KFC - KENTUCKY FRIED CONTROVERSY

A quick HAPPY BIRTHDAY shout-out to my son Andrew.

OH YEAH...THE MAN, THE MYTH, THE LEGEND IS NINETEEN...TODAY !

In 1998, I met Mark McGuire.  No, not Mark McGwire the disgraced home run champion who gained his unworthy notoriety by using performance enhancing drugs (PED's).  The Mark Maguire I met, was the world's nicest man. 

Far from the national spotlight, this Southern gentleman owned a junkyard in Temperanceville Virginia.  My encounter with him was so ultra-positive that I wrote a blog (June 1, 2009) about my experience called, "THERE'S TWO MICHIGANS?"  From that story, I also got my best reader comment ever when I mentioned actor Woody Strode.

WOODY STRODE (1914-1994) STARRED WITH KIRK DOUGLAS IN 1960's, "SPARTACUS."  STRODE'S MAGNIFICENT PHYSIQUE HELPED HIM ENJOY A LONG, SUCCESSFUL CAREER IN HOLLYWOOD.  WHEN HIS DAUGHTER READ MY BLOG, SHE THANKED ME AND SENT ALONG ADDITIONAL GREAT INFORMATION ABOUT HER DAD.

The power of meeting such a wonderful man and getting terrific feedback from the blog about him was hindered by two terrible circumstances.  The first was, suffering a blown-out tire at high speed which brought me to McGuire's.  The second, (which was not mentioned in "There's two Michigans?") was the unbelievable stench that affected a long stretch of the roadway (Lankford Highway, Route-13), that passed by the junkyard.

I didn't ask McGuire about the awful odor.  But I did farther south when we made a pit stop at a roadside fruit stand, in the town of Accomac.   My wife, son and myself all got refreshed and then I bought peaches, grapes and cherries.  I asked the salesgirl what the bad smell was and she said, "Poultry processing plants."  I said, "Heh?"  She said, "Slaughterhouses.  Perdue has one here and y'all passed Tyson's back yonder."

MY FIRST REACTION TO THIS PUTRID OFFENSE TO MY NOSE WAS TO EAT SOMETHING LIKE THE FAKE CHICKEN (above) BEFORE EVER EATING THE REAL THING AGAIN.

The truth is, I could never give up chicken. I could easily list fifty different ways I like it prepared and I could probably tell you more, (the exception being my mom's infamous, "twice boiled" chicken).

INTERESTINGLY, MOM SERVED THIS CONCOCTION ON THURSDAYS WHEN DAD WORKED LATE. I THINK THE KEY TO THIS RECIPE WAS TO BOIL ALL THE FLAVOR OUT OF THE CHICKEN.  THEN WITH WHATEVER TASTINESS THAT MIGHT HAVE SURVIVED, THE LIQUID WAS POURED DOWN THE DRAIN.  FINALLY, FRESH WATER WAS ADDED AND THE CHICKEN WAS REBOILED...THUS RENDERING THE WHOLE BALL OF WAX...DEVOID OF ENJOYABILITY.

In my youth, the real treat was Chicken Delight.

TODAY THE COMPANY FEATURING; CHICKEN, PIZZA AND RIBS, IS BASED IN WINNIPEG MANITOBA CANADA.  ITS FRANCHISES, (MAINLY IN THAT AREA AND NEW YORK CITY), PROVIDE EAT IN, TAKE OUT AND DELIVERY.  THE ORIGINAL, MUCH LARGER COMPANY OPENED 1952.  BY THE LATE 1960's, THERE WERE 1000+ LOCATIONS.  THEY WERE KNOWN FOR THE CATCHPHRASE, "DON'T COOK TONIGHT, CALL CHICKEN DELIGHT."  AND FOR HAVING THEIR DELIVERIES DONE IN PLYMOUTH VALIANTS OR VW BEETLES WITH A HUGE PLASTIC CHICKEN ON THE ROOF.

In my sophomore year of high school, the tedious six short block, three long block walk home was made better by buying ten, two-cent Reese's Cup mini's.  Then my friend Lee Richardson told me it was chic to walk a block in the wrong direction, to get a better snack at Chicken Delight. A whole meal was too expensive and wasn't conducive to travel but splitting a giant bag of 35c French fries was both cost affective and simple to handle.  Hell, just being in their store for its sweet scent was orgasmic.

Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC) was also established in 1952 (but maybe because they didn't deliver), they didn't get off to the same good start as Chicken Delight. In my childhood, there weren't any KFC's in Canarsie so even though it had surged past Chicken Delight in popularity, I would be thirteen before I ever ate some.

"COLONEL" HARLAN SANDERS (1890-1980) CREATED KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN AND WAS THE FACE OF HIS OWN SELF-MADE EMPIRE.

My first taste of Kentucky Fried Chicken was when my uncle included me at the company outing where he worked.  Shortly after our buses arrived at Bear Mountain State Park, (near West Point, New York) some ladies started lining up the red and white buckets of KFC on picnic tables.  The wonderful aroma beckoned me closer.  I had seen the TV commercials and like Pavlov's dog, my mouth watered.  One of the women setting up the feast noticed me salivating.  She pulled away from the giant vat of Funny Face soft drinks she was preparing and said, "We won't be having lunch till after noon."

FROM THE MID 1960's TO THE LATE 70's, "FUNNY FACE" POWDERED DRINK MIX WAS A COMPETITOR OF KOOL-AID.  EACH FLAVOR HAD THEIR OWN NAME LIKE; LEFTY LEMON, LOUD MOUTH LIME AND ROOTIN' TOOTIN' RASPBERRY.  TO BE POLITICALLY CORRECT, TWO OF THE ORIGINALS FROM 1964, CHINESE CHERRY AND INJUN' ORANGE WERE RENAMED IN 1966, TO CHOO-CHOO CHERRY AND JOLLY OLLY ORANGE.

My eyes remained transfixed on the KFC buckets. I could only imagine the look of desperation I must have had on my face when the lady called me Tantalus.  I wasn't clever enough at that age to know if I was being insulted.  When she saw that the dumbfounded expression on my face didn't change, she explained who Tantalus was.

TANTALUS WAS A GREEK MYTHOLOGICAL FIGURE.  HE WAS FAMOUS FOR THE ETERNAL PUNISHMENT OF STANDING IN A LAKE BENEATH AN APPLE TREE WITH LOW BRANCHES...WITH THE FRUIT JUST BEYOND HIS REACH (AND THE WATER RECEDING EVERY TIME HE WANTED A DRINK).   THE WORD "TANTALIZE" IS DERIVED FROM TANTALUS.  (Above) GIOACCHINO ASSERETO'S 1640's  PAINTING OF TANTALUS HANGS TODAY, IN THE AUCKLAND (NEW ZEALAND) ART GALLERY.

I paced like a nervous tiger as I stalked my glorious lunch.  When the announcement was made, I pounced and went to town on the Colonel's drumsticks, French fries and biscuits.  I was too young to be embarrassed so every now and then, I returned to graze the remnants of the embattled picnic tables.  They must have brought too much chicken because while the men grumbled that all the quart bottles of Ballantine Ale were empty, I had free reign to keep packing the calorie avalanche in.

MOST OF YOU KNOW AND LOVE ME TODAY AS A SVELTE, MEAN, LEAN FIGHTING MACHINE.  BUT I MUST CONFESS,  IN MY ADOLESCENCE  I FREQUENTLY BINGED ON WHATEVER WASN'T NAILED DOWN AND WAS QUITE PUDGY.

