WHAT, ME WORRY ?

The 1963, three and a half star movie, "CHARADE," was a captivating yet implausible, romantic mystery. Starring Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn and Walter Matthau, the plot centers on a band of thieves who murder one of there own after he steals from them, all the proceeds of their quarter-million dollar heist.

To recover their loss, the "victims" evil intentions turn to their ex-partner's widow. Unbeknown to her (and everyone else, including the audience), the loot is hidden in plain sight. More importantly, she doesn't know who to trust because the revolving door of strangers rushing into her life is full of contradictory allies and homicidal adversaries.

Beware...SPOILER ALERT !MY PATERNAL GRANDMOTHER TOOK MY SISTER AND I TO SEE THIS MOVIE AT THE PALATIAL FOX THEATER IN DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN. I WAS EIGHT, SO THE FILM'S ADULT THEMES WENT OVER MY HEAD. BUT A FEW YEARS LATER...THE LITTLE I PICKED UP ON, INSPIRED ME TO COLLECT STAMPS.

A less-than-cool kid on my street, Sammy, got me into philately when I was twelve. I was further encouraged by my dad, as well as my Uncle Mickey and my Uncle Hymie. During my two-year run, the hobby gained far greater social acceptance when I joined forces with my life long friend and established stamp collector, HJ.

MY DAD TICKLED MY ADOLESCENT FANCY WITH STORIES OF THE ULTRA-RARE, "INVERTED JENNY." THROUGH HIS CONNECTIONS, AS WELL UNCLE MICKEY, I HAD A STEADY FLOW OF NEW STAMPS. BUT IT WAS UNCLE HYMIE WHO SUPPLIED ME WITH MY FIRST STAMP COLLECTOR ALBUM, ("SCOTT'S MODERN," WHICH I STILL HAVE).

Stamp collecting helped teach me geography as well as an appreciation of foreign cultures. Plus, you might say I also learned but never mastered neatness, organization and responsibility skills.YOUNG COLLECTORS, SUCH AS MYSELF, ARE FASCINATED WITH THE MOST EXPENSIVE OBJECTS IN THEIR HOBBY. ABOVE, "THE SWEDEN, 3 SKILLING, YELLOW ERROR," IS REPORTEDLY THE WORLD'S MOST VALUABLE STAMP.

In "Charade," before Audrey Hepburn's husband was killed, he converted the stolen money into extremely valuable stamps. To assure that the fortune wouldn't fall into the wrong hands, he used them as postage on a nondescript parcel and mailed it to his wife, (the stamps were from three different countries and sent from one address in France to another. If that isn't implausible enough, the highly sought trio were cancelled...which further ruined their value).

While I was collecting stamps, HJ also introduced me to, "MAD MAGAZINE." The first article he showed me, from September 1968, pertained to stamps. It was hilarious. I instantly became a long time, "MAD" fan.

"MAD," IS A HUMOROUS MAGAZINE, (1952-PRESENT), THAT SPECIALIZES IN SATIRIZING; EVERY DAY LIFE, POP CULTURE, POLITICS, ENTERTAINMENT AND PUBLIC FIGURES. DESPITE ITS GOOFINESS, MY PARENTS PUSHED ME TO READ IT...BECAUSE, I WAS READING...SOMETHING !

For forty years, mixed in with my box of stamps, a few issues of "Mad" laid dormant in my folk's attic. These days when I look them over, I'd be shocked if one, out of my ten-thousand stamps, was worth more than a dollar. Oddly, I also uncovered some non-negotiable stamps which to the right person, might be a true collector's item. ALFRED E. NEUMAN IS THE FACE OF MAD. IN 1960, THE MAGAZINE STARTED A RECURRING, MOCK POLITICAL CAMPAIGN, AT PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION TIME...NEUMAN OF COURSE WAS THEIR CANDIDATE. IN ONE ISSUE, A SHEET OF FIFTY STAMPS, (LIKE THE ONE ABOVE), WAS INSERTED IN THE MAGAZINE AS A BONUS. AFTER ALL THIS TIME, I STILL HAVE THIRTEEN LEFT ON MY SHEET. I BELIEVE THAT THESE STAMPS ARE RARE BECAUSE I COULDN'T FIND A PICTURE OF THEM ON ANY SEARCH ENGINE...NEXT STOP, EBAY?

