MULTIPLE MOOKS

This anecdote is an excerpt from my short story, "SANCTUARY OF THE LUNATIC FRINGE."

Eleven years before the movie, "SILENCE OF THE LAMBS" debuted, I met a man in Las Vegas named Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian.  Because his name is similar to a minor character from the movie, every time I see or think about it, Mooks comes to mind.

IN "SILENCE OF THE LAMBS," I. J. "MULTIPLE" MIGGS WAS A PATIENT AT THE BALTIMORE STATE HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE.  HE OCCUPIED THE CELL NEXT TO HANNIBAL LECTER.

Luckily, Mooks didn't have intense emotional amd mental problems that caused Miggs to be a homicidal maniac.  Instead,  Mooks was dopey but like an onion, every time you peeled away a personality layer, you discovered another fine quality.

I met Mooks in May 1979.  At first, I only knew him as Mike.

Before my friend Ciro the Hero became Ciro the Zero, he and I dealt craps (on different shifts) at the worst casino job in Vegas, SLOTS-A-FUN.  When I finally emancipated myself to a better place, (the Western Casino), Ciro became motivated to improve himself and landed a job at the Holiday International.  To celebrate stepping (narrowly) over the poverty line, we went to the bowling alley bar of the Showboat Casino.  Whatever female companionship he was expecting to find there didn't materialize.  On the way out, we bumped into two craps dealers from his new job.

Bobby and Mike (Mooks) were on a double-date so I didn't want to intrude but they were so welcoming that we hung out. Bobby and his fiance were about my age (23) and earthy so I gravitated to them.  Mike was friendly too but in more subdued manner.  He was eight years older, seemed forty and came off as unpolished. He proved it by interrupting Bobby, "I used to be a bouncer at a topless joint in Niagara, (New York)."  Ciro said, "That's gotta be a great job!"  Mike's face went limp, "I don't want to talk about it."

When Mike looked away, I noticed his thick five o'clock shadow couldn't hide his heavily scarred face.  When he had trouble getting his fingers in the ball, I focused on his hairy, mangled hands and was reminded of NFL Hall-of-Famer Chuck Bednarik...whose fingers were twisted as a result of dirty tactics against him during his career, (1949-1962).

HARD-HITTING CHUCK "CEMENT CHARLIE" BEDNARIK, (1925-PRESENT) WAS THE LAST NFLer TO PLAY FULL-TIME  DEFENSE (LINEBACKER) AND OFFENSE (CENTER).  A MEMBER OF THE PHILADELPHIA EAGLES WORLD CHAMPION TEAM IN 1960, HE IS BEST REMEMBERED FOR HIS CLEAN HIT THAT KNOCKED FRANK GIFFORD OUT OF FOOTBALL FOR A YEAR AND A HALF AND SHORTENED HIS CAREER.

Ciro and I later found out from Bobby that Mike's broken, fingers, knuckles and hands were grim reminders of transgressions to the underworld.  Bobby said of Mike, "He got in so deep in debt to those bloodsuckers that he didn't owe them...they owned him!"

We also found out that Mike's gorgeous but silent wife Maria was an illegal refugee from Estonia.  This blond bombshell apparently spoke little English but I never heard her voice that night, (ever).  And because she never bowled, clung to Mike and balled-up into a fetal position when left alone, it was obvious that something wasn't right.  Even on our way out, Maria didn't acknowledge Ciro or me or give us eye-contact.  When I did sneak a peek at her, I saw her deadened eyes and figured she was sick.

A week later I called Ciro and asked how the new job at the Holiday International was.  Later, I asked about Bobby and Mike.  Ciro said, "Bobby is cool but they made Mooks a pit boss and sent him to grave."  "I said, "Mooks?"  He said, "Oh yeah Mike's name is Mamoukian, he's Armenian."  I was thinking; that explains the uni-brow as I said, "Did you say pit boss?"

On Ciro's suggestion I went to the Holiday, took a craps audition and was hired on swing shift.  Before leaving Bobby spent his break with me. I asked about Mooks.  He said, "Mooks couldn't add two and two.  And his hands are so screwed up, he can't barely hold the chips.  Then on the rare occasion that he knows a payoff, he makes a messy adventure out of the simplest shit.  Now we know he's not a heavy thinker...but I guess the big shots see he's such a great guy with a warm heart.  So they told him that his future was in management.  To start, pit bosses get eighty a day."  I mused, "That's like a million a year."

We were walking back to the craps pit when I asked, "What's the story with his wife?"  "Mooks made it sound like he rescued her from the mob.  The wiseguys took money from her family in the old country, smuggled her into America and got her hooked on heroine.  They made her into like a slave or something? And to survive, she danced nude and turned tricks."  I said, "Geez."  "So Mooks has a soft spot for her.  So to save her and himself, they split in the middle of the night. He's convinced they want her back and him dead."  I couldn't believe my ears.  Bobby continued, "Sometimes I think I'm a moron to be seen around him, in case whoever is after him has bad aim."  I murmured, "Wow." "If that's all true, it won't be too hard to track him down...he tempts fate all the time...remember in the bowling alley how yelled out his was a bouncer from Niagara...well one time at work he told a customer from Toronto that they were like neighbors because he lived a mile from the Canadian border in western New York. Even though Einstein took the low-profile precaution of not listing his phone number, the dummy didn't change his name...or nickname...and we all know there aren't many Mamoukian's running around."

Bobby's game was standing dead so while he was on duty, he was able to whisper more info, "Maria never leaves the apartment without him.  She can't read English or understand the shit on TV.  Luckily he found a starving kitten drinking Jacuzzi water and brought it home.  So together with the hairball, a radio and Mooks , Maria copes with pain and loneliness of going cold turkey.

Mooks took to being a big boss well.  He ate like a king and loved the respect and rock star status of the position. On the graveyard shift there was little activity except when his under bosses handed him papers to sign.  It seemed natural that during the wee hours that cleaning and other odd jobs were done.  He felt important to meticulously sign for casino access authorization for the floor waxing unit, initialing the exterminator invoice or a memo concerning new dealer aprons.

