everyone laughed off the four-dollar error. But as the night wore on and flow of liquor etc. took effect, the once cautious group became sloppy as the antes skyrocketed. So when the ante money created a fifty-dollar pot, the atmosphere became mercenary when the next sap, (one of Jim and Joe's casino supervisors) reneged. At that point, I thought it prudent to bow out.

I stuck around and watched for another hour. By that time only fifties and hundred-dollar bills were being used. That's when the hosts (who were both winning a lot), cashed a drunken airline pilot's $650.00 payroll check. I knew that sober Jim and Joe were grossing less than $300.00 a week, so this maneuver opened my bloodshot eyes. Soon, I became convinced that they were weasels by their shared procedural reaction, on how their victim should sign over his check.

The next day, I asked LTJEFF if Jim and Joe were in cahoots and if the whole game was a scam; he shrugged. Weeks later, LTJEFF confirmed my suspicions. He told me that Big Jim kicked Buffalo Joe out of the house when his girlfriend moved in...and how frustrated Joe broadcast their scheme to bilk the Boo-Ray players with cheating signals. He also spelled out how they made a separate chunk of cash by gouging everyone for the grocery money.

In 1984, I moved back to Canarsie while my New Jersey gaming license was being processed. During that year, RCC and JEFFDDS included me in their monthly poker game with other boyhood friends. These social events had venues in Brooklyn, and Staten Island as well as Edison and Princeton New Jersey.

This was the purest form of relaxing entertainment. Nobody got hurt and the games like, "BINGO FOR IDIOTS," were full of laughs.

In 1992, coworkers from my current job started a poker game. The last of the charter members have either moved away, changed days off or became unavailable for a million reasons. So with PCSHMEE set to move to California next month, I formally declare that our little social club, after a nineteen year run, has become defunct. Further, I decree that this blog serves as a eulogy and a Requiem for my dearly departed night out with the boys.

I fondly remember FRANKIERIO of fashionable Somers Point being the first host. He served chili and white rice. The second game boasting barbecued ribs was in Tuckerton, at KURUDAVE's. For the most part, we rotated the hosting duties among the generous core of originators.

To fill in the empty seats, tons of coworkers, relatives, neighbors and friends of every nationality, race, religion, gender and sexual persuasion were included. We even included our fair share of space-cases...from other planets, (most of them were never invited a second time).

In the early days, we put in an eight-hour shift, (9:PM-5:AM). The night was so much fun that the cards frequently interrupted the hilarity. Along with coffee and cake, we had half-time entertainment ranging from cartoons, to porn to music videos....we even had a girl, (Sapphire), from work volunteer to be a topless cocktail server.

THE ACTUAL POKER ASPECT OF THE GAME WAS STILL IMPORTANT BACK THEN. ERGO, OUR TOPLESS BEER WENCH WAS VOTED DOWN 4-3

We used a dealer's choice format. My favorite poker game was called, "DEUCES, JACKS, THE MAN WITH THE AX." It's a seven-card stud game featuring nine wild cards, (all the twos and jacks plus the king of diamonds). However, a pair of natural sevens beats anything. And if that wasn't enough, the five of spades was the "death card." That meant that no matter how good your hand was, if you turned that card over, you got kicked-out of that hand and had to add a dollar to the pot.

REGARDLESS OF THE SITUATION, THE FIVE OF SPADES, A.K.A. THE "DEATH CARD," WAS GUARANTEED TO CAUSE SPONTANEOUS LAUGHTER AT THE EXPENSE OF ITS PREY.

I adopted the death card concept from the South Carolina bunch. After years of careful cultivation to make it the wonder that it now is...maybe I should copyright it and formally call it my own. Hell, there's nothing wrong with making a few extra bucks for something so pleasing. My point is proven by the fact that that element had been incorporated into many of our other poker games.

Some of the alumni players from the last nineteen years who read my, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," blog include: CGS39, DOMT, MAL, MIKE123, BLAZELION, RJKL, RSKB102, WTW and TOMD. After a recent survey with many of them, it seems that the following was our most unusual and memorable night.