Down through the years, my passion for Kentucky Fried Chicken comes and goes.  So when it comes, I can relate to the hilarious, "I hate Colonel Sanders," scene from the two and half star, 1993 movie, "SO I MARRIED AN AXE MURDERER." Mike Myers (in a dual role as the dad, Stuart Mackenzie and the son Charlie Mackenzie), speaks as the Scottish father, in a heavy accent of his obsession for Kentucky Fried Chicken.

CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO SEE THE 51 SECOND VIDEO.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPMS6tGOACo

Could the elder Mackenzie be right?  What if it's true that an addictive chemical is added to the chicken to make you crave it fortnightly?  I never considered the possibility of a great Colonel Sanders conspiracy until I saw a current KFC commercial for its "chunky" chicken pot pies.

IT'S A STUPID AD BUT THEY MUST HAVE EMBEDDED A SUBLIMINAL MESSAGE BECAUSE I FELT AN IRRESISTIBLE URGE FOR CHICKEN POT PIES THAT I NEVER FELT BEFORE.  TO PROVE MY POINT,  THE NEXT DAY, I CRAMMED MY FREEZER WITH BANQUET (BRAND) CHICKEN POT PIES...AND TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH, IT'S GOING TO STAY THAT WAY BECAUSE THEY WEREN'T VERY GOOD.  THAT MEANS, I'LL BE TAKING A TRIP TO KFC TOMORROW, TO GET THE REAL THING.

So what is this power that the Colonel and his secret recipe have over me (us)?  Well in 2000, the results of an investigation led people to believe...that what KFC serves...is NOT chicken.  That's right, straight from Dr.  Frankenstein's laboratory, it's the Colonel's newest recipe, genetically modified, mutant chickens. 

These beasts are said to be bred so they are born with larger (meatier) breasts and six legs.  At the same time, they are pumped with chemicals so that they are born without inedible body parts like; beaks, feathers or feet....while still tasting like...chicken!

Please read the following article and then decide if KFC is just naturally, finger lickin' good or if the diabolical urban legend, (complete with an injection of addictive chemicals), is a true story.

Does KFC Use Real Chickens?


KFC has been a part of our American traditions for many years. Many people, day in and day out, eat at KFC religiously. Do they really know what they are eating? During a recent study of KFC done at the University of New Hampshire, they found some very upsetting facts.

First of all, has anybody noticed that just recently, the company has changed their name?. Kentucky Fried Chicken has become KFC. Does anybody know why?. We thought the real reason was because of the "FRIED" food issue. It's not. The reason why they call it KFC is because they can not use the word chicken anymore. Why?

KFC does not use real chickens. They actually use genetically manipulated organisms. These so called "chickens" are kept alive by tubes inserted into their bodies to pump blood and nutrients throughout their structure. They have no beaks, no feathers, and no feet. Their bone structure is dramatically shrunk to get more meat out of them. This is great for KFC because they do not have to pay so much for their production costs.

There is no more plucking of the feathers or the removal of the beaks and feet. The government has told them to change all of their menus so they do not say chicken anywhere. If you look closely you will notice this. Listen to their commercials, I guarantee you will not see or hear the word chicken. I find this matter to be very disturbing. I hope people will start to realize this and let other people know. Please forward this message to as many people as you can. Together we make KFC start using real chicken again.

So what do you think?  Does the Colonel really make chicken right?  Or are those slaughterhouses along the Atlantic Coast of Virginia fowling up our air with something other than chickens?  Maybe I'll reintroduce myself to Mark McGuire...as the "Nicest Man in the World," I doubt he'd be too chicken to tell me the truth.

WHY WAS SHE KILLING ME WITH KINDNESS...

Today's blog is an excerpt from my short story, "PETER PARTY."  As crazy and exaggerated as this isolated character in my life might seem...please bear in mind, this MGTP tidbit does NOT have the usual level of embellishment.

In Las Vegas, September 1979, I got hired at the Hotel Fremont as a craps dealer.  To celebrate this momentous step in my gaming career, I went shopping for new shoes at the Boulevard Mall.  On my way out, I had a chance meeting with heavy-set, thirty-four-year old Hal Spear, who was coming out of the tobacconist with two cartons of Old Gold cigarettes under his arm.

THE EPITOME OF "OLD SCHOOL," OLD GOLD CIGARETTES WERE POPULAR IN THE WWII-ERA AND INTO THE 1950's.  THEY LOST THEIR GLAMOUR IN THE 60's AND BY THE TIME THIS 1972 BILLBOARD WAS BUILT, IT WAS A VANISHING BRAND.  SO IN 1979, HAL SPEAR HAD TO GO TO A SPECIALTY SHOP TO FIND THEM...I DOUBT THEY ARE STILL BEING MADE TODAY. 

 
In 1978, he and I attended the New York School of Gambling.  We hardly socialized...the ten-year difference in our age shouldn't have mattered but unspectacular Hal, came off like he was seventy.  Hal graduated a couple weeks after I started so if I never saw him the rest of my life, I doubt I would've remembered him.  But the events over the next few days would forever etch him in my memory as one of the nuttiest characters I ever met.

Our conversation at the mall dried up fast.  To rationalize cutting our dull chat short, I told him (honestly) that I needed to make some calls because I was looking for a place to stay.  He said, "Good, cause me and wifey are looking for a roommate."  We agreed that I'd drop by and take a look the next day.

There were tons of two-floor, cookie-cutter apartments that wrapped around a central courtyard along East Sahara Avenue.  Nearly all of them had a cute theme to differentiate them from the others...but not Hal's.  I entered the open end of the horseshoe-shaped, ninety-unit complex and immediately recognized that his country club living description was an exaggeration...even after he said, "See those two palm trees, they're real!"

He led me up a rickety stairway.  Halfway up at the landing, he paused to mask the fact that he was winded.  He flicked the nub of his non-filtered Old Gold over the rail and said, "Nice pool we got there Steve-O. And all the neighbors are great.  See those two grills, we use them for parties."  

Above us, a man left his apartment and approached the stairs. I was comprehending that the tiny pool was the only plus in the rundown place as the man squeezed by.  Then, I detected some tension between them as he and Hal didn't acknowledge each other.

We walked silently to the last apartment, #101.  The unit number was set on three different copper-colored, diamond-shaped appliques that were peeling off the faded orange door.  The paint was flaking so badly that I could see rusted sections of the raw metal.  Before we went in, Hal craned his neck over the railing, scanned the ground floor and groaned, "Friggin' faggots."

Inside, Hal glowed as if he was giving me a tour of Buckingham Palace.  But in ten seconds, I saw the entirety of his simple rectangular apartment including the kitchenette in the far right corner, the bathroom opposite it and the one bedroom, midway up the left wall.

Hal said, "We're here nine months."  First, I noticed that they had no personal items.  Then I noticed that the place reeked from cigarettes and that the only thing that marred the blank, formerly antiseptic white walls, was a thin veneer of nicotine staining.

I was led to the only piece of furniture in the room, a cheap McDonald plaid convertible sofa.  Hal said, "This is where you'll sleep."  The chain-smoker lit up another Old Gold while demonstrating the simplicity of opening it into a bed.  When it failed to open, he tugged at it and nipped his finger on a sharp edge.  He was sucking the blood from his cut when he diverted my attention to his TV.  "This baby is a Quasar."  I winced when he gently patted my shoulder with his wounded hand as he added, "Seventeen inches..."