By the third day, he was scribbling his name because he was bombarded with similar trivialities.  But Mooks wasn't sharp enough to realize that a fill of casino chips, to replenish a craps table's bank would arrive when he was doing other things.  On one occasion, his under boss said, "I see you're busy," as Mooks tried to decipher an intentionally obtuse memo about the over head light bulbs.  Then the under boss generously said, "Just sign here and I'll put the money on the table for you."

He wasn't there a full two weeks when another fill came as he was signing his meal ticket, struggling to fill out the master attendance sheets and filling out a D. A. N. (Disciplinary Action Form) for a boxman who fell asleep on his break.  His under boss extended the clip board with fill slip on it and said, "You take care of the important business, just put your John Hancock here and I'll take care of this nonsense."

At 5:00AM, Mooks was in the coffee shop basking in the sweet life.  While inhaling a broiled veal chop, a double order of cottage fires and a squash medley, he decided to create his own memo to allow dealers to sit during lulls in the action. Suddenly a hippie-ish craps dealer with marginally long hair approached and said, "Gotta minute?"  Mooks had always been indifferent towards this fellow so to avoid having his dinner disrupted, he tried to give the kid the bum's rush.  Instead, the dealer plopped into the booth next to Mooks and whispered, "I might be wrong because I'm reading everything upside down..."  Mooks looked away and called to the waitress, "More onion rolls."

Mooks acted surprised that the dealer was still there and said, "So?"  In a lower tone the kid said, "Today was the third time..."  He hesitated, looked cautiously around and added, "Today was the third time that a fill came for the wrong amount...a lesser amount."  Something clicked in Mooks' mind and he said, "So, in other words..."  The kid's voice was barely audible as he peeped, "Each of the last three days, a fill was short five hundred dollars...in nickels."

Mooks ripped the napkin that he had childishly stuffed into his shirt and over his tie.  He marched into the shift boss' office and without comprehending the implication or scope of his accusation, he explained his discovery of the chip theft ring. 

The shift boss arched his right eye brow as he thought; this imbecile is smarter than he looks. After Mooks disclosed his source, he was accused of being a co-conspirator and was fired.  Mooks was shocked.  He tried to defend himself but was repeatedly cut-off.  While the shift boss was mulling how he, the floor person and cage manager were going to recruit another stooge for their money siphoning operation he said, "I am sincerely disappointed.  Such a fine young man on the outside...if I didn't like you so well, I'd call the police and you'd serve time.  And when you got out, you'd be black balled in every casino in the goddamned state.  Now get the hell out of my sight.  Or I'll have security throw your sorry ass out into the street!"

Mooks was out of work for months. He was such an awful craps dealer that he couldn't pass an audition.  He also made the mistake of including his stint as a pit boss on applications.  That strategy backfired because potential employers didn't want a jaded employee who might want their job or it resulted  in a barrage of management questions that Mooks couldn't handle.

The Mamoukian's had their backs to the wall.  Maria was physically, intellectually and emotionally unemployable so Mooks' meager life savings evaporated quickly.  He feared betrayal from family and friends back home so he stubbornly sought to save himself.

On the same day that Bobby offered to take the Mamoukian's in, Mooks got hired at the Lady Luck Casino as a less intellectually challenging blackjack dealer.

BACK IN THE DAY, THE LADY LUCK WAS ON PAR WITH SLOTS-A-FUN AS THE WORST TOILET TO WORK IN.  THE DIFFERENCE WAS, WHEN I WAS GROSSING $150.00/WEEK IN MY SLICE OF HELL, I WASN'T WEIGHED DOWN BY THE ADDED EXPENSE OF A DETOXING ADDICT...AND A CAT.

Bobby got married and moved back home in the summer of 1979.  For Ciro and me, Bobby was our only source for gossip and neither of us ever saw or heard about the Mamoukian's after that.

ONE PENGUIN IN A FLOCK OF SEAGULLS

One of my mentors at the Stardust Casino (1980-1982), referred to our craps clientele as a flock of seagulls.  He also said, if you keep looking, with patience and hard work, you can sift through those ordinary birds and a find a penguin.  He meant, most players just take up space...some can be parasites.  But the occasional penguin is a pleasure to have around and fun to look at, even if they don't give you anything.  Down through the years, I've come to realize that the statement is true for life in general.  So in honor of Father's Day, I present to you, a seagull-like father.

NOISY MOBS OF SEAGULLS ARE ASSOCIATED WITH SCAVENGING THE SHORELINE AND GREEDILY STEALING FOOD FROM EACH OTHER.  MY SCANT KNOWLEDGE OF THEM IS NEGATIVE AND ALFRED HITCHCOCK ENHANCED MY BELIEF BY MAKING GULLS THE KEY MENACE IN THE MOVIE, "THE BIRDS."

Mixed into the masses, there are also penguins. They aren't the least bit threatening and do not fear humans.  Although awkward on land, these flightless birds are expert swimmers.  Perhaps due to their tuxedo-like plummage, these adorable denizens of the Southern Hemisphere are portrayed as "cool," playful and uninhibitited.  Unlike seagulls, sports teams have embraced the name penguins and some countries include their image on paper money.

"CHILLY WILLY" TYPIFIES THE POSITIVE STEREOTYPE OF PENGUINS.  THIS CUTE, GOOD GUY IS MOST KNOW FOR HIS DESIRE TO STAY WARM AND EATING PANCAKES.  HE WAS FEATURED IN THEATRICAL SHORTS STARTING IN 1953.  HOWEVER, CHILLY IS BETTER KNOW AS THE OTHER CARTOON ON THE, "WOODY THE WOODPECKER SHOW." 

In 1993, in the early stages of my wife's pregnancy, I was walking down the hall at work and mistook a penguin for a seagull.  I saw (and heard) an Hispanic blackjack dealer ranting, in Spanish, into a pay phone. But despite my curiosity, my limited knowledge of his language, (even when spoken slowly) prevented my eavesdropping from gaining any juicy insights.  Then seconds before he slammed the receiver down, his monolingual rage produced one word in English...Bar-r-r-ney. 

