A MUDDY WINDSHIELD AND THE UNITED STATES OF VESPUCCI

I just finished a nine-day vacation. On the first day, a week ago Thursday, my wife Sue and I drove to Long Island, to have dinner with some of her childhood girlfriends.  Cleverly, I included my friends Eric and Ernie who I hadn’t seen in nearly thirty years…it was a great night for everyone.

Ernie and I got into a conversation about fellow New Yorkers understanding and appreciating another New Yorker's humor. We agreed that outsiders don’t always see where the directness is coming from, the dryness goes over their head and/or they crumble at the feet of sarcasm.

We got on that topic because Ernie mentioned the cyst or some other bit of nastiness that he had burnt off his left buttock. He took the brunt of my ensuing ascerbic humor like a man...even when I encouraged him to sell what was left of the node on EBAY.  Ernie can dish it out as well as take it.  So in the true sense of what makes a New Yorker a New Yorker, he responded with, “Genius, I just told you, it was BURNT off…and everyone knows, when it comes to body part collecting, condition is everything.”

Coincidentally, my vacation agenda was filled with three of my own medical procedures. The next day, (Friday), I had a hernia operation. It would prove to be the only painful one.  Everything went smooth and a week later, I’m back to work. The following Tuesday, the least invasive of the trio was repairing my chipped front tooth, (the culprit was a dinner roll during our June cruise to Bermuda). I hoped it would miraculously heal itself but after three months without a hint of remodeling, it was time to git’er done.

MY CHIPPED TOOTH WAS A SLIGHTLY LARGER RECTANGLE.  I KNEW I LOOKED STUPID SO I WAS CAREFUL TO AVOID ANY CLOSE-UP PICTURES.  STILL, SUE CALLED ME "CLETUS" EVERY TIME I SMILED.

The next day (Wednesday), I had a routine colonoscopy. On the surface, it’s completely painless but when you dig deeper, the day-before-prep combines starvation with torture. Ergo, to “clear-out” the colon, the patient is required to eat NOTHING for twenty-four hours. In addition to that, two laxatives are introduced into the system. The first, Dulcolax, acts as a sand blaster to knock off, the residual crud stuck on the intestinal walls.

The second laxative, powdered Miralax, is emptied (in my case) into a sixty-four ounce pitcher of Crystal-Light lemonade. This tasteless, grit-free flashflood inducer, is poured, (8.3 ounces), into the victim's favorite (approved) beverage. It's designed through eight, eight-ounce hourly servings, to flush-out the remaining solid waste from your system.

ASIDE FROM TWO ALLOWABLE CUPS OF LIME JELL-O, ALL I PUT IN MY STOMACH THE DAY BEFORE WAS THE SPIKED LEMONADE.  IT TASTED NORMAL BUT AFTER A SHORT WHILE, I GOT SICK OF DRINKING IT.

On the big day, I signed in at the medical center. Curiously, the waiting room was crammed with prospective male patients, from Third World countries. I encamped myself in front of a giant flat-screen TV and fidgeted with my cell-phone. A few minutes went by and a woman came out from the opaque glass door beyond the reception area. She pleasantly announced, “Mr. Barrett…” I was surprised that another Caucasian man had been hiding behind me.

Soon thereafter, another woman came out and announced, “Mr. Patel…” From all over the waiting room, eight confused men stood up. The woman shuffled through her papers and said, “Oh, Mr. Neelish Patel…” Everyone sat down, except one smiling man who pumped his fist as if he had hit the lottery.

To combat my increasing boredom, I was getting into the “RACHAEL RAY SHOW” when my name was called.

RACHAEL RAY (1968-PRESENT) IS A TV HOST, CELEBRITY CHEF AND AUTHOR.  HER PERKY, GIRL-NEXT-DOOR PERSONALITY IS A JOY TO WATCH.  ALSO, SHE'S FROM GLENS FALLS NY, (THE SAME TOWN AS MY BUDDY DRJ7).