Hal Spear ended the brief moment of uneasiness with a brimming smile that elongated his prematurely gray mustache by bragging, "And don't let me forget, we get great reception." But the black and white picture was slow to come up. He adjusted the rabbit ear aerial but the image didn't improve.  So he pointed at some tacky flower-print aluminum snack tables and explained, "You can eat while watching your favorite program."  A sudden coughing spell overcame Hal.  I looked away and noticed a thick, snowy band creep up the TV screen.  Hal noticed it too and switched off the set.  Then the old boy sneezed.  He produced a handkerchief from his back pocket and trumpeted his nose without turning away from me.

Hal composed himself, opened a stuffed closet at the front door and said, "You can stow your shit in here." Then he spread his arms wide and proclaimed, "And it's all yours...for fifty-flat a month...plus your long distance."  I wanted no part of his vast empire but starting the next night, I was "outdoors."  I knew staying there would be temporary so I accepted.  We were shaking hands when I heard a key in the door.  A bespectacled woman (I assumed her to be his wife), entered.  She strode past us carrying two large grocery sacks and wordlessly advanced to the kitchen.

I thought Hal was going to help her when he followed her.  Instead, he opened a box of generic Saltines.  After he gobbled one up, he took another, extended it towards me and said, "Want?"  I shook my head.  At that point, I was expecting some sort of introduction...that never came.  So to break the awkward silence I said, "Are there more bags in the car?"  A puff of Saltine dust became airborne when Hal laughed, "She's legally blind, she can't drive.  Besides, it's only a six-block walk to the shopping center."  The woman was staring at the ground when she murmured, "I have three more bags." 

She left and instinctively I followed. During our walk to the steps she whispered, "Are you going to move in?"  I said, "Yes."  On our way down she said, "You'll be very, very happy here."  We gathered the rest of her packages and left the supermarket cart behind.  An unseen voice from above called out, "Don't leave that damned wagon there!"  She peered up and meekly answered, "Yesh Mishter Hanrahan, right away shur."  The man came into view and roared, "And be quick about it."  He was the same guy I had passed with Hal on our way in. I chirped, "Everyone's so friendly here."  I could tell she was mortified as she stammered, "Y-y-you'll be very, very happy here."

At the top of the stairs I said, "That Hanrahan doesn't seem gay."  The presumed Mrs. Spear said, "He ishn't.  Why would you shay such a thing?"  I said, "That's what Hal said."  She sighed, "I shee."  Then she was barely audible as she added, "Shum-times, my Hal calls people names..."

I found her Hal sitting on my "bed" with cracker crumbs all over his lap.  The gentle lady continued into the kitchen and was storing her things as the "slug" watched, "The Price Is Right," while examining the supermarket receipt.

In the kitchen, I got my first close-up look at this twenty-nine year old's stale, short-cropped blond hair, mousy face and continuous Stepford-esque half-smile. The whole time, she avoided eye-contact and spoke softly as to hide her speech impediment.  I also noticed that her frail arms were disproportionally short for her petite body, (so much so that I was soon to learn that Hal took great joy in referring to them as twigs).  However, her oddest physical attribute was her anemic skin tone that resembled the color of frozen chicken.

NO PHOTO ON THE WEB COULD CAPTURE HER UNHEALTHY TONE BUT THE SKINLESS CHICKEN ABOVE COMES CLOSE.

At the front door she said, "Gotta bring the cart back to Shafeway."  Hal blurted out, "Suzie, why didn't you get the General Mills variety pack?  You know Post don't make Cheerios."  That was the first time I heard her name.  Suzie responded, "Had a coupon."  Hal was satisfied and said, "Oh."

Hal bolted to the window and spied on Suzie until she disappeared from sight.  He hurried to the closet. Hal pulled out a decrepit, left-handed pitching wedge and began whacking Whiffle golf balls all over the apartment.  This manly exhibition empowered him to boast, "The El Cortez promoted me to boxman immediately! I already accumulated $12,000.00 in my profit sharing." 

I was hoping that the head of the golf club would fly off and smash his cherished Quasar's screen because this jerk was annoying me.  "Another great perk at the 'Tez'," Hal interjected, "on dead games, we can put an ashtray on top of the chip bank and smoke...just like in the wild west." 

IN 1979, THE SOUTHWESTERN-THEMED EL CORTEZ WAS A TOILET THAT CATERED TO LOCALS AND BUDGET-MINDED DAY-TRIPPERS FROM CALIFORNIA.   THE FIRST WEEK I HIT TOWN, SOME MORON IN A WHEELCHAIR FIRED SEVERAL SHOTS A CRAPS TABLE.  LUCKILY THERE WERE NO INJURIES BUT MANAGEMENT, TO ADD AMBIANCE,  INSISTED THAT THE BULLET LODGED IN A SLOT MACHINE, A WALL AND THE CEILING MUST STAY.

It was bad enough that I looked at supervising a craps game as an old man job but the idea of smoking on duty being a good thing convinced me that this loser had real psychological problems.  On the other hand, even though I wasn't sure what profit sharing meant, I was certain who was sleeping on who's couch for fifty dollars a month.

Later when Suzie returned, she found a golf ball in the sink and chastised Hal for, "playing ball" in the house.  He whined, "Why must you embarrass me in front of our new roommate?"  He then whispered loud enough for her to hear, "And this, coming from someone who pees in the middle of the night so loud, it wakes up the whole house."  Suzie was perturbed but wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper.  So Hal winked at me and added, "Now that we have a guest, Sooz, you can show some common courtesy and aim for the porcelain."

She gritted her teeth, ignored him and invited me to sit with her.  Hal clumsily plopped between us and engrossed himself in a rerun of, "Gilligan's Island."  She and I started a conversation that forced us to speak through Hal.  I asked basic relationship questions like where they met and she answered with enthusiasm but the consistency of her plastic grin made all her answers seem phony.

Unfortunately her smile vanished when I asked, "Are you planning a family?"  Hal's eyes never left the screen as he carelessly flicked an ash onto the snack table and said, "Suzie can't make babies.  She don't get no periods."  She was humiliated and looked away.  I stood up and excused myself, "I'm gonna leave.  I'll be back and move in after work tomorrow."

Hal remained seated and blew smoke rings as Suzie stood up to escort me to the door.  He snapped his fingers, extended his left hand without looking away from the TV and hissed, "How about that fifty."  I gave him twenty and promised to pay the balance at the end of the week.

At the door Suzie said, "You'll be very happy here."  When I nodded she added, "You're welcome to shtay for dinner."  I said, "I'm meeting a friend."  She said with disappointment, "Oh."  I asked, "What am I missing?"  Hal chimed in, "It's Tuesday, it's variety pack cereal night.  Except we got no Cheerios...do we Suzie."

The next morning, I was approached by a blackjack dealer in the Fremont help's hall.  He said, "I heard you were looking for a place?"   I said, "I already put down a deposit."  He pointed to a notice on the wall and said, "Read my ad, you might change your mind.  But you're in luck.  One of my neighbor's is having a party Thursday night...let me give you my number...this way you can stop by for a burger and a beer...and see my place too."

I came back to the Spear's apartment after work and found them sitting on the sofa eating thickly sliced salami sandwiches on Wonder bread and potato chips. I noticed that residue from Hal's over-flowing tartan bean bag ashtray was strewn all over his paper plate, the snack table and the floor. 