The article HJ showed me was written by Al Jaffee. Interestingly, it now ties stamps, EBAY and "Mad Magazine" all together.

ORIGINAL "MAD" MEMORABILIA, ESPECIALLY THE 1960 ALFRED E. NEUMAN FOR PRESIDENT ITEMS, FETCH A HIGH, ON-LINE AUCTION PRICE. EVEN BETTER, NOBODY WAS SELLING MY STAMPS.

Al Jaffee's piece lampooned the 1962 Dag Hammarskjold, four-cent stamp fiasco. This stamp was designed to commemorate the former Secretary General of the United Nations. Hammarskjold died in the Congo during a plane crash, a year earlier. Along the way, the United States Postal Service accidentally produced a small amount of error stamps. THE TOP STAMP IS THE CORRECT VERSION. THE ERROR OCCURRED WHEN SOME STAMPS WERE FED INTO THE PRINTER UPSIDE DOWN. THE RESULT IS A WHITE "HALO" AROUND THE BOTTOM STAMP'S U. N. BUILDING. IT IS ESTIMATED THAT 270 THOUSAND ERRORS WERE MADE AS OPPOSED TO THE 121+ MILLION NORMAL ISSUES.

A "lucky" jeweler from New Jersey bought the fifty-stamp "discovery sheet," for two-dollars. He stupidly reported the discrepancy. He even took the precaution of getting a court order to prevent the USPS from printing more errors. But his paperwork wasn't filed quickly enough. When Postmaster J. Edward Day learned of the situation, he immediately and deliberately ordered 40 million more error stamps to be reprinted. Day's rationale was, "The post office isn't running a jackpot operation." So whatever windfall might occurred, evaporated.

The "Mad Magazine" article ridiculed the jeweler for losing out on perhaps millions. I enjoyed that level of wry humor so much that I believe that it is the root of the sarcasm that has become so ingrained in me.JAFFEE'S RENDERING, HONORING THE NEW JERSEY JEWELER.

Forty-nine years later, you can buy the Hammarskjold error for fifty-cents. Therefore, I'm positive that Hollywood won't be remaking "Charade," featuring a treasure hunt for it. After all, it's so common, even I have one.

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

I was shocked! My wife Sue was nauseated...and therefore pissed-off...and my son Andrew, thought it was funny. During moments of great domestic travail such as this, I am forced...despite the potential for grave physical and mental anguish...to go well above and beyond my comfort zone to deal with the problem.

This problem was the size of "Super-Sharpie," magic marker. It destroyed our family tranquility by laying across my foyer, near the front door. While the mind struggled to absorb this impossible data...a slug inside my house...Sue snapped me out of my funk by declaring, "What are you going to do about it?"

WE DO NOT GET "PRETTY" BANANA SLUGS IN NEW JERSEY. OURS ARE DIFFERENT SHADES OF GREEN OR GRAY...MY HOME INVADER WAS A DEEP FOREST GREEN WITH A DULL, CIRCULAR STRIPING PATTERN.

A slug can grow to eight inches long. They can best be described as a snail without a shell. A threat to gardens, their destructive tendencies include chewing through decorative leaves and boring into fruit. They come out at night and hide in cool dark places during the day. Their tell-tale slime trails may be thin and watery or thick and sticky. However, they are all gross, slimy and squishy.

I HAVE LIVED IN THIS HOUSE FOR 22-YEARS. SLUG SIGHTINGS WERE ALWAYS A RARITY UNTIL THIS SUMMER. NOW OUR GARDEN IS INUNDATED WITH THEM. BACK IN JUNE, SEEING THEM AT NIGHT ON THE GARAGE DOOR OR THEIR SHINY TRAIL ON THE WALKWAY TO THE FRONT DOOR WAS ENTERTAINING. IT SOON BECAME COMMON AND BORING. BUT NOW THE UNTHINKABLE, A GRANDPA-SIZED DEVIL IN THE HOUSE. THAT CAN NOT BE TOLERATED!

The solution was simple...but I had two choices. First, one of my old poker buddies CAL was a tree-hugger. He treated all crawling and flying pests like brothers...well at least like pets. When an unwanted bastard broke through his high-tech security system, (a. k. a., no screens on his windows), he used the "capture and release" method. To some, this idea might seem noble.