I was disappointed that I wasn’t going to see how Ms. Ray's sticky buns turned out as a woman called my name.  At the same time, the TV announcer was mentioning that later in the show, a three-year old boy was getting his first haircut.  I was fascinated and tempted to reschedule the procedure.  When the woman saw me lingering and watching the TV over my shoulder, she lured me away with her own perky, energetic smile. I guess I was duped by her mastery of Child Psychology-101, as she took me at a fast pace through the frosted doors.  Inside the inner sanctum, like a lamb being led to the slaughterhouse, I followed her along rows of mini-medical facilities behind curtains.

The woman told me to take everything off. She pointed to a pile of items on a chair and said, “When you’re ready, put on that hospital gown, booties and cap." A little later, I was all set when a nurse came in (his name was Larry). I wanted to say that the room reminded me of a voting booth, but he was strictly business. Nurse Larry went through the monotony of re-asking the same tiresome questions that my GP had provided them, that I’ve already been asked, wrote-out by hand and filled-out, days ago, on the computer.

I detected Larry's New York accent. His last repeat question was, “Why are you here?” I said, “Colonoscopy.” Then like a reflex action, the words squirted from my mouth, “And yes, there’s nothing more American than the colonoscopy.” Larry stared harshly into my face and said, “Aha, while most people accept that the colonoscopy was first used in 1969…in Manhattan, the truth is, it was developed and put into practice by the ancient Greeks.” I said, “Really?” Larry shrugged, “Ya know that whole Trojan horse thing wasn’t thought up at the spur of the moment, on the battlefield…?” The picture in my mind of soldiers crawling up the statue's rear end made me smile. I said, “I like you, you’re silly.”

(Above), "PROCESSION OF THE TROJAN HORSE," WAS PAINTED BY DOMENICO TIEPOLO IN 1773.  AFTER A FRUITLESS TEN-YEAR SEIGE OF TROY, THE GREEKS CONSTRUCTED A WOODEN HORSE AND HID A SMALL FORCE OF MEN INSIDE.  AFTER THE GREEKS PRETENDED TO RETREAT HOME, THE "TRIBUTE" WAS DRAGGED THROUGH THE PREVIOUSLY IMPERMEABLE GATES OF THE CITY.  AT NIGHT, THE BLACK-OPS SQUAD INSIDE, SNUCK OUT AND OPENED THE GATES FOR THE REST OF THEIR LEGIONS.  HENCE THE PHRASE, "BEWARE OF GREEKS BEARING GIFTS."

When I found out Larry was from Yonkers I asked, “Were you one of the Yonkers Zonkers.” He was taking my blood pressure as he said, “I played a lot of sandlot baseball but never on that high of a level." I said, “Well, there’s nothing more American than baseball…” Larry smiled, “Cricket dude, Abner Doubleday stole the idea from English cricket...”

“How about cowboys?” I countered as the anesthesiologist came in, “I got you there. Nothing is more American…” Larry quipped, “You got diddly. Long before anyone in the U. S. was sitting around a campfire with a dozen other cowhands eating beans and drowning out the silence with a gazillion farts, the Spanish gauchos were eating paella and dancing the flamenco on the Iberian frontier.”

FORGET "BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN," 1974's, "BLAZING SADDLES," TOLD THE REAL STORY OF HOW COWBOYS SPENT THEIR EVENINGS.

The foreign anesthesiologist but in, “You Americans are wealthier than ever before.” Larry rolled his eyes as the doctor continued, “But life here isn’t as much fun as it once was. All this money should make you content but you are compelled to the point of exhaustion, to chase for more and more. Even with all that modern science can provide, as a culture, everybody is oddly unfulfilled…”

During his pause I said, “Well yeah…” Larry was smiling and shaking his head as if I screwed-up, as the doctor plowed on, “Americans have lost their spirituality and are convinced they are living in an improved world…but is it a better one?”