Ten years ago, on a hot summer night, CGS39 hosted his first game. I was driving PCSHMEE and KURUDAVE through the Jersey boondocks to Little Egg Harbor. On unlit Stage Road in Ocean County, we went quite some time without seeing anything relating to civilization. We were doing about sixty when suddenly the black pavement ended and gave way to what looked like a dirt road. I slammed on the brakes unnecessarily because the dark-colored roadway gave way to a whitish pavement.

That scare left the three of us on edge plus we had gone five miles through the wilderness without seeing a house, business or even a sign. KURUDAVE made a, "BLAIR WITCH PROJECT," reference which spurred PCSHMEE to call ahead for some reassurance. CGS39 laughed at us, called us names and said, "When you pass over the Garden State Parkway, I'm a half mile up on the right."

CGS didn't believe in screened windows. While he introduced us to his neighbor Corey, we were dodging huge flying insects. CGS was in the middle of telling us that he just dusted off his dirt bike from when he was a kid when MAL showed up.

MAL interrupted CGS's story. He was referring to the large amount of flying bugs when he said, "All we need is an all Japanese cast, our mouths to be unsynchronized to the dialog and a cameo appearance from Raymond Burr and we'd have the makings for another "MOTHRA," movie.MERCHANDISING FROM 1964's , "GODZILLA vs. MOTHRA."

CGS continued by saying that he hadn't taken the dirt bike a hundred feet behind his property when an armed forest ranger...who looked like Barney Fife in a Smokey the Bear hat, stepped out from behind a tree and blocked his path.

The ranger's gun hand shook violently as he asked CGS for a motorcycle operator's license. CGS had no ID. The license he once had, expired long ago. While staring down the barrel of the vibrating service revolver, he tried to explain the circumstances and pointed to his house. The shaky ranger only nodded. When he finally spoke, CGS was detained with a ten minute lecture highlighted by a segment on helmet safety. He politely listened and prepared to humbly accept the stiff warning. So it really pissed him off when Ranger Fife wrote two $75.00 tickets.

When MAL heard the word "detained," he encouraged PCSHMEE to repeat for everyone, the nightmare story he had been told. Apparently, when going through Canadian customs in Manitoba, the staff spot-checked PC's suitcase. An undeclared item, (a gift wrapped, $300.00 wristwatch for his Internet girlfriend) was discovered. After getting caught, PC compounded their ire by lying about its value. To minimize his tax exposure, he under-exaggerated the cost. Moments later, the actual receipt was unearthed from his wallet. PC then cemented his wise guy's fate by saying, "I thought you meant the wholesale price."

PC's punishment included being officially "detained." Which meant that in addition to being held in custody for hours that night, all future trips into the "great white north" would require him to "check-in" with Canadian authorities. Additionally, he was charged a higher tax rate on the item and was heavily fined.

When PC finished, CGS's neighbor Corey said, "That's nuthin'! When I was a teenager, I was crossing into Canada at Windsor Ontario and made a drug smuggling joke. Some Dudley Do-Right impersonator handcuffed me and led me to a small room. He and another Canuck stripped me, attached my cuffs to a metal hook bolted to the floor and did a full body-cavity search on me. Even though they found nothing, I was detained and forced to pay a fine."

So during our poker game, in addition to incessant, dive-bombing moths, nobody sat pretty after hearing Corey's story. Later while driving home at 4:AM, with MAL following behind us in his car, PCSHMEE, KURUDAVE and I joked about body-cavity searches.

When we crossed Stage Road's white pavement back onto the blacktop, an antlered deer appeared in the distance. I can still recall the exact angle of its head and how its feet straddled the yellow median line. I hit the breaks and high-beams at the same time...and the deer vanished. Not ran away...vanished!