I needed a more direct approach to appease my revolted and panic-stricken wife. Her unhappiness was not helped by my little (six-foot-four) son hysterically laughing. That's when I opted for choice two; burial at sea.

I hurried to the recycling bin and tore off a piece of cardboard. I tried to scrape the varmint up but because he (it) was so close to the wall, I had to push it on with my pinkie. I'm not certain which was more important to me, flushing the menace down the toilet or washing the disgusting mucousy wetness off my finger or amputating my whole, defiled hand.

When things calmed down, I told my son that I didn't appreciate that his laughter made a small inconvenience into an emotional experience for his mother. He went into typical teenage deception-mode and said, "Did you know that the, 'BEATLES,' song, 'THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD,' was originally called, 'THE LONG AND WINDING SLUG TRAIL?'"

BEETLES ARE ESPECIALLY NASTY BUGGERS BUT OF ALL THE DIFFERENT VARIETIES, THE DUNG BEETLE IS THE MOST KNOWN AND MOST REPULSIVE.

I told Andrew not to change the subject but he replied, "No really, John Lennon had a fetish for little creeping creatures." I said, "I might have been born at night but it wasn't last night." He said, "I can prove it. The group and many of their songs were inspired by insects. For one thing, for the name of their band, they just changed an 'e' in beetle to an 'a,' to make it more musical." ANDREW IS KNOWLEDGEABLE ON BEATLES TRIVIA BUT I WASN'T FALLING FOR HIS TRICKERY.

I told him that the Beatles name was influenced by 50's rock-n-roller Buddy Holly and his group, "THE CRICKETS." He countered by claiming that if you read between the lines of Lennon's lyrics that , "NORWEGIAN WOOD," has a termite theme, "HELP," is about exterminators and "YELLOW SUBMARINE," symbolizes a yellow jacket infestation.

Sue interrupted the debate and called our discussion nonsense. Then she repeated herself, "What are you going to do about it?" I said, "You saw me flush the plague-ridden pestilence to hell..." She cut me off, "Who cares about one...I don't want to EVER see another one of those ickies in my house again!"

I got on the case immediately. I checked our threshold and I saw that there were no cracks or gaps for these slitherers to squeeze through. I researched several solutions and found out that a slug's natural predators are; ducks, snakes, fireflies and toads. This was a dead-end because we already have a native population of a gazillion toads...that are apparently doing a poor job of thinning-out our great slug herds. Nonetheless, I feel it would be counter-productive to import snakes, fireflies and ducks to do the job.

The computer lists many non-poisonous ways to get rid of slugs. Unfortunately, I don't want to hunt them down and individually toss them into soapy, salt water. There are also slug traps for sale or you can rig your own. Interestingly, one suggested bait was beer. But it still seemed like a lot of work.

Some people place overturned flower pots in their garden. During the day, they pick up the pots and dispose of the slugs who settled there. There are even old wives tales that include spreading pennies in the garden because slugs receive a shock when they come in contact with copper and are repelled from the area.

I hate to admit it, I'm going for the most hands-off solution...poison. First, you need to minimize the mulch and debris where the slugs hide. Then spray the garden and forget about it.
"SLUGGO!" THINK ABOUT IT, HAS A PRODUCT EVER HAD A MORE PERFECT NAME?

Wish me luck. Because if my wife sees another long and winding slug trail in my house, she'll make me eat the Sluggo...and then my son will really have something to laugh about.

THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING

On September 11th, ten years ago, we all lost our innocence. But to the unfortunate victims who paid the ultimate price or were acutely harmed by those cowardly attacks, I give pause for remembrance, honor and respect.

In the true spirit of the American way, this column chooses to remain open and retain its usual light-heartiness.

Hopefully, in today's carefully selected topic...our children are our future...you will read between the lines of glibness and be further inspired to persevere when all seems lost.

My tiny prize is old (I have it, over twelve years). It's broken, dented, faded and has a trace of rust. At it's best it was worthless, but now, to nearly everyone but me, it is a treasure. I cherished it immediately and wore it proudly at work, for all to see. When an erudite individual would notice it, recognize it and appreciate it, my prize made a great conversation piece.