Behind me he spotted a friend and whined in English, "My wife is driving her sister to Newark Airport tomorrow and now I'm stuck watching the kids...and that means I'll be watching Bar-r-r-ney all damn day!"  His tone, coupled with my own heightened sense of impending fatherhood, caused me to be alarmed.

"BARNEY THE PURPLE DINOSAUR" TV SHOW, ENJOYED A RUN ON PBS FROM 1992-2009.  AIMED AT AN EIGHT-YEAR OLD AND YOUNGER AUDIENCE, THE SHOW TEACHES EDUCATIONAL MESSAGES WITH SONGS, DANCE AND SKITS, IN A FRIENDLY, OPTIMISTIC WAY.  HOWEVER, IN 2002 TV GUIDE INCLUDED BARNEY ON A, "FIFTY ALL-TIME WORST SHOW," LIST.  PART OF THE CRITICISM WAS, BARNEY DOESN'T HELP KIDS LEARN TO DEAL WITH NEGATIVE FEELINGS OR EMOTIONS.  THE SHOW TEACHES DENIAL...THE REFUSAL TO RECOGNIZE THE EXISTANCE OF UNPLEASANT REALITIES.  SO ALONG WITH THE GIGGLES AND UNCONDITIONAL LOVE, THE SHOW OFFERS A ONE-DIMENSIONAL WORLD WHERE EVERYONE MUST BE HAPPY AND EVERYTHING MUST BE RESOLVED RIGHT AWAY. 

My Panamanian coworker's hissy-fit relugated him to seagull status for some time.  When my son became old enough, I learned from Barney's inane blitherings that this non-seagull was correct to feel threatened.  My mindset shift was proven accurate when I saw this Latino penguin interact with his adoring kids. 

Luckily, I'm surrounded by dedicated dads.  But that doesn't mean that in the greater scheme of things that a far bigger number of misfits, dead-beats and losers are running around. 

My son was about three when we visited Penelope, my wife Sue's pregnant girlfriend.  This Penelope was no common penny.  She was a nice looking girl, bright, funny and had an energized lust for life.  Incredibly, she had trouble finding Mr. Right and met her husband with the help of a dating service, (these days, I have no qualms about meeting people this way.  But back then I wasn't savvy to the obstacles that mature singles have...primarily, the lack of time to cultivate a pool of candidates).  When I met Penelope's husband, (Charley Gill), my first impression was, she could have done better.

When I met  Gill, he was a high school wood shop teacher, in the throes of applying for an assistant principal license.  This exceedingly dull man was the protoytpe seagull.  Whatever psychological mastery he possessed to battle students in an elective like shop class, he thought would translate over an entire school full of teenage angst.  But he had poor people skills.  He made this clear by the way he treated me and his lack of patience or diplomacy for my toddler.   Gill's attitude sent up a red flag several times especially when he repeated the phrase, "My way or the highway."  His scare tactics created tension with my innocent son which meant on a grander scale, he would be ill-equipped to handle real life problems of bratty high schoolers...and far worse, be a productive father.

In the Gill's unchild-proofed apartment, Penelope was gracious and like a true penguin, gave Andrew carte blanche to wander around.  However, Gill followed my son and harshly criticized him (me) whenever hands got too close to one of his valued possessions, (he went especially ape-shit when my boy neared his audio equipment or the wooden model cars he made from scratch).

During my one-on-one time with Gill, I knew he wasn't friend material.  Even when relaxed, he tended to talk at me, not to me, in a condescending tone.  Maybe that works with unruly students?

In an attempt to be social, he pointed to his framed lithograph of Marilyn Monroe, "Did you know she had six toes?"  I'm a store-house of useless information and figured that if I didn't know something like six toes on Marilyn Monroe...it wasn't true.  I said, "No way!"  Gill yanked at my arm to get my full attention and said, "In her early photos, you can see it. When she became famous she had it amputated."  I said, "Don't pull on me."  He said, "But Marilyn..."  I said, "I don't really care...but never grab me."

The girls made lunch and while we were all together, Gill went through a list of items, like Heinz ketchup that were so perfect in his inflexible world that any variance would be useless.  During this rant, Penelope was grinning behind his back.  This lack of respect epitomized that pregnant or not, there was no lovey-dovey chemistry between them. 

When the conversation shifted to his iminent fatherhood, the douche tried to change the subject. When Penelope persisted, Gill shifted gears and took charge.  His arms were waving as he raged on about his projected vision on how things were going to be after the baby arrived. Penelope rolled her eyes and smirked as he plowed on. Even when she pleasantly voiced a contradictory opinion, he rigidly said; no.

Her tact was interesting because she didn't debate the issue, disagree or fight because she didn't take him seriously.  I looked at my wife and we silently agreed, that poor unborn kid. The negative vibe made me think, it must have taken a gallon and a half of lubricant to get his square peg into her round hole...and that neither one of them are willing to go through all that rigamorale very often.

Gill was so insecure that out of embarrassment when he realized that Penelope was nodding like a robot waiting for his speech to end, without excusing himself, he hid in his man-cave for thirty minutes.

Penelope was a secondary friend of my wife so two years went by before we hung out again.  The Gill's were vacationing at a hotel in Cape May and we drove down to spend a day.  Andrew, Sue and I went into their second floor room and were surprised that they didn't bring their baby son.  Gill eyed my son like a hawk until the commercial on TV was over before saying, "Our kid doesn't do well on long car rides." Then he plopped onto the edge of the bed and resumed watching an old "BOWERY BOYS" movie.

Gill without facing me said, "Later, there's a baseball game coming on."  I said, "Oh."  He said, "Remember last year, wasn't it bullshit that they gave the MVP to Sammy Sosa? Mark McGwire clearly deserved it."  I made some points to support Sosa's case and Gill exploded about the Dominican slugger not even being an American...so I walked out.