DON'T BE MISLEAD, HAL'S ASHTRAY WAS FROM THE 50's..AND LOOKED LIKE IT BELONGED IN THE TRASH BECAUSE  IT WAS INDELIBLY STAINED, BURNT AND DENTED.

Rather than join America's number-one couple on the claustrophobic sofa, I pulled a chair in from the kitchen.  Suzie, in her typical forced smile peered over the TV GUIDE she was reading and asked, "How wasch your day?"  I said, "It was okay.  I met some new people but a guy from my crew got fired."  It was obvious she wasn't listening when she said, "I'm glad you like your new job."  But she snapped to attention when Hal roared, "Suzie, napkin!"  When she scampered away, Hal scraped a dollop of store-brand yellow mustard off his shirt with his pinkie.  Suzie handed him a napkin and said, "I shaw that the, "Shound of Mushic" is coming on channel shix at eight o'clock."  "Forget it," Hal bellowed as he sucked mustard off his finger. "We ain't watching no girlie crap...right Steve-O."  Suzie wouldn't let it go.  After some incessant droning, he begrudgingly gave in.

THE "SOUND OF MUSIC," WAS A SMASH HIT ON BROADWAY IN 1959.  THE 1965 MOVIE STARRING JULIE ANDREWS WAS EQUALLY GREAT.

At eight, as soon as the opening credits came up Hal ordered, "Suzie, make me toast."  She scurried to the refrigerator got the margarine and removed bread from the freezer.  Suzie watched the screen from the distance and when the bread popped up, she smeared on some oleo and hustled back to the couch.  Hal took one bite and groaned as if he he were stabbed in the stomach, "You call this enough butter?  Get me more..."  Like Edith Bunker, she pitifully ran to obey him.  I whispered, "I thought you didn't want to watch this?"  Hal put his index finger to his lips, slyly smiled and said, "Shush, I'm watching the movie."

I saw enough and left to visit my friend Frank.  Later, I told Frank, "Hal is an incredibly big ass-hole and his wife is killing me with kindness."  Frank said, "Obviously you should check out the Fremont dude's apartment tomorrow...I'll even go with you."  I waffled on that issue the whole night.  I still hadn't commited when I got back to my new home after 1:00AM.

I tiptoed into Casa Spear.  In the dark, I discovered my bed was turned down and made with a note from Suzie, "I'm so glad you're staying with us...you'll be very, very happy here."  In seconds, I was pissed off.  The mattress was thin and I was jabbed by the creaking springs with every move I made.  My discomfort  pre-occupied me so badly that there was no way I was ever going to fall asleep.  A half hour of twisting and turning later, I made a desperate move and reconfigured the bed back into a couch.  In so doing, I too nipped my finger.

I finally started to doze when Hal's thunderous snoring started.  Instantly, I was wired.  While staring at the ceiling, I decided to definitely see the other apartment.  Then to entertain myself during breaks in the snoring, I imagined what it would sound like when the two of them had sex.  Then it dawned on me that a guy like Hal, wouldn't be spearing anyone!  I guess that notion soothed me enough...I fell asleep.

Hal's sunrise serenade started promptly at 7:00AM.  The performance opened with a prolonged overture of sneezing, wheezing and guttural phlegm spitting.  I wrapped the pillow around my head and cursed Hal and anyone who looked like him.  The concert had a brief intermission when virtuoso came out of the bedroom and went into the bathroom.  The second act of his recital, aided by the fine acoustics of a more intimate venue, continued with a chorus of nose honks, some intense baritone coughing and concluded with a crescendo of flatulence.  Somehow when he turned on the shower, rather than give him the standing ovation he richly deserved, I seized the opportunity to nod-off for a few more minutes.  My bliss ended abruptly when he yelled out to Suzie, "Did you find my green clip-on?"  I closed my eyes and curled into a fetal position.  When he shouted, "You find it or what...?" I thought; if I had a gun, Hal would be dead.

A tap on my shoulder startled me as Suzie whispered, "Are you up?"  I emphasized my sarcasm and said, "Are you serious?"  She opened the curtains, returned to my side and said, "C'mon shleepyhead, it's twenty to eight."  I looked directly into the pinkish eyes on her frozen chicken-colored face and said, "I'm buying a gun."  She ignored me and started butchering the lyrics to, "Oh What A Beautiful Morning."  I muttered, "Oh boy, show tunes." She said, "Oops, I get it." Then she sang, whistled and hummed a "Sound Of Music," medley which included; "Maria," "My Favorite Things, "Do-Re-Mi," "Sixteen Going On Seventeen" and "Climb Ev'ry Mountain."as she started rattling pots.  Finally Hal ripped the phony smile off her face by demanding, "Stop singing goddamn it, have you no respect for the dead!"

A few minutes later muted Suzie returned to my bed in her Wendy's uniform, "Please join ush for shum oatmeal."  I snapped, "I don't eat breakfast!"  Her fake smile was in full bloom when she said, "Don't be bashful.  There ish plenty and look, I'm shlicing up a banana."  As if my senses weren't battered enough, I now had to hold my nose because the smell of my least favorite things were nauseating me.

I was laying there in a catatonic trance when Suzie humming, "Edelweiss," tapped me on her way out to super-size the world.  She cooed, "I left you a nisch hot cup of Poasch-tum...have a great day."

POSTUM, A POWDERED, COFFEE SUBSTITUTE, ORIGINATED IN 1895.  IT WAS DISCONTINUED IN 2007, BUT WAS REVIVED WITH INTERNET SALES ONLY, IN 2012.  BECAUSE IT'S CAFFEINE-FREE, IT APPEALS TO MORMON CULTURE.  SO IN JANUARY 2013, IT RETURNED TO A LIMITED AMOUNT OF STORES IN UTAH AND OTHER MOUNTAIN STATES. 

I sat up and focused on Hal.  He was wearing a white dress shirt and his suit pants were supported by both a belt and suspenders.  After he adjusted his stained green tie instead of a suit jacket, he put on a black satin smoking jacket complete with a moth hole at the lapel and a frayed hem at the bottom. He misread my gaping and said, "Pretty snazzy, huh?  But don't be jealous, I got it from the Salvation Army for three bucks."  I said, "Yeah, nice."  Hal said, "Listen, don't tell Suzie but I got an hour to kill.  Wanna run over to Foxy's (Foxy's Firehouse Casino) and play ten-cent craps?"  Politely I turned him down and added, "Me playing craps on my off time is like a Greyhound driver going by bus on vacation."

When I left for work, I brought a change of clothes so I wouldn't have to see the Spears before going to the other apartment. 

My potential new roommates rolled out the red carpet and I loved the whole set-up. Later at the party, Frank and I were having such a great time that he said, "If you don't move in, I'll break my fucking lease and I'll take it."  Later, I accepted the room...and without money changing hands, I slept the festivities off in my new, huge, private bedroom.

(PHOTO MARCH 1980)  MY MOVE TO THE CASA ROYALE APARTMENTS PROVED TO BE A GREAT DECISION.  TODAY, I HAVE A WEALTH OF MEMORIES TO SHARE FROM THERE...SO IF MY TORTUROUS TIME WITH THE SPEARS WAS NECESSARY TO ALIGN MY STARS AND SET IT ALL IN MOTION, IT WAS WORTH IT.

Before work, I went back to the Spears apartment and luckily they weren't home.  I gathered my stuff, showered, (I sang a few bars of "Climb Ev'ry Mountain)," got ready for work and happily left that dump for the last time.  On my first break, I ran the four blocks from the Fremont to the El Cortez.  I wanted to tell Hal what's what and get my twenty dollars back. 