About six years ago, my employer banned extraneous personal items from our uniforms. Although my bauble was removed from public sight, I decided to keep on my person. It may seem relegated to my work pants pocket but it more importantly, it remained with me. Plus, it was handy to show people and tell this story.

Since then, the only time it has ever seen an extended period in full view was on February 24, 2007 when I wore it, (with the help of a magnet), on my lapel, at my son Andrew's Bar Mitzvah.

GRANDMA AT THE CANDLE LIGHTING CEREMONY. IF YOU SQUINT OR USE A NUCLEAR-POWERED MICROSCOPE, YOU CAN SEE THAT BLUISH DOT ON THE LEFT SIDE OF MY SUIT JACKET ISN'T A BORSCHT STAIN, IT'S MY PRIZE.

It all started at the, "KIDS FAIR," in Atlantic City's Convention Hall. Designed as an inexpensive, indoor family destination to break-up the winter malaise, the Kids Fair, was jam-packed with games, demonstrations, shows, free samples and other gimmicks. Sponsored by area and national vendors, this annual, all-day event filled the huge space with education, adventure and fun.

(MARCH 1, 2002). IN ANDREW'S DAY, THE KIDS FAIR, IN CONVENTION HALL, HAPPENED IN LATE FEBRUARY OR EARLY MARCH. IT HAS SINCE MOVED TO SANDCASTLE STADIUM, IN LATE APRIL.

Andrew and I only missed one year between 1998 and 2002. We went alone, with friends and took grandma there once. The last two times, we added to the excitement by taking the train in from the Absecon station.

Once inside, this bigger than three football fields space is eye-candy for children and adults. Lined up like streets, one booth after another captured the little one's imaginations with a wide range of entertainment. Andrew liked handling animals like iguanas, goats and crabs. He also climbed in fire trucks, military vehicles and a helicopter, (going up to the ceiling in the power company's bucket truck was only thing he ever refused).

My boy participated in dance contests (one year, he taught the teenage volunteers a couple of Macarena steps). He also took part in various sports, did projects with hammers and screwdrivers, used musical instruments, painted, did over sized puzzles and met and interacted with the real Miss New Jersey and McGruff the Crime Dog...as well as several other cartoon characters in costume. However, for some odd reason, the first year, Andrew was afraid of Capt'n Crunch...go figure.

In the back, temporary bleachers surrounded a stage. Then announcements were made when shows started. We usually waited until we were getting tired to go there. One year there was a Nickelodeon TV Network presentation of a game show. Child and parent teams played against each other but along the way, the heavy-set bald dad (not me, we tried but weren't picked) got a pie in the face and was attacked with water guns.

Another year, a Ronald McDonald impersonator on a unicycle, told jokes and clowned with the audience while he juggled running chainsaws that were on fire...wait...I think it was bowling pins...NOT on fire. Another year, girls from the Disney Network did a tumbling exhibition.

Before leaving, Andrew and I would get something at the snack bar as we began to wind down. By that time, the empty, plastic goodie-bag that he was given when we came in was filled with promotional items. I think if we turned my house upside down, we would find a few pencils, an Atlantic City Surf baseball bat or the caterpillar cage my boy built. But of all those remnants, only one is significant and only one has any sentimental value to me...and I've know exactly where it has been, for over twelve years...my work pants pocket.

In March 1999, Andrew and I were heading out from the fair. A dab of ketchup was on my five-year old's nose as he picked at his last few French fries. Then up ahead, someone in a Johnny Bravo costume summoned us. Back them, our cable-TV package didn't include the Cartoon Network so we were Johnny Bravo-illiterate. But because of the absurdity of his look and the magnetism of his charisma, we gravitated to him.
"JOHNNY BRAVO," AIRED ON THE CARTOON NETWORK FROM 1997-2004, (67 WHOLE EPISODES, 178 SEGMENTS AND 2 SPECIALS). JOHNNY WAS A DULL-WITTED, STEROID-STUFFED, SKIRT-CHASING BEEFCAKE. HE SOUNDED LIKE ELVIS PRESLEY, ALWAYS HAD SUNGLASSES AND WORE A POMPADOUR HAIRCUT. ALSO FEATURED ON THE SHOW WERE: HIS NERDY FRIEND, CARL CHRYNISZZSWICS AND HIS SOMETIMES TOUGH, SOMETIMES DOTING "MOMMA," BUNNY BRAVO.