The girls, shaded from the ninety degree swelter by the third floor over-hang were talking about motherhood.  I mentioned that Gill wanted to watch TV all day. Sue was concerned that in a sea of adults, that our little guy wouldn't be entertained.  So she encouraged Penelope to go down to the pool.  Her response was, "Gill won't budge.  He came here to unwind and he's perfectly happy to stay in the room."  Sue said, "You're kidding?  He's gonna sit in there the whole six days?"  "No, we go for a walk every morning after going to Uncle Bill's and after dinner we..."  "Wait, wait, wait," Sue interrupted, "who's Uncle Bill?"  "Oh, Uncle Bill's is a friggin' pancake house.  Gill thinks he's in the goddamned Taj Mahal and won't eat breakfast anywhere else...and all he orders is chocolate chip pancakes...like it's only place on earth you can get them."  In harmony Sue and I said, "Wow."  Penelope added, "Then the fat bastard refuses to eat lunch so he can pack it in, at a dinner buffet."  If I knew then what I know now, I'd say all those pancakes point to being a Chilly Willy (penguin) wannabe.

Sue said, "Instead of the pool, let's make a picnic and go to the beach."  Penelope said, "Hell yeah, I'll go.  Steve why don't you break the news to whats-his-name." 

Gill was not receptive to walking all the way across the street, to the ocean.  I shrugged, "You come all the way to Timbuktu and you don't care to see how the natives live?"  Gill actually stood up and said, "Natives schnatives!"  Then he grabbed my arm and said, "But did you know Timbuktu is a real place?"  I said, "No.  But it really annoys me when you grab me."  He let go and said, "Try to guess in what present day country Timbuktu is in...Malta, the Maldive Islands, Mali, Malayasia or Malawi?"  I ignored him and said, "C'mon, live a little, you'll be surprised just how much fun, fun can be."  He said, "We don't have..."  "Sue and I brought everything we need, blankets, sun screen...whatever.  Then when we buy picnic stuff and fill in the blanks if we missed anything."  Gill said, "Picnic stuff?"  I said, "Yeah, you can get anything you like."

On the way to the Wawa convenience store Penelope took me aside, "You're wasting time as a casino dealer, you should work at the U. N. as a diplomat."  She smiled when I laughed, "I think Gill really liked the idea of getting ANYTHING he wanted."

We bought-out the store and could have used a camel to schlep all our crap to the beach . Along the way, Gill swatted at a low flying gull and croaked, "Did you know that seagulls are garbage pickers and spread disease?  They're like flying rats." The only thing that stopped him from yammering on, was to rent an umbrella.

They say;  it takes one, to know one.  Gill, the seagull-like slug, parked himself underneath his umbrella as the other four of us splashed like penguins in the surf.

Later, we found Gill passed-out and snoring.  He had finished his extra-large sub, a whole pound of cole slaw and three cokes.  Penelope wasn't ashamed of him...she just joked, "Jolly Cholly would have eaten all the macaroni salad too, but to him, pasta wasn't invented to put mayonnaise on."

A nearby radio was blasting disco music and Andrew was moved to "dancing" and running around our little oasis.  Penelope with her sandwich in hand got up and joined him.  The two of them were having silly fun when he slipped and fell.  A small amount of sand got kicked onto Gill's feet.  He woke up and growled, "Be more careful!"  The great mood was broken and Penelope exploded into a vicious tirade.  In stressing how much of a drag he was, she pointed her turkey sub at him.  Suddenly, a seagull swooped down and stole a chunk of her lunch.  In doing so, her ring finger got nipped.

The dirty bird broke Penelope's skin.  One droplet of blood oozed out as she screamed, "I'm bleeding!"  Gill leaned closer and snarled, "Get over it."  "Get over it?" Penelope huffed. "A minute ago you said seagulls spread diseases."  He exploded, What are you, fuckin' twelve?"  After a volley of loud shut-ups  Penelope hissed, "When I stop grocery shopping and cooking for you, you'll regret turning your back on me."  I guess the thought of starving pushed Gill's henpeck button.  Suddenly, his shop class instincts took control, "We can't waste time, we have to find an emergency room.  She needs to have that cleaned, covered and get a tetanus shot.  Sue go to the lifeguard and find out where the hospital is.  Steve get your car and I'll gather up all out stuff."  I was impressed...when the chips were down, he really cared about her.

I took Andrew and minutes later, I was double parked along side the promenade as Sue called out the directions to hospital.  I ran out to help Gill throw our stuff in the trunk as the girls got in.  I hopped into the driver's seat as Gill stood outside and motioned me to lower my window.  He said, "Good luck, I'll take our shit back to the room and meet you there when you get back."  Sue looked cross-eyed at her friend. Penelope yelled,  "Charley you selfish asshole, you're going to get your butt in our car and follow us over there. They aren't going to sit around the E.R. for hours waiting for me...that's your job!"  She looked at Sue and continued, "They're gonna drop me off and go home."

We never got together with them again.  But something tells me that if Barney the Dinosaur ever got in the way of him unwinding, the Bowery Boys or a baseball game, he would have kicked in the TV screen. I don't know the whole story but I know they separated a few years back.

I would have preferred to send out a more positive FATHER'S DAY message but in understanding the negativity of a seagull, we penguins are made to look better.

JUST SAY NO! TO TACO TUESDAY...

Oh boy, chicken again!  That phrase...or should I say that bit of sarcasm, is something that my father and I share. 

In the army, dad suffered through daily doses of chicken during basic training.  He swore that the mess hall cooks sold the varied menu items, replaced the higher valued meats with chicken and pocketed a fortune.  He said chicken was coming out of his ears...so as far back as I can recall, regardless of how it was prepared, my father always refused to eat it.

DAD WENT INTO THE SERVICE AS A SCRAWNY 5 FOOT 10, 125 POUND KID.  IT WASN'T UNTIL HE WAS STATIONED IN ITALY THAT HE BULKED-UP AND BECAME THE ADONIS THAT I HAVE PATTERNED MYSELF AFTER.

My chicken dilemma stems from the food line where I work.  The tricky variable in this cafeteria setting is...the food is free.  So as soon as you eat it, you give up the right to piss and moan about the quality, (institutionalized food is infrequently good).  When something is surprisingly palatable, most people add; of course, I would be screaming my head off to the manager, if I had to pay for this slop.