Hal's craps table was open with no players.  He was slunk low in his boxman's stool and his body language suggested he was depressed.  The way his dealers were chatting among themselves, I got the impression that they disliked Hal.  This was the perfect scenario to say my peace and get back to work.

Hal was in deep thought and intensely sucking on a cigarette.  His face brightened to see me as he said, "Where were you last night?  Why didn't you call?  I was worried."  I owed him no explanation and said, "Oops."  He perked up more and said, "Who's the lucky girl?"  I cut to the point, "I have bad news."  He interrupted, "Oh...she told you?"  Before I could speak he lamented, "Then you already know, Suzie loves me fifth best."  His dealers were smirking as he added, "I'm number friggin' five...she loves her mother, father, weaselly brother and even Arbuckle their ratty chihuahua better than me."  I impatiently looked at my watch as he cowed, "She left me.  After nine years of bliss, my little sweet Suzie flew back to New York this morning."

I was thinking; she wasn't as dense as I thought.  She just waited for some schmuck like me to come around so dickhead wouldn't be alone.  But I said, "She's probably just homesick."  In a clear upbeat tone Hal said, "Forget about that now.  'Cause I hate to do this but...I'm going to have to jack-up your rent to $135.00, plus half the utilities."

Hal was living in a fantasy world.  Had he not been at work, I would have told him where he could shove his apartment, the two real palm trees and the grill "they" use for parties.  He took my hesitation as a bargaining ploy.  He squinted as he took a long drag from his Old Gold and said, "Pal, I know you're short on dough.  How's about I make it an even buck and a quarter...and throw in the first two months electricity...FREE!"  In emphasizing the word; free, his hand toppled the ashtray that was on top of the chip bank.  Hal's head was down as he attended to his mess.  To avoid further confrontation, I was willing to sacrifice the twenty dollars I had coming to me just so I could get back to work.  I threw my key across the table and left.



                                                                                       *



The Spears dominated the first eight pages of my twenty-four page short story, "PETER PARTY."  If you think, "WHY SHE WAS KILLING ME WITH KINDNESS..." was interesting, contact me and I'll let you read the whole shebang.

INSIDE CANARSIE'S GREAT WALL OF NEGATIVITY

On the night of August 12, 1968, before the term "drive-by shooting" became a part of our culture, my community (Canarise, Brooklyn, New York), was throttled by one.

"The Wall," was a huge teenage hang-out, (six short blocks and three long blocks from my house).  This long concrete barrier separated busy Rockaway Parkway (just before the Belt Parkway entrance) and the el-shaped Shoreview Shopping Center's parking lot.

THE SHOREVIEW SHOPPING CENTER OPENED IN THE FALL OF 1963.  BY THE TIME THIS 1971 PHOTO WAS TAKEN, THE NAME HAD BEEN CHANGED TO THE SEAVIEW SHOPPING CENTER.  IN THE FOREGROUND, A CAR TURNS OFF SKIDMORE AVENUE WHERE "THE WALL" BEGINS.  IN THE BACKGROUND, JAMAICA BAY IS CANARSIE'S EASTERN-MOST BOUNDARY.

The wall itself was low enough to easily hop on and the perfect width to sit on.  So on an (SRO) Saturday night, you can imagine what a colossal target of pretty clay pigeons all in a row, these peace-loving, hippie, sitting ducks made...for some gun-wielding asshole.

Two kids were shot.  One was a fifteen-year old girl from two blocks away from my house (same street).  She was hospitalized and survived the serious wound and of course (like everyone in the vicinity) was traumatized. 

Coincidentally, another girl from my immediate street was confused with the shooting victim.  Both girls were the same age and their names (first and last) were both a letter or two away from being the same, (something like Maddie Rosen and Maggie Rogen).  Adding to the oddball circumstances, the last two digits of both girl's house numbers was the same, (something like 1113 and 1313).  Therefore, my neighbor received several (highly unwanted) get well cards.

INCREDIBLY, NEARLY EVERY MEMORY I HAVE OF THAT STRIP MALL IS NEGATIVE. (Above) MY 1976 PHOTO,  OF ROCKAWAY PARKWAY, LOOKING WEST, WAS TAKEN FROM THE ROOF OF THE BAYVIEW HOUSES, (HIGHLIGHTED BY THE WORLD TRADE CENTER,  IN THE EXTREME BACKGROUND).  PLEASE NOTE THAT THE BULK OF THE STORES (FAR LEFT) ARE OFF-CAMERA BUT IN THE FOREGROUND, YOU CAN SEE, "THE WALL."

When I was seven, a year before Shoreview opened, the omen of what was to come appropriately happened on Halloween. At a time when getting two or three pennies instead of candy was the highlight of trick-or-treating, older kids on my street, played off the naivete of my friends and I.  They told us that a bank, (six short blocks and one long block away) was giving trick-or-treaters...money.  These little bastards made their prank more tempting by describing their windfall as a handful of mostly pennies with silver nuggets of nickels and dimes and the occasional gem in the rough, a quarter.

My friends and I wasted a lot of sweet door-to-door panhandling time.  But we justified the marathon march, as sugarplum fairies danced in our mind and helped count our imagined cool, hard, coins of the realm. When we reached nirvana, our fantasy was burst...the bank was closed.

The onion-like layers of our bad situation worsened after trudging home without a cent or even a single "pity-lollipop." That's when our moms went off on us for straying so far without permission.  If that scolding wasn't enough, we were also teased by our adolescent tormentors who sent us on our gallant quest to begin with.

This episode in my life would haunt me the following year when the strip mall opened.  The anchor store Kress (a miniature department store...which in a short time was replaced in name by Star Value City) had several OPENING DAY give-aways...one of which was a live goldfish, in a water-filled baggie.  Unlike being lied to about the bank giving away cash, I could see other kids getting out of their parents cars with their glittering, gilded prize...and I was green with envy.  I was so jealous that I soloed, (two long blocks further), only to find out that they had run out of goldfish.  I was so dejected that I refused the rent-a-clown's balloon animal offer and a Dixie cup full of free popcorn.

When I look back at my Shoreview/Seaview experiences, nothing inside that wall, turned out well.

The mall had a little restaurant, Charcoal Chef.  Even as a ten-year, I knew that the greasy stairway down to the filthy restroom was disgusting.  So maybe I shouldn't have been petrified when the first rat I ever encountered, scurried up from behind and passed me.

Years later, in front of Charcoal Chef, I had a drunken escapade, ( I was fifteen).  The incident went from bad...when a neighbor found me there...to worse when he dragged me home at 2:AM and woke up my folks.  For that full story, check out my blog from January 9, 2012 called, "BABY OTT, MAN OF A THOUSAND NICKNAMES."  

The next storefront was a Carvel franchise.  When I was twelve, an older kid on my block worked there and bragged that he gave free ice cream to his friends...after another long walk over there, I found out the hard way that he didn't consider me a friend.

When I was fourteen, I was hanging out in the Bayview Houses. I temporarily broke away from my friends (11:PM). Despite the drive-by-shooting the summer before, the hordes at "the wall" never diminished.  But to get to my destination, I had to navigate through the sea of older teens to buy a Pepsi.

Inside the bagel store, I was surprised to see that the clerk was "Fat" Marty, (a former teammate from my Junior High's softball team).  This fifteen-year old was working alone and offered my drink for free, if I kept him company.  Then he said it was his neighbor's store and if I stayed till closing, (midnight), I could take home everything I could carry. I thought I was living large but it turned out bad.