Andrew was really laughing after Johnny shook his hand and mussed-up his hair. Then we were lured to the CARTOON NETWORK booth. Inside, the curtained walls were adorned with photos of their biggest stars. A perky young lady led my boy to an unsophisticated roly-poly game that looked like they built it ten minutes before the doors opened.

This "skill" game was so juvenile that my boy balked at the opportunity. When he hesitated, the encouraging lady said, "Everyone wins a prize...some people get two prizes and the luckiest kids win three." On the far side of the apparatus, other giggly winners were at a table filled with dozens of little trinkets to pick from.

My Mr. Too-Cool took the small bouncy ball from her. Without even pretending to aim, he rolled the ball down a ramp that led to a series of holes. The biggest holes had a yellow flag with a number-one on them. The smallest ones had green flags with a three and the medium holes had red flags with twos on them.

Andrew's shot went into a medium a hole. The young lady made a big deal of his two-prize victory...Andrew was indifferent. She led him to the Utopian prize table and said, "You can take two." Andrew looked at me with a blank expression. I looked at the toys and guessed that they were so chintzy, he didn't want to dignify any of them by accepting it.

The lady might have recognized his dilemma and sweetly tried to glorify her favorites. Andrew took a closer look. I was momentarily distracted by Johnny Bravo doing his schtick on another kid. Three seconds later Andrew got my attention and said, "Can we go now?" I said, "Sure but what did you choose?" He shrugged and looked back into his loot bag. With a sigh, he handed me a pin, (the size of a quarter), with the cartoon character Wally Gator on it. He started poking around inside the bag and came out with a similar pin, of Droopy.

THE CARTOON NETWORK RAN RE-RUNS OF DROOPY. IT WAS A THEATRICAL CARTOON SO ONLY 24 EPISODES WERE EVER PRODUCED, (1943-1958).

Andrew must have seen the brighter expression on my face and said, "Hey dad, you like Droopy...right?" I said, "Yeah." He said, "Why don't you take him and I'll keep this one, (Wally Gator). What might have been chintz to him was gold for me. My next day at work, I pinned it to my uniform.

A FEW MONTHS AGO, I CAME ACROSS THE WALLY GATOR PIN. IT WAS IN PRISTINE CONDITION. BUT I COULDN'T FIND IT AGAIN, TO BE INCLUDED IN THIS ARTICLE. IT SHOULD BE NOTED THAT DESPITE BEING BLACKBALLED FROM HOLLYWOOD DURING THE McCARTHY-ERA, WALLY RETURNED TO SHOW BUSINESS, WELL PAST HIS PRIME AND STILL MANAGED TO EKE-OUT A DECENT CAREER. AND YES, HE WAS ONE OF THE FEW ANIMATED STARS OF HIS TIME THAT DID HIS OWN SWIMMING STUNTS.

I had no problem finding the Droopy pin, it was exactly where it was supposed to be, in my work pants pocket.

I THINK THE BRUISED PATINA GIVES MY PRIZE AN ADDED ELEMENT OF TIMELESSNESS. THOSE BLEMISHES SCREAM OUT THAT NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS OR WHERE WE GO, IT WILL SYMBOLIZE MY ETERNAL RELATIONSHIP WITH MY SON AND THEREFORE, ALWAYS BE WITH ME.

I hope when Andrew gets married, I uphold this tradition and remember to wear it on my jacket during his wedding. Then when he becomes a father, I look forward to having it with me each time. Finally, when I'm a hundred and one...I would be honored to wear this gift that keep on giving...on my lapel again...when I'm buried.

BLAME IT ON LINGUINI

Tomorrow, September 6th, is my thirty-third anniversary of starting dealer school. So I would like to pause and give recognition to the skills I learned as well as the ease with which I was placed in a job. Because even though I faced some harsh valleys, the truth is the New York School of Gambling shaped my future and catapulted me to my continuous, successful and on going career...as well as helping to make me, the man I am today. If that wasn't enough, let's not forget the countless characters and adventures (more so in Las Vegas) that made my coming-of-age exciting, interesting and educational. ...but it all came so close to not happening.