MY CHICKEN SITUATION REMINDS ME OF A LINE FROM THE END OF WOODY ALLEN'S 1977 CLASSIC, "ANNIE HALL."  THE JOKE INVOLVES AN OLD WOMAN, AT A BORSCHT BELT HOTEL, COMPLAINING ABOUT HOW BAD THE FOOD IS.  HER AGREEING FRIEND RESPONDS, "AND THE PORTIONS ARE SO SMALL."

Based solely on economics, my place serves chicken virtually every day.  I usually don't mind except on days when it is preapred in ways I can't stomach like; curried, jerk-style or in heavy cream sauce.  At those times, I'm forced outside my comfort zone.  One time, my creativity took the form of an ersatz Cuban sandwich.  This epicurean Latin delight featured the Kosher tripleplay of ham, sliced pork and bacon with melted cheddar cheese on a heavily buttered kaiser roll...squashed down on the grill.  The authentic ingredients would include; Cuban bread, swiss cheese, thinly sliced pickles and mustard.

AROUND 1910, THE CUBAN SANDWICH, (a.k.a EL MIXTO OR EL CUBANO), ORIGINATED AS A LOCAL FAVORITE OF CIGAR FACTORY AND SUGAR MILL WORKERS.  IN THE 60's, IT BECAME POPULAR IN MIAMI AND HAS SINCE GAINED UNIVERSAL NOTORIETY.

Of course when hungry, not everyone is as clever as me.  Once someone was so desperate for a chicken alternative, he stupidly cut open one of the fancy loaves of bread that's used for decoration.  After he bit through the dust and shellack he groaned, "This marble rye doesn't taste as good as it looks."

The top-of-the-line offerings like; grilled chicken or baked thighs, breasts and legs are less appetizing because the company's financial hardships have resulted in the elimination of all the favorite sauce options, (Worcestershire, A-1, Heinz 57, *soy and Tabasco). That means those staples of my work-week dinners are so plain...it's hard to really enjoy.  *Several Asians bring their own soy sauce...many others eliminate the middle man and have take-out meals delivered.

Our food line has a regular rotation of untouchable items like; mystery meat, rainbow-colored bacon, feesh (a weird concoction of seafood that is neither fresh nor fish) and a series of salt-ladened soups that includes the ever-popular...cream of hot dog.

AFTER A  POWER OUTAGE, I STOPPED HAVING THE MEATLOAF AT WORK  WHEN I NOTICED THE MUSHROOMS GLOWING IN THE DARK.

The worst day at work is when they grill liver.  Personally, liver can be smothered in *mushrooms and onions...and it still isn't food to me. The ubiquitious smell gets into your nostrils and I start to gag.  So eating, even swallowing seems impossible.  The huge bulk being cooked causes a wafting stench, resembling wet pennies, that infultrates every nook and cranny of our lunch room.  It's so nauseating that most people scatter to the far corners.  Oddly, my foreign coworkers really eat the liver up. *Please note, my place's liver "recipe" doesn't include the toxic, glowing mushrooms.  I guess they save them for the meatloaf.


WHEN JERM (above) READ MY TRAVELOGUE BLOG OF PERU, HE WAS INSPIRED TO VACATION THERE.  AND LIKE THE LIVER AT MY JOB, I THINK HE MUST HAVE ORDERED HIS GUINEA PIG LUNCH OFF THE "FOREIGNERS ONLY" MENU.


Just in case the "before" picture doesn't do his entree the justice it deserves, here's an "after" close-up.


I TOLD HIM NOT TO PLAY WITH HIS FOOD BUT JERM DID HIS BEST IMITATION OF DR. FRANKENSTEIN WHEN HE RE-ASSEMBLED THE GUINEA PIG CARCASS AND DECLARED, "IT'S NOT ALIVE!"

 Sometimes I try to be objective about the food at work.  But  when you consider that the vast majority of the cooks are from countries that rely on rice, it boggles my mind that they can't make it properly. It either comes out disgustingly thick of sticky starch or is so al dente that you can break a tooth.

On holidays, we are lavished with hamburgers with all the fixin's.  Then depending on the celebration, to add to the festivities other noteworthy items are included like; chicken parmigiana, fried chicken, barbecued chicken, chicken fricassee, nuggets, chicken pot pie, tenders, chicken salad or chicken wings...if you closely examine this list, the common denominator is of course...chicken.

I'm not certain but I think someone might have made a complaint...because about a year ago, the cafeteria proclaimed every Tuesday going forward as; "TACO TUESDAY!"

WITH A VARIETY OF SIDES, MY PLACE GENEROUSLY ALLOWS US TO BUILD OUR OWN TACOS, (WITHOUT TABASCO SAUCE).

My shell-less taco adventure starts with ground beef, (swimming in molten grease).  I add cheese, onions and **taco sauce before microwaving the dish. **To accomodate the general public, my place only uses mild taco sauce.  And to repeat myself, they have no Tabasco.

Yes indeedy, this welcome and tasty break from chicken goes down the old gullet just fine.  But because of my complete lack of intelligence, it took me months to figure out that my recurring, killer stomach cramps only happened after midnight, on Wednesday mornings.  Then to prove how bright I'm not, I started carrying antacid tablets once week and continued to eat this sludge in smaller portions.  A wise man once said, "The true mark of insanity is to repeat the same action and expect different  results."  It's a poor excuse but in my defense, the other choices, (overwhelmingly chicken) usually spurred me back to the tacos...just one more time...again and again.

I must confide in you, so I apologize that I am now whispering.  One of the negative off-shoots of my indigestion doesn't effect me.  It effects the nice folks around me...particularly those directly behind me.  I don't embarrass easy but because I'm locked into a stationary position that night's ever-expanding malodorous cloud identified me as the culprit.  I felt like a giant, invisible neon arrow was pointing at me, I was mortified. 

During my final crescendo performance, I squelched the Mount Vesuvius in my pants as best I could.  But despite controlling the noise, the colateral damage of its other properties, (frequency and potency), blew the doors off an unsuspesting victim. That's when my devoutly religious supervisor ventured too close to ground zero and my atomic detonations.  I would have expected her reaction to the putrified air to be something like; oh my or good gracious or lordy loo...but this bible thumper shocked me by sinking to the depths of dropping the F-Bomb between the words holy and cow.