Within twenty minutes, while Marty was goofing off, (eating) I worked the cash register (under his supervision) and restocked shelves. It was like he was Tom Sawyer and I was white-washing the fence...I was having a ball.  But WAIT !  Here's a scary thought...in that hour, he showed me the bagel-making process...and I actually took part, in the whole assembly line procedure, (oopsies, I can't swear I washed my hands).

FIRST, I ADDED FLOUR , WATER AND OTHER INGREDIENTS  INTO A LARGE CEMENT-MIXER-LIKE CONTRAPTION. I SET THE TIMER AND LEFT IT UNATTENDED AS THE WHOLE SHEBANG WAS KNEADED INTO  DOUGH.  WHILE THAT BATCH WAS "COOKING," I ROLLED FINISHED DOUGH INTO "SNAKES" AND CONNECTED THE ENDS BEFORE DROPPING THE RAW BAGELS INTO A BOILER.  AFTER SCOOPING OTHERS OUT (above), I ADDED TOPPINGS AND SET THEM INTO THE OVEN TO BAKE. 

Just before I left, an enormous woman with a folding four-wheel shopping cart came in.  She started buying out the store; two dozen bagels, butter, cream cheese, lox spread, doughnuts, potato chips, orange juice and two, six-packs of Fresca. 

WHEN MANY HOUSEHOLDS HAD ONE CAR AND FEW WOMEN WORKED OUTSIDE THE HOME, SHOPPING CARTS LIKE THIS WERE THE MAIN WAY FOR THEM TO GET GROCERIES HOME.

Marty totalled her up and said, "You want that in a bag or you'll eat it here?"  The woman didn't react but I held my hand over my smirk and hustled to the sanctuary of the back room.

When she left, Marty helped me prepare my "pay."  So when the overnight baker banged on the back door to close-up, I took my loot and went out the front.

Our arrangement was so good, I came back the next Saturday night at ten (for a two-hour shift).  On that second night, I would be rewarded again...with a memory that has stayed fresh for forty-five years.  That's when my eyes bugged out of my head because a teenager came in...on horseback...did I just say on horseback...YES!

The stoned rider had to duck down to fit through the door.  I knew the situation was wrong for a million reasons, but I was so flabbergasted, I probably couldn't have thought of one. Once I got over the shock, I laughed as Marty waited on him (them) like a regular customer. 

So if you were nauseated that I made bagels or that a horse was sniffing around all that food...you'll be pleased to know that the board of health closed the store before I worked the following Saturday because a customer discovered a mouse paw in an "everything" bagel. 

The owner was heavily fined after several health code violations were discovered plus he faced civil litigation.  The store closed temporarily but there were too many financial obstacles to overcome, so it never reopened. Come to think of it, I made "everything" bagels that first night...YUCK!  That explains why I shy away from them.

The Abundanza Pizzeria was another thorn in my side.  When my friends and I played roller hockey, (across the street in the barrel park of the Bayview Houses), they frequently went for a post-game slice.  One time, (I was fifteen), I made sure I had enough money to join them in this perceived Utopia. 

At a time when two slices, a medium soda and small lemon ices totaled under a dollar, I felt like an adult as we dined...until the nasty owner ordered us out. We questioned his decision and he said, "You're too loud, you use too many straws, waste garlic salt and littered the floor with torn bits of napkins," (spitball residue).

Due to this misconduct penalty, I bad-rapped his place by telling other friends that we saw cockroaches and waterbugs there, (I probably wasn't lying, that disease-carrying rodent I saw in Charcoal Chef's cellar was only two doors away). 

In 1990 I had a chance at real retribution with the Pizza Nazi. I recognized him in the casino but couldn't place his face.  When he opened his mouth and started talking down to the staff, I guessed right.  But to confirm my suspicions, I asked my supervisor for his name...it was Nunzio Abundanza.  I never thought the pizzeria's name was a family name, I thought it was an Italian word suggesting big portions of food. So once I realized that I had this prick right where I wanted him, I became frustrated because I couldn't figure a way to get even without jeopardizing my job.  So I stifled my need for revenge.

I was seventeen when my neighbor hooked me up with a job interview at the men's clothes store, "THE HOUSE OF JACKS."  I was dressed like a schlump and all the other workers looked sharp.  I couldn't picture myself buying all those duds just to work there, so I walked out.

I have only three distinct recollections from the Seaview Theater and none were good.  First, my friend's older brother, Timmy "Trenchmouth" Monteleone worked the candy counter.  Whether or not he suffered from an actual malady is not important...what is important is, it was completely unappetizing to look at his misshapen lips when my parents bought me Bon-Bons.

BILLED AS THE FIRST NEW MOVIE HOUSE BUILT IN BROOKLYN IN FOURTEEN YEARS, THE SEAVIEW DEBUTED WITH THE DOUBLE FEATURE (above), ON DECEMBER 19, 1963.

My next Seaview Theater incident occurred in 1965, (I was in fifth grade). I walked all the way to the theater to meet SK (a.k.a. Cap'n Krunch).  The film, "DR. TERROR'S HOUSE OF HORRORS," was about to start.  So when he didn't show up, I assumed he was already inside...I was wrong.

THIS IS THE ONLY MOVIE I EVER SAW IN A THEATER...ALONE.  AND AT TEN YEARS OLD, IT WASN'T SUCH A GOOD IDEA.  PRETTY SILLY STUFF BY TODAY'S STANDARDS,  BUT THE CREEPING HAND, LEFT AN INDELIBLE MARK ON MY PSYCHE.

Another movie I saw at the Seaview was 1977's, "STAR WARS."  What could I possibly say against this four-star, smash hit...NOTHING!  But when we left the theater, our smiles of fulfillment vanished as the sirens of zooming police cars, ambulances and fire trucks left a dust trail, as they headed toward Canarsie Pier.  An usher stepped into the crowd and cried out, "Some kid fell into the bay!"  Like the Oklahoma land rush, everyone from the theater ran to their cars and sped two blocks away, to the scene.  We were just getting out of the car when we heard that they dredged the water and recovered the corpse.

My last memory of the Seaview Shopping Center happened in March 1978, at Off-Track Betting (OTB). If you've never had the displeasure of going into one of these horse betting parlors then you missed seeing the dregs, that the dregs of society complain about...in an environment that smells worse than a New York City subway alcove.

OFF-TRACK BETTING WAS A LEGAL FORM OF HORSE RACE GAMBLING IN NYC FROM 1970-2010.  AT THE HEIGHT OF ITS POPULARITY THERE WERE OVER 200 OTB's SCATTERED THROUGH THE FIVE BOROUGHS.

On August 19, 2009, I wrote this story as a separate blog called, "POWER JUDGE IN THE FOURTH AT AQUEDUCT."  In order for you to get the full impact of that experience's negativity, which involved my friends and I being threatened with police intervention, you're going to have to read the whole story.  Just go to the archives on the right hand side of the MGTP cover page.  It's easy, just click on 2009, then August and scroll down to the date or find the title.

It's been about thirty-five years since I broke my cycle of tumult with the Shoreview/Seaview Shopping Center...because I stopped going there.  The mom and pop stores couldn't compete with the malls, the giant club stores and Internet shopping...so the last time I drove by (three years ago), only a handful of stout-hearted businesses remain. 