In August 1978 at about 2:00AM, fate shined down on me while I endured what would be a thirteen inning, rain delayed, marathon loss by my beloved New York Mets. Those disappointing circumstances, served as the wake-up call I needed to realize that I was wasting away, unemployed and living at home. DANNY DEVITO (right) WAS A LOVABLE LOSER AS, "LOUIE DePALMA," ON THE HIT SIT-COM, "TAXI." WHEN HE FINALLY GOT A GIRLFRIEND HE SAID TO HER, "MY FAVORITE THING IN THE WORLD USED TO BE SITTING IN MY UNDERWEAR, EATING ICE CREAM AND WATCHING THE METS ON TV. BUT NOW, MY FAVORITE THING TO DO IS...SITTING IN MY UNDERWEAR, EATING ICE CREAM AND WATCHING THE METS ON TV...WITH YOU."

Had the Mets come from behind and won that night perhaps my angst would have never come to a head. But their last ditch rally ended when their last two hopes struck out (looking). I was too frustrated to get out of bed and turn the TV off.

I was starting to nod-off when a commercial caught my attention. At that hour, re-runs for beauty, clerical and truck driving schools fill the air. But this one was different...it was for a casino dealer training academy.

This ad wasn't the same old tripe for computer or pastry chef careers. This sparkly commercial was hot and sizzled in production value. Accompanied by fast-paced music and a montage of leggy, exotic women getting out of limos in Monte Carlo, Las Vegas and the Caribbean, the commercial conjured-up visions of how cool it was to be a gambler.


I was twenty-three, in search of direction and I was susceptible to this idea of being glamorous and surrounded by gorgeous women. Therefore I was manipulated into overlooking the simple reality...the school was there to teach students how to serve the elite...not be the elite.

I fell asleep thinking about sugar plum fairies and fantasizing about making such a meteoric rise into adulthood. This mental masturbation wasn't so far-fetched because a friend, I call Mr. K., was a craps dealer, doing well in Reno. He once suggested that I give casino dealing a try. He said, "The gaming industry is in it's infancy. It's like getting in on the ground floor of something big." When I balked he added, "Chances are, you're gonna hate whatever job you have...but at least I have fun while hating it."

The memory of Mr. K's words motivated me to call the New York School of Gambling. The next day, I set-up an appointment to see the facility on Manhattan's West 32nd Street.

The receptionist's name plate read: Linda Gwynette. She was an average looking girl, about my age...doused in thick, cheap perfume. I stood there in that awkward moment before introducing myself as she struggled through her phone spiel...with a cheat-sheet in hand...with another potential applicant. In addition to her unprofessional phone etiquette, I couldn't help but notice her unprofessional, peroxide dyed blond hair and her less professional, overly exposed, ample bosom.

When she hung up, she was extremely courteous. Her smiling enthusiasm made me over look her plain face, oily complexion and chunkiness. But when she wiggled over to the storage closet and bent over in her tight skirt to get me an application, I knew I was going to attend. However, before I could get my foot in the door with a couple of personal questions of my own, she asked me to take the papers in another room...and wait for the next available recruiter.

The dry forty-year old man in a plaid, tweed sports jacket that looked like it came off the reduced rack at Goodwill was nothing more than a salesman. He scanned my paperwork and then through crooked, yellow teeth, he glamorized the gaming profession with phrases from their commercial.

The campus tour was highlighted by assertions concerning the school's global placement program. "We have gotten our people work in Las Vegas, Europe, cruise ships, in the orient and more." He pointed to a slogan; COMMITTED TO EXCELLENCE, that was stenciled, (running slightly downhill), on the wall and said, "Our outstanding reputation has helped our most talented graduates...once they have a little experience, to be in high demand." In a whisper he added, "Some earn six figures." In his normal tone he continued, "So the more casino games (classes) you master, the better your chances will be to land a great job."

His hype was tantalizing me until he made this lame statement, "If you noticed, the school is on the seventh and twelfth floor but we are working on getting enough space on the eleventh floor. Wouldn't that be something, the seventh and eleventh floor...you know, lucky seven, eleven."

That's when I woke up and said, "You're committed to excellence in what way?" He said, "Our job placement is the best around." I should have said; the best, compared to who? Instead, I asked for job placement statistics and evidence of earning potential.

Mr. Yellow Crooked Teeth drew a blank and couldn't help me. He was just a superficial, insincere tout. He probably hurt the school's chances in my eyes but the image of Linda Gwynette out shined all his short comings. I gave myself credit for leaving the building without registering but the whole subway ride back to Brooklyn, I regretted not making my way back to talk to Linda.