Later, during a lull I was flinching in terror when she shocked me by sayings, "You know what?"  I gulped, "No.  What?"  She said, "Remember that the old man in the sheriff's cap, I think the poor soul gassed...it smelled like rotten eggs."  Wow, I got away with murder.  I had been panicking how I would resurrect my dignity when she told the gossip-mongers of the world but I was off the hook.  So as long as her choice of words gave the impression that she was coming down off her high horse I said, "I think you're right, I wonder what crawled up his ass and died?"  Her condemning dirty look signaled...once a hypocrite always a hyporcrite.  But in reality, it helped me focus on coming to grips, getting my belly into rehab and off it's weekly gastric suicidal roller coaster ride.

Last month, to the betterment of mankind and my fear of replacing SLVRM6 as the king farter of South Jersey, I vowed to...JUST SAY NO...TO TACO TUESDAY. 

IN MEL BROOKS' "SPACEBALLS," (1987), RICK MORANIS AS DARK HELMET TAUNTS COLONEL SANDURZ BY SAYING, "WHAT'S THE MATTER COLONEL SANDURZ?  CHICKEN?"

I know this story is causing my father, (somewhere up above) to choke on his sweet nectar.  But don't worry dad, I'm not chicken...especially on Tuesdays...that means, from now on, there will be no sarcasm when I say, "Oh boy, chicken again."

TIMESHARE POACHERS

Ten years ago when I dealt roulette every day, a man bought-in for twenty-five, one-dollar chips. I had noticed that he was coming in a lot and regarded him as a new, regular customer.  Aside from the sameness of his low-roller action, he stood out because he was pleasant and low-key.  I knew him well enough that I wasn't surprised that after a brief playing session, he left with a small profit.

Later that night, I was standing dead (open for business with no players).  Oddly, I noticed this man, like an expectant father, standing in the wings for five minutes.  He stared off into space to make himself look innocent but every few seconds, I'd catch him stealing a glance at me. He seemed okay so I wasn't creeped-out by what seemed like stalking.

To satisfy my curiosity, I waved him over.  Reluctantly, he shuffled towards me and said, "You caught me."  I had no idea what he was talking about about and smiled, "That's right...I did.  Now tell me, what's up?"  He whispered, "I was waiting for other players to come so it wouldn't be obvious."  I said, "What wouldn't be obvious?" "I can clock your wheel, I win almost every time I play with you." 

To the uninitiated, he was making a ridiculous assertion.  Casinos build-in so many safeguards that even if a dealer, in cahoots with a confederate, earnestly tried to defraud his employer that way, it would be impossible.  This awkward situation is a rarity.  So in regard to my job security, I feel it's important to let naive gamblers know that whatever luck they have...is just luck.  Beyond that...if I like the player...all I can offer is my positivism and best wishes.

This fellow grinned.  "I know it makes you look bad if someone has you figured..."  I was not going to tell him the arbitrary speed of my spins or how randomly I push the wheel in the opposite direction.  I just said, "If the wheel was at a standstill and I dropped the ball over your number, the intentional sensitivity of the system would cause the ball to have an equal chance of landing on the opposite side of the wheel. 

He said, "Yeah but..."  I interrupted, "Yes, you might get lucky and have temporary success...and I'm glad you're satisfied with me...but I've been dealing roulette since the Stone Age..."  He cut me off, "I know but..."  I stopped him in mid sentence, "What's your name friend?"  He said, "Burt."  "Burt," I said, "you're an articulate, mannerly, well-dressed man.  The last thing I want to do is insult your intelligence but I really need you to concentrate on what I'm about to say.  Gambling is for chumps.  You understand? Yeah short term, in moderation, it's cool, fun and a diversion from real life but please understand...this is nothing but entertainment. THERE IS NO WAY TO WIN! Over time, it would be like going to a movie and expecting to leave with more money than you came in with.

Burt smiled, "I won eighty bucks off you yesterday and one-ten the day before...today, I'm winning thirty-five and I just started."  "Please Burt, I believe you...but you have to believe me...hanging out in casinos everyday is bad medicine. Your luck will turn and it won't be pretty.  This place is lousy with losers and degenerates who were convinced it would never happen to them.  Maybe you're bored, (I was thinking lonely but I didn't want him to get pissed at me) or maybe you're intoxicated by the rush.  Either way, this joy ride will come to an end sooner than you think."

I lowered my voice as if I was taking him into my confidence and said, "If there was a way to rig it, I have a big family and you'd never get close to my table.  Whoever put this crazy idea in your head was trying to come-off like a big-shot or he was just full of shit."

Burt was mulling over what I said when I added, "So many good people have been ruined by gambling...I think Dr. Kevorkian would have made a fortune if he set up a booth on the casino floor."  

PATHOLOGIST JACOB "DR. DEATH" KEVORKIAN (1928-2011) WAS BEST KNOWN FOR CHAMPIONING A TERMINALLY ILL PATIENTS'S RIGHT TO DIE ,VIA PHYSICIAN-ASSISTED SUICIDE.  KEVORKIAN CLAIMED TO HAVE CONDUCTED 130+ SUCH PROCEEDURES BEFORE BEING CONVICTED OF SECOND DEGREE MURDER.  HE WAS RELEASED AFTER SERVING EIGHT OF HIS TEN-TO-TWENTY-FIVE YEAR SENTENCE WITH THE STIPULATION THAT HE WOULDN'T "HELP" ANYONE ANY MORE.

A smile of recognition lit up Burt's face so I continued, "Picture this, if General George Patton gambled every day, it wouldn't be long till he drowned in his own tears." 

GENERAL GEORGE S. PATTON (1885-1945) WAS A CHARISMATIC AND EFFECTIVE GENERAL IN WWII.  HE WAS SO TOUGH THAT HE WAS NICKNAMED "OLD BLOOD AND GUTS" BUT HE BECAME CONTROVERSIAL WHEN HE SLAPPED TWO OF HIS MEN FOR PERCIEVED COWARDICE.