PC said, "What was that?" KURU said, "Did you see where that guy went?" I said, "It was a deer but I don't know where it went." PC said, "No, it was a ghost and it de-materialised...UP!" KURU said, "You're both crazy, it was an old geezer limping into the woods." I pulled over and flagged down MAL. But he saw nothing. We were all too tired to argue. To this day, everyone remains adamant to what they saw...but we have no answers. However, the one thing we all agreed on was... that night was the most bizarre poker game and that the going home "deer" incident was even crazier.

Who knows? Maybe I'll find another poker game. But the truth is, this blog is a symbolic funeral. If you were here, you'd see I'm typing in a pair of black boxers and a black, fishnet, wife-beater tee-shirt. Because, the "Pee-Wee's Playhouse Theme," is long gone. During this mourning period, that silly music has been replaced by the interwoven tapestry of much louder bagpipe dirges and the tolling death knell of far away bells.

So while I cling to the positive notion that PCSHMEE is going to a better place... I along with all his poker buddies wish him every success and happiness. Nevertheless, with my head hung low, I officially proclaim the death of the death card and the end of a great night out with great friends.

A NATIONAL NIGHT, IN...MY CAR

The "NATIONAL NIGHT OUT," program is a community, police-awareness-raising event. Since its inception in 1984, municipalities across the USA and Canada have set aside the first Tuesday in August to promote the, "men and women in blue." (In Texas due to the summer heat, many towns observe this event in October).

In its infancy, this program took the form of a "CRIME WATCH," meeting but few people got involved. Soon, it quietly expanded to, "lights on vigils." Then through innovations like block parties, the idea gained momentum.

Earlier this week on August 2nd, my township (Galloway NJ) boasted its biggest National Night Out. Over four thousand people attended, (a thousand more than last year). The genius of this, "night out against crime," is bolstered by our economic downturn and the fact that August is the only month without a major holiday. So people gladly take advantage of the inexpensive, festive opportunity. Then in a fun and informative way, the police are honored while displaying their skills and services. The fire department, EMT squads, the military and other agencies also got in on the action.DESIGNED TO SHOW HOW THE POLICE KEEP US SAFE, MARSH BOAT PATROLS, THE K-9 CORPS, HELICOPTER RESCUES AND SWAT TEAMS WERE AMONG OUR EXHIBITED HIGHLIGHTS.

On my way to work that night, I passed Patriot Lake, at Galloway's municipal complex. I felt a twinge of jealousy as I saw the carnival-like atmosphere interwoven into the various demonstration booths with revelers full of civic and American pride participating.

A week earlier, our college search for my son Andrew led us to the University of Maryland, in the town of College Park. The traffic on Interstate-95 was so bad that our guided campus tour was over when we arrived. Luckily, we found a gracious tour guide who answered our college-life questions. Then she directed us to the admissions office where another upbeat representative gave us valuable entrance criteria info.

Afterwards we did a short...okay, very short... walking tour of the beautiful grounds, (it was 97 degrees). One of my regrets was missing the Jim Henson and Kermit the Frog statue.

WHILE THE UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND TERRAPINS PRIDE THEM SELF ON "TURTLE POWER," JIM HENSON, CLASS OF 1960, (AND KERMIT TOO) , HELPED MAKE FROGS IMPORTANT TOO.

On our way out of town, I suggested going to Baltimore's Little Italy. I was left with two unenthusiastic shrugs. I said we deserve a special dinner after we killed our self to get to the college, only to miss the actual tour, have no lunch and broil while wandering around random buildings. Neither my wife or son was keen on the idea but grudgingly agreed.

While leaving College Park, I noticed several advertisements for their National Night Out. With police in mind I jokingly said, "We're headed into the teeth of rush hour traffic, too bad we can't get a motorcycle escort." This attempt at sophisticated humor went unappreciated.

We hit no traffic during our twenty-five mile jaunt. However, along the way, one of the digital signs on the interstate read; "North of Baltimore, three lanes closed...expect major delays." That's when I reminded my troops that; by stopping for dinner, that'll give them time to unsnarl the traffic.