(photo credit to SHELLYBASEBALLKING) "THE WALL" TODAY, IN THE SPOT WHERE THE TWO YOUTHS WERE SHOT.  THE CVS IS WHERE THE THEATER WAS, THE CONVENIENCE STORE WAS WHERE THE PIZZERIA WAS AND HIDDEN BY THE TREE WAS WHERE CARVEL AND CHARCOAL CHEF WERE.

I wasn't tempted to stop in, even for the sake of nostalgia because every brick in Canarsie's Great Wall of Negativity was still intact.

EIGHT-OH-EIGHT

BOB.  When I was growing up, the name BOB was not only common but plain too.  Naturally, when I was a craps dealer at Hotel Fremont, (September 1979-March 1980), it wasn't unusual to have supervisors named BOB.  But one particular BOB, BOB Honiker was a complete zero.  So much so that calling him common or plain would have been a compliment.

DECEMBER - 1979. YES THE FREMONT HAD SHRIMP-COLORED DEALER SHIRTS BUT AFTER GROSSING $150.00/WEEK AT THE SLOTS-A-FUN CASINO, $185.00 AT THE WESTERN AND $215.00 AT THE HOLIDAY INTERNATIONAL, THE COLOR OF MY SHIRT WAS THE LAST THING ON MY MIND.

A pimple on the ass of mankind, BOB's lack of looks, personality and intelligence, contributed to making him a friendless bachelor. What made BOB stand out among ordinary losers, was that he was a hater too.  Fortunately, because he was such a milquetoast, he rarely had the confidence to speak up while he put down people he considered inferior.

Whether BOB (around forty) was a member of a white supremacist group or not, I do not know.  But I'm positive that this Aryan's short, skinny and bald body was NOT the prototype for the master race. 

The little hair that this nebbish had, (reddish blond with flecks of gray) was always crew-cut length.  His black, horn-rimmed glasses were out-of-style and he had crooked, yellow, baby-sized teeth.  Plus, BOB's goofy appearance was highlighted by a brownish, chipped, front tooth.  To make matters worse, he was also cheap.  So whenever the idea of fixing his teeth and getting braces was mentioned, he said it was too expensive, (ironically, the Fremont's dental insurance covered such work so all that was really stopping him was...vanity).

At work, BOB alternated between a slate-colored, western-cut business suit and a puke-green leisure suit.  He augmented his ensembles with a string tie and two-tone (brown-on-brown) cowboy boots.  The boots looked plastic but he swore they were rattlesnake hides.

BOB's glasses made him look like a bookworm but he was incompetent at his boxman job and generally dopey, (a boxman is the immediate supervisor who sits between the dealers and regulates a craps game). 

BOB's countrified accent and (poorly timed) rural witticisms made him came off like a Southerner but he was actually from Pocatello Idaho. So in the rare instance that he caught a dealer error, he was likely to crack; this here boy has more moves than a can of worms or; son,  you look busier than a one-legged man at an ass kicking contest.

The Fremont was a better than average downtown casino.  Which meant in the overall Las Vegas scheme of things...it was a toilet. 

IN MY DAY, THE FREMONT, (MINNIE PEARL ON MARQUEE), BINION'S HORSESHOE AND GOLDEN NUGGET WERE THE ONLY THREE DOWNTOWN CLUBS THAT A CRAPS DEALER HAD A CHANCE TO CONSISTENTLY GROSS $275.00 A WEEK.

Downtown casinos attracted raucous, redneck customers, so occasionally, BOB was in his element.  Most employees knew the Fremont was a dump and dreamed of working the famous resort casinos on the strip.  But BOB made it known that he was happy to stay there, (the Fremont and Stardust were owned by the same group.  The major league Stardust funneled all its new hires from the Fremont...as if it were their minor league affiliate).

My coworkers were annoyed when BOB aligned himself with classless drunks especially when he joined them in ethnic slurs or teasing weaker individuals, like gays, senior citizens, the handicapped or hobos (especially bag ladies).  Therefore, the staff felt justified to "jackpot" BOB, by antagonizing him into making politically incorrect statements that might get him fired.  The strongest I ever got was calling him BOB Chanukah, (the Jewish festival of lights) but he wasn't bright enough to see the similar sound of Honiker and the holiday. 

A dealer on my crew who outwardly tangled with BOB was JB.  Moralistic BOB frequently referred to himself as a "good Christian" so he had no qualms about criticizing JB for stepping out on his wife.  Once, these two knuckleheads were at each other's throat after JB went into intricate details of his sexual escapades with a player, the night before. 

The next day, JB bragged about his second all-night session with her.  JB said that this school teacher from a small town in western Canada had tuckered him out, (I guess she was way ahead of her time and the phrase; what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas). Later JB lamented to me that he hoped that she wouldn't show up again after work...but an hour before we got off, she did.

The woman (35-ish) was a blond, Plain Jane.  She was wearing a short, summery cotton dress that exposed her ample cleavage.  When JB refused her latest proposition, she got upset.  JB pointed to a different dealer going on break and said, "Take him."  To make JB jealous, she accepted.  This dealer had a buddy in valet parking and took her there.

Then in some poor schnook's car, she "took care of him."   And then she took care of a couple of other car jockeys as payment for their hospitality and facilities.  When that other dealer returned to the craps pit, he spread the word of Plain Jane's talented exploits.

When Jane returned to our craps game, BOB was still our boxman.  In a sexy combination of moaning and whining, she let JB (and everyone else) know how badly she wanted him.  He did his best to ignore her as the action of our craps game heated up.  Soon the dice were hotter than she was as the table became flooded by golden, twenty-five cent chips and white dollars. A second boxman (an old-timer named Kelly) was brought over to split this voluminous but petty responsibility. 

To lure JB into a third night of debauchery, Jane sat on a slot machine stool behind his players.  When the customers separated, she parted her legs to fully expose herself to him.  JB, the ultimate parasite, wasn't turned on, he was embarrassed.  "Tony the Pirate" our pit boss heard the valet parking gossip.  So, to check Jane out, under the guise of further overseeing the wild game, he stood between the two boxmen. 

Soon, Jane opened her legs for JB and Tony got an eyeful.  He called out to her, "Hey honey, I hear you suck!"  She stood up from the stool and blasted, "What did you say?"  Our pit boss adjusted the sleeve of his cranberry, pin-striped suit and said in a lower tone, "I hear you're stuck, you want a meal ticket?"  She pried her way between two players and shouted, "I heard what you said...and I do suck, I'll suck all you..."  The pit boss patted the shoulder of seventy-year old Kelly and jibed, "How about my father?" She said, "Yeah! I'd do him" When the old timer said, "No Tony, please no..."  The boss pointed at BOB and said, "How about my son?"  Just as she said, "Yup," BOB was getting relieved.  When he got into the aisle, she grabbed his butt and led him towards valet parking.

I guess as a good Christian, BOB didn't see the hypocrisy in using Jane because the next day and for the next few months, (ala JB) he managed to squeeze into every conversation, "That Canuck could suck the porcelain off a urinal...hell, if she wasn't Catholic, I would have married the bitch." 

Around that time (March 1980), Tony took me aside and solicited a bribe, "Hey kid, you wanna get transferred to the Stardust?"  In addition to the prestige of working on the strip, the Stardust would quadruple my tip income.  I said, "Definitely!"  Tony added his signature statement, "My '69 maroon Riviera is parked next to the time office. I'll crack my window open...just enough to slide in an envelope...then we'll see how much you want to go."