By now Burt was laughing so I said, "I don't ever want to see you upstairs, waiting in line for your number to be called...to jump off the roof."  He said, "I understand."  I said, "I hope you do because the knuckleheads who are afraid of heights usually take a bath with their toaster."

I said, "Now that we've come to an understanding, let's change the subject.  Do you live nearby?"  Burt said, "I've had a run of bad luck, I live in an efficiency apartment in Ventnor. I lost my job (the economy was good back then) and when the money got tight, my wife divorced me." I said, "First, you gotta stop punishing yourself.  That means you gotta find a kinder, gentler...less expensive hobby.  Something far from gambling where you might be able to find female companionship."  Second if nothing is holding you to this area, expand your work search and maybe you can land a decent job in New York, Philly or Baltimore." He was nodding as I said, "Are you working now?"  "Yeah, I work in the building, I sell timeshares."  My face soured, "I thought working in casinos was a rough racket but you got me beat."

Burt started a sales spiel.  I said, "Whoa there big buddy, save your breath, I'm not interested."  He thanked me for my advice, called me a friend and left. My supervisor SAMP120 asked, "What was that all about?"  I said, "He wanted to sell me a bullshit timeshare."  SAMP said, "Don't laugh, last month, my brother turned me onto a great timeshare move.  My wife, daughter and I stayed free, at this great hotel for a weekend in the Poconos.  We went skiing, snow-mobiling and inner tubing. They try to stick it to you (buy a timeshare) but all you have to say is, no."

Several weeks later, I followed SAMP's lead and made reservations.  The property was beautiful and the representatives really kissed our ass. The presentation started with a welcome orientation.  Afterwards each of the thirty or so families were assigned a guide (salesman).  We were then individually wisked away for a quick tour of the hotel-like condos and gorgeous single-family homes available in the vicinity.  Towards the end, we got pressed into buying.  When I balked, we were bombarded with special offers that WOULDN'T be available during the next day's full showing.  It was easy to stand my ground because I knew that SAMP and his brother both survived not buying. 

Our quarters for the weekend was a rustic hovel in the woods.  I said to my wife, "Why would they amp you up with such beauty and then stick you in a shithouse in the middle of nowhere?"  It got worse because our cabin stunk of musty mildew.  I complained.  Like magic, they transferred us to an ultra-modern suite in the hotel. We felt like we were living like kings.

In the morning after a delicious, free breakfast, we were required to attend a ninety-minute, full-blown tour of the facilities.  They put on a great show which wound-up taking three hours but you'd have to be out of your mind to NOT want to vacation in such luxury...until you hear the price.

TIMESHARES VARY BUT IN GENERAL YOU ARE BUYING A ONCE-A-YEAR WEEK, AT AN EXCLUSIVE VACATION DESTNATION. THE TIMESHARE INDUSTRY USES COOL INCENTIVES TO GET PROSPECTS TO TAKE TOURS AND BUY.  BUT THE ACTUAL PACKAGE IS EXPENSIVE.  THE HIGH-PRESSURE SALES TEAM IS TRAINED TO SKIRT ISSUES LIKE RIGID LOCATIONS, HIDDEN FEES AND COMPLICATED RE-SELLING POLICIES. EVEN IF YOU SAY NO, IT BECOMES A BATTLE OF WILLS, TO THE POINT OF EXHAUSTION UNTIL THE SALES PITCH BATTERING ENDS.



Our soft salesman got nowhere with us so he "handed us off" to a more aggressive man.  There was nothing subtle about this rude douche as he tried to embarrass us into making a commitment. 

SET IN THE SKIING MECCA OF ASPEN COLORADO, THE "ASSPEN," EPISODE OF "SOUTH PARK" (SEASON SIX, EPISODE THREE), HILARIOUSLY IDENTIFIES THE SKULLDUGGERY AND HARSH BUSINESS TACTICS USED BY THE TIMESHARE INDUSTRY.  ONCE YOU LIVE THROUGH THE TIMESHARE EXPERIENCE, THE  EXAGGERATION SOUTH PARK USED, IS HARD TO SEPARATE FROM THE TRUTH. 

When the tough guy stuck out, he switched gears and tried to rope us into a cheaper, much less desirable unit.  When I shook my head, out of the goodness of his heart, he shaved thirty-percent off the original price.  A weaker person might have thought they were a genius for holding out for a better rate and would have gotten nailed at that point.  But I hated this hyper bastard and wouldn't have bought a sno-cone off him if I was stranded in the Sahara Desert.

When he released us, I thought we had successfully run the gauntlet.  But before they hooked us up with our meal tickets, activity coupon booklet, valuable "thanks for coming" gift and a thirty-dollar gas voucher, we were led down a claustrophobic, spiral staircase, to a small dungeon-like office.

In the depths of the abyss, we were greeted by a kindly old man in a wheelchair, behind a desk.  His charming hospitable Southern accent vanished when I said we weren't interested in buying.  Suddenly, his personality morphed into a crotchedy ogre as he angrily gave us the third degree.  Is this a great place or not? Didn't my staff roll out the red carpet for you? Why are you not buying?  Didn't they offer you great discounts?  It was no compliment but this bitter crumudgeon reminded me of the heartless opportunist, Henry Potter played by Lionel Barrymore in the 1946 classic movie, "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE."

AS MR. POTTER, BARRYMORE (1878-1954) , WAS ONE OF FILM'S MOST VICIOUS VILLIANS.

If an idiot was ever on the fence trying to figure out if timeshares were bullshit or not, the Barrymore impersonator was utterly convincing that they were, (I'm guessing he owned the whole shebang).  It was comical how he waved our collection of entitlements like Svengali trying to hypontize us before saying, "Before I send you away to enjoy all my amenities, I'm going to knock y'alls socks off.  I'm positive when you see this rock bottom fantastic deal, I guarantee, you'll and buy and encourage your friends to see me for the same deal."  He staggered out of his chair, lurched forward and threateningly pointed at me as he announced, "How about 50% off the 30% offered by the second saleman?"  I felt uncomfortable saying no. We bickered back and forth.  He was still hemming and hawing when his exasperated voice reminded us that 65% off, is a substantial...if not unheard of price.