The mile drive off the highway to Little Italy took an eternity. But we were rewarded with a nearby and ultra rare, free parking spot. We walked one city block and were suddenly faced with more than a plethora of dining choices.

I have been fascinated with Baltimore's Little Italy since 2002. That's when we had a day trip to the Inner Harbor. We shopped, took my son to the aquarium as well as the Children's Science Museum and mistakenly hiked up Federal Hill, thinking it was Fort McHenry.

We wanted to end the day with a nice meal and walked to Little Italy. Every restaurant (and remember there was more than a plethora of them), had lines out the door into the street. Rather than wait, we retraced our steps and wound up at the tourist trap, "ESPN ZONE." To make matters worse, between our "gourmet" burgers and the arcade games, our tab probably added-up to close to what the authentic Italian dinner would have been.

From working in casinos, I have met tons of people who swear by Baltimore's Little Italy. The consensus was, there's so much competition that all the restaurants are great. So I have secretly pined to return for nine years.

Last week when Sue, Andrew and I made our triumphant return, there was a fancy-looking eatery on each corner at the first cross street we saw...with another ten in sight. We were tired and hungry. It was still 97 degrees and I was under the impression it didn't matter where you ate. Of course, we picked the wrong place, (unless they all suck). We paid top dollar and everything we ordered was worse than okay or awful. Plus, when the dissociative waitress awakened from her aloof trance, her bitchy attitude was a disgrace.

On our way back onto I-95, we made fun of our terrible eating experience. In the middle of laughing, I saw a similar digital; major delays north of Baltimore sign. Except this one included the problem's location, (mile marker 64). Ten miles later, in full daylight, we learned just how serious our bad luck was. We came to a near standstill with the problem four miles away.

THIS STOCK PHOTO IS NOT I-95. AND JUDGING BY THE SPACING, I'D GUESS THESE LUCKY DEVILS WERE AT LEAST MOVING.

We inched along for forty minutes. That's when I noticed that my gas tank was on empty. It was a long time till the next exit. When I could squeeze by, I drove on the shoulder to get off. After filling up, I saw a roadway running parallel to the interstate. I only needed to go four miles north to avoid the big traffic jam. But after one mile, the road to the I-95 on-ramp came up. In the twilight, without knowledge of an alternative way around the problem, I got on...and immediately came to a stop. We crept along. On two occasions, we had to move aside for emergency trucks.

This must have been one horrible accident because it was at least two hours since we saw the first digital sign for it. And a fire truck and an ambulance were still en route from a place called Rosedale.

The situation got worse, it was now dark and we were at a complete stop. I had the car in park and soon turned off the engine. Like a dating service, people got out of their cars in the harsh hot breeze to meet, compare notes and complain. When I looked backwards, I could see what seemed like the whole country, in the form of headlights, backed-up to the horizon. This was indeed a national night, in...our cars. Even worse, looking forward, I couldn't even see the interstate.

An hour later, people up ahead came running back to their cars. At first we were inching but soon we were rolling and stopping. At the crest of a hill, we finally saw our three lanes merging onto I-95. And in the extreme distance, I saw the beginning of the end, flashing lights.

I guess we had been at a complete stop because they temporarily closed the only open lane so work crews could safely open a second lane. When we got close enough to "rubberneck," we saw no crushed cars, the worst was over. Most of the remaining thirty emergency vehicles were filing away. On the wet roadway, firemen were coiling their hoses and stowing gear as the army of rescue personnel encouraged us weary motorists to keep moving.

The usual two and a quarter hour drive back from Baltimore took five and half hours. In the thirteen and a half hours from the time we left home until we returned, we were out of the car for a mere three hours.

Sometimes we need a kick in the head like a National Night Out, to remind us of the greatness and bravery involved in being a policeman, fireman, an EMT or be in the military. Also, because we need the assistance of civil servants so infrequently, it's easy to forget all the good they do.

If you still take these bastions of selflessness for granted or you're too self-centered to care about anything but your own convenience, please remember what a wise man once said; it is far better to be stuck in a terrible traffic...than to be the cause of it.