I called Mr. K., and discussed the school's brochure. He was definite when he said, "Take craps only! Even if you need blackjack down the road, most casinos will give you free, on the job training. Same thing for roulette but paying for baccarat is a scam because that's a juice job reserved for the creme-de-la-creme...and even if you were a golden-boy, your casino could teach you the ropes in ten minutes." His other point was, "The payments are non-refundable and they offer no incentives." We reviewed their pre-admittance tuition policy and he warned me to pay as slow as possible, just in case you quit."

I called the salesman back. He suggested the first class after Labor Day, Tuesday September 5, 1978. He vigorously tried to talk me into combo classes and paying in full. Despite the misinformation and propaganda, Mr. K's tutelage helped me stand strong.

Unfortunately, my uncle passed away. My family was going to pay our respects on Tuesday September 5th. To save face, in case I screwed-up, I was keeping my big career move from my folks. I really didn't want to miss the first day of school so, I tried to justify not visiting my grieving aunt and cousins by saying, "I went to the funeral, isn't that enough?" My mom would have none of that. She even applied her famous; "this is a command performance," proclamation. Which meant...there was no way to get out of going.

At the school, the perfect storm or should I say, the comedy of errors started at 9:00AM, on Wednesday the sixth. Through the glass door of the reception area, I saw the hideous salesman in the same tweed sports jacket, toying with the chained, charm dangling just above Linda's open cleavage...and from her body language, I could see this was appreciated behavior.

Later, while she completed my enrollment contract, she was as perky as ever. I stole as many lecherous glances at her chest as I could and re-diluted myself into thinking I had a shot with her. But when I said I only wanted to take craps, she got on the intercom and called in the school's sixty-year old director. Like a deer frozen by headlights, he gaped at her breasts the whole time he tried to sway me into at least taking blackjack. But I stood firm.

A minute after he left, Linda buzzed him again. In between cracking her gum she said, "This guy wants to make a down payment lower than what I thought was allowed." I explained to him the loop-hole that Mr. K., found in their payment schedule. The director said, "Lynn, get me a brochure." On her way to the storage closet, he pinched her bottom...she smiled. Then he muttered obscenities aimed at me under his breath as I showed him how their policy permitted someone taking only craps, to put down $74.00, and not be required to pay more tuition for three weeks. He called her Lynn again and said, "Sign him up and make a note that this money is a hardship installment. I'll initial it later. Then remind me that we have to over-haul that section of the booklet."

Bubbly Linda led me into the casino/classroom. Despite all that transpired, I still wanted to ask her out. There were four different classes going on when she introduced me to my craps instructor, Mitch. Mitch said, "Thank you Lynn." She turned to leave and exaggerated her wiggle. To her delight, many of the fifty people in the room said something in sexual bad taste, whistled or made cat-calls.

Mitch was a clean-cut and vital thirty-year old. In a refined and welcoming manner he said, "We have a lot of catching up to do. But first, I want to introduce you to the other instructors." A Natasha Fatale-like woman left her blackjack class. I looked at her beady, black eyes as she growled disgustedly in a Yugoslavian accent, "So you are the wise-ass only taking one game." The gray haired roulette instructor stinking of booze leaned in and said, "Only taking craps, eh?" I caught eye-contact with the gaunt, long-haired baccarat teacher from the distance and he turned away as if to shun me.

Mitch did not introduce me to his twenty students positioned around two craps tables. Instead he gave me stacks of casino chips at a blackjack table and demonstrated the different ways to handle them. I was left on my own to "practice" drop-cutting and sizing-in. This was not coming natural. When a chip fell on the floor, I pretended not to notice...I felt like such a spastic.

I could hear the craps students using a language completely foreign to me while running simulated games. They handled the chips well. All I was doing was arbitrarily dropping them. On a couple of occasions, Mitch came by to see how I was doing. Like a machine, he would systematically set down neat piles of chips; one, two, three, four, five and five again. Then pick them up and artistically, do it again. His third visit was really discouraging because he said, "Make sure you practice with both hands." Then he did the exercise equally well with his left hand.