When I said no, he lashed out and put me on the spot.  He forced me to come up with a legitimate reason.  I hadn't rehearsed anything but the lying pearls of wisdom that flowed like wine from my mouth stopped him dead in his tracks, "My wife and I don't get the same vacation times."  The Mr. Potter wannabe hesitated before retaliating like a charging rhino, "If y'all don't have the same time off, why are you here together now!"  I truthfully said, "Because, I'm on vacation and these are her days off."

It felt good to be back out in the clean fresh air.  We took our goodies and comingled with the paying customers.  Every second we were there, we took advantage of the lengthy list of free, scheduled activities.  We had a great weekend.

The next time I saw SAMP120, I thanked him for turning us on to such a time.  I explained my "different vacation" excuse.  He said, "That's good, very good.  I'll use it and tell my brother because we're going together with our families to another timeshare seminar, in the western part of Virginia.  And guess what, I saw the brochure and this place looks a thousand times better than the Poconos."

SAMP was all smiles when he came back. He gave me the information and by the end of June, my family was on the road to Harrisonburg Virginia.

NESTLED IN THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY,  HARRISONBURG, THE PRIDE OF ROCKINGHAM COUNTY, IS THE SCENIC HOME OF JAMES MADISON UNIVERSITY.

Outside Harrisonburg, the first town is McGaheysville and the entrance to timeshare heaven.

I CAN'T POSSIBLY EXPLAIN JUST HOW IDEAL THIS PLACE WAS.  UNLIKE THE POCONOS WHICH WAS A HOTEL WITH NEARBY HOMES...THIS GARDEN OF EDEN STRETCHED FOR THIRTY MILES.  ANYTHING YOU COULD WANT,THEY HAD; HORSE BACK RIDING, FISHING, WATER SKIING, SNOW SKIING EVEN HUNTING.

We checked-in and the orientation proceedure was similar to the Poconos.  On the other hand, this group included a film before the superficial tour of the property.  Later, our room was in a brand new motel-like structure.  Our outside terrace had a gorgeous view of the pool, one of the golf courses and valley.

Dinner was terrific.  We saw a show and later strolled through property.  Breakfast was top-notch...then we gathered with a couple of dozen families at the administration building.  Afterwards, this outfit sequestered my son Andrew and everyone's else's kids, in a hi-tech, computer playroom. 

I waited until our guide mentioned that our ninety-minute tour had begun to use one of SAMP120's suggestions, "It's 10:20, you have until ten to twelve to thrill us."  Our guide said, "Well it may take us a little longer..."  I said, "Do your best to get in as much as possible, we told our son we'd gone for an hour and a half..."  The guide said, "He'll be all right.  In the day camp, the kids aren't allowed out."  I pleasantly said, "You don't really know that he'll be all right.  Especially, if he wants to get out."  These were pre-cell phone days and I could see that the guide understood that there was no way to call and reassure us.  Then with a big smile I added, "Now, times a wastin', I'm excited, show us everything!"

I took the tour with false enthusiasm and at 11:30 I said, "It's almost time to wrap this up."  The guide said, "But there's so much more..."   I said, "No worries, you still have twenty minutes."  "But you haven't seen the sports palace, the theater and..."  "C'mon I said, I know what indoor tennis courts look like and we saw the theater last night."  "What about the lake..."  "Yeah remember, you pointed out the lake, the river and a swamp."  "It's a creek..."  I cut him off, "Whatever.  Look, you're on the clock and the ninety minutes are almost up..."  He said, "But..."  I said, "You did a great job in the time you had and I think we can make an educated decision now."  He perked up, "And that decision is."  I said, "We aren't ready to buy."  He said, "Because you haven't seen the health spa, convenience store and..."  I said, "Your ninety-minute rule is etched in stone right here in this pamphlet...and your time is up."

At exactly 11:50, we were re-united with Andrew.  He loved it there and could have stayed locked up playing games all weekend. 

In a big room with other people getting pressured, we heard their final sales pitch.  This company's gimmick included bells and buzzers to indicate when folks committed to buy.  I guess management thought their "guests" were like lemmings and would be influenced to buy if  "everyone" was doing it. If that nonsense wasn't enough...the entire sales staff, like waiters singing happy birthday in a restaurant, stood up and rhythmically clapped as new purchasers were ushered to nirvana, (a special, private office), to cement the deal.

In actuality, these salespeople weren't hardcore.  It is true that they used a similar tag-team, good salesman/bad salesman ploy like the Poconos bunch but our second saleman was a pansy.  Maybe our first salesman signaled that they had no shot with us.  So he didn't grill us after I said my third no.  Then rather then send us down to the gates of hell to face-off with their version of a devil in a wheelchair, we were given a survey to complete.  Our responses were reviewed.  Moments later, we were graciously given our goodies and encouraged to have a wonderful stay...which we absolutely did, (I don't know about a timeshare but I would have loved to retire there).

Months later, after a prolonged absence, Burt came into the casino to see me.  He introduced me to his girlfriend Jennifer and told me about his new computer job.  He also said that he got a big promotion and that company was relocating them to North Carolina. 

Burt waited around until I had a break and hugged me.  He called me a great friend and thanked me for straightening out his life.  He said, "After Jen and I walk on the boardwalk, we're having a nice dinner and going back."  Then as an aside he added, "And because of you, I'm not gambling even one nickel in a slot machine."

His sentiments were sincere, I was touched.  I took it as a compliment that they drove in from Philadelphia to say good-bye.  I told him about my timeshare visits to the Poconos and Harrisonburg.  His face lit up, "Good!  Which one did you buy?"  I said, "Neither, I went for the free weekends."  The smile evaporated from his face and he snarled, "Timeshare poacher."  He grabbed his girl's bicep, turned her around and said, "C'mon, we're getting out of here."

Call me crazy, but regardless of his little hissy-fit, I think we all made out okay.