Next year, I'll meet you at the National Night Out. In the mean time, please support your local men and women in blue.

EDITOR'S NOTE:

Before knowing the true spirit of the National Night Out, (in my November 15, 2010 blog, "GETTING HOOKED-UP BY NEW YORK'S FINEST,)" I mistakenly mentioned that there should be a day commemorating the police in a manner similar to Veteran's Day.

SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING

I went to my niece's wedding this past Saturday night and had a blast. In the morning, there was a big breakfast party in the hotel. Over coffee and a bran muffin, the groom told me that at midnight, during the height of the festivities, there was a "cat-fight" under the country club's portico, in the valet parking area.

The two Snooki-esque combatants must have really went at it because neither my bouncer-like nephew or anyone else could stop them. Through the miracle of cell-phones, the police responded in five minutes. Although there were no arrests, enough blood was shed that first-aid was administered to one of the dainty young ladies.

This North Jersey battle royal reminded me of the two donnybrook-laden seasons, (1976-1977), when I played in the INTERBORO ICELESS HOCKEY ASSOCIATION (IIHA). These street-hockey games were played on Kings Highway in Brooklyn on Saturday and Sunday mornings. At the height of its popularity, the league had eight teams with four of New York City's five boroughs being represented.

To reduce the probability of injuries (player ages ranged from 15-50), great restrictions were placed on physical play. Still each team had chippy instigators and when emotions ran high each team had pugnacious goons.

Our goon was named Stavros. His family owned a bunch of diners so he rarely showed up. When he did play, he was neither athletic or mentally stable. Therefore, he only came to hurt people. He was on our team because Stavros was a close friend of Ambrose, our team captain. Stavros further legitimized himself by treating select teammates to after-game meals.

Stavros used to boast how he dragged drunks out of his restaurant and beat them up. It annoyed him that I wasn't impressed. During a game, he once, "put out a hit," on an opposing player. Even though this jerk deserved a beating only the most ignorant of our lemmings actually elbowed him in the face or body-checked him into the brick wall. Most of the team enthusiastically said yeah, yeah and did nothing. Of course I had to be different, I called Stavros an asshole. I was never included in his free-meal plan before that and I'm certain that I was never even considered afterwards.

At first, I missed-out on another Stavros perk. He had a connection with a caterer in Manhattan Beach. He hooked-up Ambrose with work in valet parking. Soon the captain was bringing his cronies in. Eventually, he was furnishing the whole eight-man crew. About twenty times from 1976-1978, they were so short-staffed that I was included.

The catering hall was on extra wide but not especially busy, West End Avenue. The work was always on Saturday nights so even if I didn't get to bed till 3:00AM, I was ready for IIHA games at ten.

On the Sunday mornings that I wasn't playing hockey, I played basketball in my Junior High's schoolyard with my close friends, (SLW, RCC were regulars and IRAK, DRJ and GRAMPS also participated). This tradition was carried through from when I was fifteen until I left for Las Vegas when I was twenty-three.

JOHN WILSON JUNIOR HIGH, (JHS 211) , CIRCA 1989. IS STILL LOCATED ON CANARSIE'S AVENUE 'J,' AT EAST 100th STREET, (THE BASKETBALL COURTS ARE OUT BACK).

In my late teens, these pick-up basketball games were a great forum to brag about who you dated the night before and what you did. These conversations were rather competitive. So during valleys in my love life, when others were saying how they were snuggled on a couch with their girlfriends watching, "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, (SNL), " I felt compelled to tap dance around the truth. So rather than admit that I was alone the previous night, I implied that I had something better to do than watch TV and pretended to not know SNL's best lines. In fact, talking about valet parking became a convenient way for me to skirt, the no date issue.

I STILL FEEL THAT THE ORIGINAL, "NOT READY FOR PRIME TIME PLAYERS," LIKE DAN AYKROYD AND JOHN BELUSHI WERE THE BEST SNL CAST...HOWEVER LATER INDIVIDUAL STALWARTS LIKE EDDIE MURPHY WERE JUST AS GOOD.