At 10:30AM there was a break. I overheard one of the blackjack students refer to Lynn as, "Linguini," the world's greatest, "mouth-piece." I knew she had notarized my enrollment contract but I would have never guessed she was a lawyer. Then the other guy gushed, "Yeah, I never heard of a chick so into oral sex." I shouldn't have been crushed, but I was.

It was bad enough that I missed the first day of class and felt like I could never catch on but the girl I was so keen on, was a whore.

I was standing alone as nearly all the students rushed out to the elevators. That's when I pieced together that Lynn's "Linguini" nickname was a combination of Lynn and her last name, Gwynette. This knowledge inspired me back to the reception area. Through the glass door, I saw Lynn partially hidden by a file cabinet. She was in a hot and heavy embrace with the long-haired baccarat instructor. He slid his hand under the front of her skirt...and she slapped it away. He then stuffed his face in her chest as I retreated to the classroom.

I followed a small group of craps students downstairs and up the street, to a coffee shop. Then without a hint of being ostracized by them, I self-imposed a great distance and ordered a muffin and coffee from the farthest table from them.

The service was awful. But the wait gave me extra time to think. Then over a cold coffee and a hard bran muffin, I decided to quit. My subway was on Broadway, so I had to walk past the school to get there. A few storefronts ahead of me, Lynn and the baccarat instructor came out of the Blarney Stone Bar. I was right behind them as he grabbed her butt...and she grabbed his.

They went into the school's vestibule, I went straight. Seconds later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, it was Lynn. She said with her inviting smile, "I was calling you but I forgot your name" She lightly scraped her fingernails down my biceps and added, "Where are you going? You walked right by the entrance." She was quite a seductress. Her touch was so sensuous that all I could blither was, "I must be in a fog."

Arm in arm, we went back in and waited for the elevator. I was about to ask her about her personal life when the doors opened and the school's director, puffing a fat, stinky cigar came out. He grabbed Lynn around the waist and said, "You look like you need a break before you take some dictation."

They advanced towards the exit. She craned her neck, grinned back at me and winked. Upstairs, I went through the reception area and saw the salesman at Lynn's desk. He was enrolling a new student.

Mitch kept me segregated from the other students again while I struggled to handle the chips. I was angry with myself for allowing Lynn's charm to lure me back. Mr. K. was right to insist on paying as little as possible because as soon as I saw an opportune moment to avoid embarrassment, I was going to leave my non-refundable deposit behind and never come back.

Then the salesman entered the casino/classroom with the newcomer. Mitch was summoned over as his welcoming committee of future instructors greeted him. At the same time, I still couldn't understand the craps game chatter behind me. But every time the students strayed off topic, it seemed like someone had another Linguini story. And now it centered on her and the school's director...it nauseated me.

My eavesdropping was interrupted by Mitch introducing the new student, Kevin, to me. He showed the same chip drill to the newbie. I was thrilled that Kevin was as inept as me. We spent a lot of time laughing about ourselves until Mitch led us to an unoccupied craps table. He said, "Whatever you think you know about dice...please forget." He then explained the rules before introducing us to Jay, one of the students. Jay then drilled us on the basics of winning and losing.

Jay was friendly and out going. While we were at it, I confessed missing my first day of class. I was groaning about how bad I felt for losing out on so much material. I then added, "I'm intimidated now because my first day is almost over and I'm buried compared to the rest of the class...hell, I can't even handle the chips."

Jay laughed, "First, we don't call them chips, they are checks. And, we didn't all start yesterday, it's staggered. Mitch teaches new guys separately until they are ready to join the main group. Relax, there'll more new people every few days. And don't worry about the checks, everyone sucks in the beginning."

I felt stupid but relieved. Later, on my way out, with no carnal intentions, I wanted to thank Lynn for keeping me from quitting. When I got to the hall, Lynn was breathing heavy as she came out of the men's room. She had a guilty look on her face as she scurried towards the reception area...while buttoning the last button on her blouse and smoothing out her skirt. Seconds later, Jay and a roulette student came out of the men's room with big smiles on their faces.

It was hard to believe but I out lasted Lynn. A few days later she was fired.

During the rare valleys in my casino career, I have blamed Lynn "Linguini" Gwynette for my suffering. But considering my casino longevity and overall prosperity, as well as the joy that she has given to the masses, I think she should be sainted.