In the next ten minutes, I ran to the hotel's front desk to get an envelope, stopped at the cashier where I converted chump change into a fifty-dollar bill and hustled outside, through the time office. Apparently, I wanted the promotion enough.  The next day someone from Fremont personnel called me and said my transfer papers were ready to be picked up and brought to the Stardust.

MARCH - 1980.  I WAS SO PROUD TO WORK THERE,  I WORE MY STARDUST SHIRT LIKE A TROPHY.

 IF THE STARDUST MADE US WEAR CIRCUS, CIRCUS CLOWN SHIRTS LIKE THEY DID IN 1969, I KNOW I WOULD'VE BEEN PROUD TO DO SO.

I had done the nearly impossible, I was about to start dealing on the fabulous Las Vegas strip at twenty-four, with a mere thirteen months experience and no connections. 

THE STARDUST (1958-2006) WAS AN OUTER SPACE-THEMED CASINO.  MORE THAN THE BIG BUCKS AND STATUS, I FEEL THAT I SHED MY CHILDHOOD AND BECAME A MAN, IN MY TWO YEARS THERE.

Tony earned his "Pirate" nickname by being the epitome of a conflict of interest.  Unlike any pit boss I ever worked for, he demanded a layoff (a cut) when a four-man craps crew scored a big tip day. He even used his position to blackmail us into making charitable civic and church contributions to him, (so he could donate a large sum, in his name).  He once "encouraged" my crew to buy seventeen boxes of his three daughter's Girl Scout cookies...as well as other random amounts to the rest of his dealers.  He was so cutthroat that by the time he got to the subject of transfers to the Stardust, he probably would have taken any one's money.

The idea that Tony would take graft from anyone was proven a month later when BOB Honiker was promoted to the Stardust.  Somebody must have explained to BOB that a twelve-dollar a day pay raise might not sound like much but it was 15%...which translates to three grand a year. 

The first time I saw BOB in a Stardust powder blue, boxman's uniform (sports jacket), he was already in an argument with a female dealer for calling women; a minority group.  Unfortunately for BOB, the new job attracted a more sophisticated clientele as well as, a more savvy veteran staff.  Almost immediately, he was correctly labeled as a jack-off (on the east coast, we say jerk-off) and a lump, (an inadequate bungler).

In addition to his inability to keep up with the faster paced Stardust, every time BOB thought out loud, he pissed someone off as he put himself on a collision course with getting fired...or worse.

BOB's openly negative attitude towards black and Hispanic dealers spotlighted his ignorance.  But he didn't stop there.  BOB insulted nearly everyone and became a universally marked man by referring to all Asians as "Japs," purposely littering in front of the American Indian porters (sweepers) and calling the Holocaust, "an exaggeration dreamed-up by the Jew-controlled media."  He was so offensive that our flower-child, employee waiter (the ultimate pacifist) challenged him to a fight when BOB joked, "You know the only difference between a hippie and a Commie?...A hippie moves the dirty dishes before he pees in the sink."

BOB was so buried, I doubt he noticed that few people spoke to him, nobody invited him out for drinks and the craps crews didn't include him in their layoff rotation.

Shockingly, BOB was still there four months later when the Stardust generated a strange memo.  It required all dealer shirts and supervisor jackets be embroidered with the employee's first name, in cursive lettering with navy, cable-knit thread.  The notice also mandated that all the sewing work was to be done at the Andiamo Dry Cleaners, on Industrial Road...at the cost of four-dollars per garment.  In bold letters, the last line specified a one month window of opportunity for total compliance or risk termination.

DID YOU NOTICE THE NAVY, CABLE-KNIT THREAD SPELLING MY NAME IN CURSIVE LETTERING?  NOW THEY'LL BELIEVE ME WHEN I TELL MY SON'S FRIENDS THAT I HAVE SHIRTS OLDER THAN THEM...JEEZ, THIS ONE MIGHT BE OLDER THAN SOME OF THEIR PARENTS.  BUT THE JOKE WAS ON ME, BECAUSE THIS BABY MUST HAVE SHRUNK!  WHEN I TRIED...TO TRY IT ON...IT WAS TOO SMALL.  OF COURSE IF I FORCED THE ISSUE, I COULD USE IT AS A TANK TOP.

This embroidery conspiracy could only be called extortion.  A conservative estimate of a hundred-fifty dealers (times four shirts), plus forty supervisors, (two sports jackets each), at four bucks a pop, netted some close friend of management, a quick twenty-eight hundred dollars.

OOPS!  JUST IN CASE YOU DID THE MATH, I DOUBT ANY OF ANDREW'S FRIENDS HAVE PARENTS YOUNGER THAN MY THIRTY-THREE YEAR OLD STARDUST SHIRT...BUT TO BE TRUE TO MY STATEMENT, I DO HAVE OTHER SHIRTS THAT SHOULD BE OLDER THAN SOME OF THEM...THE MIDDLE ONE (above) IS 43 YEARS OLD.  THE ONE ON THE LEFT IS 42 AND THE OTHER, IS 41.  

Despite some mild protests from the Stardust's front line casino staff, within two weeks, the embroidered names started to appear.  When the deadline passed, everyone I knew had cooperated except BOB.  He maintained his frugality by hand-sewing his own block-lettered name, in thin red thread.  The three capital letters B-O-B stood-out because they were rounded and improperly measured.  So the whole mess ran downhill and it looked like his name was the number, 8-0-8.

After the first week, that idiot BOB seemed to be getting away with murder.  Which reminds me that I had gone through Stardust orientation with a fellow Fremont dealer who called himself,  "Eric the Great."    Eric (like BOB) didn't get with the program.  I wrote a short story called, "RIDEOUT, WHITE-OUT AND RIGHT OUT," that described what happened to poor Eric after just one Stardust shift.

BOB was soon abandoned by his few allies.  So people didn't feel like they were ratting out a comrade when they complained that the embroidery memo stated that non-compliance...particularly BOB... should result in termination.  Yet weeks passed and "8-0-8" as he was exclusively called, kept his job.

In my Stardust years, I was unaware (we all were unaware) that the place was run by men with ties to the Chicago mob.  Years later when the movie, "CASINO," came out, (it was based on the Stardust) it was surprising to learn the scope of their illegal activities.  So that might explain how 8-0-8 slipped through the cracks from wiseguys stealing millions.

8-0-8 maintained his lucky streak until the casino manager came out of the lavish baccarat salon long enough to make a token appearance in the craps pit.  When he noticed 8-0-8's name emblazoned in an amateurish way, he politely asked the moron, "What happened to your embroidery?"  8-0-8 scoffed, "Did this my self."  The boss of bosses fumed, "What?"  8-0-8 added, "Shucks, you 'I-Ties' are more hard-up for money than Jews."

The boss calmly walked away.  Several minutes later, a posse of gun-toting uniformed guards, led 8-0-8 to seldom used door behind the security podium...where they took the hard-cases. 

DON'T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU SEE IN THE MOVIES BUT IN "CASINO" THEY MADE A STRONG POINT AT HOW BIG THE DESERT IS AND HOW EASILY THINGS CAN GET LOST...FOREVER OUT THERE.

Over the next three years that I lived in Las Vegas, I never saw BOB Honiker (a.k.a. 8-0-8) again...and to my knowledge, neither did anyone else.  If it's any consolation to him, he wound up being unique after all by being the only guy named 8-0-8, I ever met.  And for his sake, I hope he's somehow alive, well and reading this back up in Pocatello.