My first few times that I parked cars, a man named Jack was our supervisor. We handed over all our tips to him and at the end of the night, he divvied up the proceeds. When Jack moved away to attend graduate school, Ambrose took over. Without Jack holding the money, our tip income nearly doubled. More importantly, now everybody in the car-jockey gang was a hockey teammate.

During our "down-time," after all the invitees arrived and before they left, we occupied ourselves by having a hockey shoot-around, in an unused portion of the underground garage. This fun was rarely interrupted except when a guest took an "early-out," or when the caterer brought down a tray of food, (almost always pepper steak) and a soup tureen, (almost always beef barley).

We were able to sacrifice the space in the garage for hockey because around the corner, on the adjacent side street, there was a large, outdoor parking lot. And when it was an extremely big affair, we had the added luxury to park on residential streets.

Cars parked in the garage were easily pulled up in front of the hall's main entrance. However, cars in the lot or on the street, required a left turn before passing the entrance from across the street and then a U-Turn to get back in front. Whenever possible, when retrieving those, it was faster to make a right instead of a left and unlawfully go in reverse a few hundred feet.

All of us, including me, were quite adept at this maneuver. But it was that move that sparked the most remarkable moment of my valet parking career.

On a summer night, the first group of folks were coming out of the wedding. I was bringing back one of the first cars from around the corner. West End Avenue was quiet so rather than going through with the rigmarole of making the left, passing the front entrance and making a U-Turn, I decided to make the right and go in reverse. While backing up, a souped-up Chevy Impala convertible with its top down roared by me. He screeched on the brakes and made an abrupt U-Turn behind me. Suddenly, our equally illegal moves left me blocking his path forward while he blocked my path backwards. For thirty seconds we gave each other the stink-eye before we simultaneously screamed, "Get out of my way!"

Suddenly, a monster who looked like a cross between Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant jumped out of his car and growled, "I gonna kick the $!?#$! shit out of this guy." AT THE TIME, 6 FOOT 7, 302-POUND TERRY BOLLEA, a.k.a. HULK HOGAN, WAS THE MOST RECOGNIZABLE NAME IN PRO WRESTLING (WWF). ANDRE "THE GIANT" ROUSSIMOFF, 7 FOOT 4 AND 500+ POUNDS WAS ANOTHER WWF MARQUEE PERFORMER.

The Elton John song, "Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting," flashed through my mind. So the prospect of getting annihilated was quite apparent...I knew I had to think fast. At the catering hall's entrance, a hundred feet away, I glanced at five of my hockey buddies watching this incident unfold. In addition to Ambrose, three of them were Stavros' surliest stooges. Inspired by the assumed camaraderie and protective spirit of my teammates, I stupidly burst out the car.

ON JUST ABOUT EVERYONE MY AGE'S LIPS, "SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING," WAS ONE OF ELTON JOHN'S ICONIC HIT SINGLES FROM HIS 1973 ALBUM, "GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD."

Despite having a big belly, my ornery adversary's heavily tattooed arms looked like etched, granite pythons exploding out of his torn, AC/DC tank-top. Without dillydallying, I stared into this bearded low-life's eye-level chest and aggressively advanced towards him. In a style that would have made someone with Turrets Syndrome blush, I looked up and got eye-contact. Then I loudly unloaded, in rapid-fire, every form of the harshest profanity I could think of.

I couldn't believe my eyes, this creature's body language changed and he went into retreat mode. My tirade of intense swear words was so intimidating that he didn't even notice that five guys wearing identical white short sleeve dress shirts, black slacks and sneakers were at the curb, ready to back me up. He said, "Hey, I don't want no trouble." He even smiled and gave me a friendly wave as his car coasted around mine before he hit the accelerator and zoomed away.

My valet parking pals sincerely pounded me with congratulatory pats on my back for standing up to that heinous beast. But it wouldn't be until a week later that I privately learned that Stavros' weaselly friends had no intention of helping me.