This time, I didn’t even try to respond. Larry was nodding in approval over my decision as the doctor resumed his speech, “I read that consumerism has led your country…by what the author termed as…into a box canyon of diminishing returns. He meant once you reach a saturation point and possess everything you could possibly imagine, that the complexity of ownership causes, higher costs, time wasted on maintenance, cleaning etc. And his implication was...that there's no easy way out.  Of course you realize that a contemporary middle-class American family has put them self into a position where, to survive, without two incomes…is almost impossible.  And who suffers…the children…the American future...thus the negative downward spiral is doomed to perpetuate itself."

Larry looked at me as if he wanted to get knocked-out too as the anesthesiologist just kept rambling while adjusting computer settings and jotting notations, “If Americans just stopped… they could lead a better life with less work, like a twenty-hour week. Instead, you people are caught-up in your labor saving devices that you wouldn’t need to begin with…if you weren’t working so hard.” Luckily, the surgeon came in and ended the sermon.

Larry was at my side as I was wheeled towards the operating room.  He leaned in close to me and said, "You know when I had my colonoscopy, they prescribed a night-time laxative.  I took it at midnight and went to bed.  At seven, I took the biggest, most magnificent bowel movement of my life..."  I said, "That's great!"  He said, "Actually, it was terrible, I didn't wake up until eight..."  I was laughing out loud as we entered the white-walled operating room.  Inside the disinfected sanitary space, a new team of staff greeted me. A woman was attaching an IV to my hand as she asked the same; who are you, what’s your date of birth and why are you here questions. Luckily, beyond her on a chalk-less whiteboard, I could see my name, date of birth and "COLONOSCOPY" scribbled in blue ink. Too bad they didn’t have this level of quality information on the wall when I took chemistry in high school.

I HATE CANDID SHOTS, I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO SMILE INTO THE CAMERA EVEN IF IT WERE ONLY TO SHOW OFF MY NEWLY REPAIRED TOOTH.

Larry wished me luck as he was leaving. I motioned him closer, pointed with my thumb at the back of the anesthesiologist and said, “There’s nothing more American than America!” He chuckled softly in my ear, “America was named after an Italian, Amerigo Vespucci. It’s a good thing we used a feminized version of his first name or we’d be the United States of Vespucci.” The last thing I remembered before going under was thinking how quick witted Larry was.

AMERIGO VESPUCCI (1454-1512) WAS AN EXPLORER, FINANCIER, MERCHANT AND CARTOGRAPHER.  HE WAS THE FIRST TO DEMONSTATE THAT THE NEW WORLD WAS NOT THE OUTSKIRTS OF ASIA BUT AN UNDISCOVERED SUPER CONTINENT.  LATER, THESE LANDS WERE NAMED AFTER HIM.  THE STATUE (above) STANDS IN FRONT OF THE UFFIZI MUSEUM IN FLORENCE ITALY.

Ninety minutes later, I came out of my induced sleep and pleasantly returned to planet earth. A female nurse was there to ask, “Are you okay?” I was groggy as I said, “Y-yeah, I’m just glad to get that nonsense over.” In an ominous voice she said, “Did you have any trouble with the preparation?” As cloudy as my mind might have been, I was thinking; this can’t be good as I bleated, “No…” She changed the subject, “The doctor will be in. In the meantime, do you want juice or cookies…we have graham crackers too…” I was hungry but the walls of annoyance felt like they were collapsing on top of me, I said, “No thanks.”

The surgeon came in and said, “Did you follow the preparation directions?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “We couldn’t get a clear picture. To be certain I get what I need for next time, I’ll prescribe you a two-day prep. Call my office and reschedule for two weeks.” Inside my mind was screaming; "nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" I watched him disappear.

I got dressed. Larry came in and offered me drinks and snacks. I turned him down too and said, “I’m so disappointed in myself, I only drank half of my laxative lemonade." He said, “Bad break. You gotta drink the whole mess for the system to work.” I said, “I like lemonade but after a while you can’t even look at it any more. Jeez, you’d think thirty-two ounces would be enough.” Larry asked, “Last night was your butt spouting like a water fountain?” I said, “No. But I took two separate colossal…” He said, “Spare me the details. Just understand that the reason you are in this predicament, is because YOU didn’t follow the instructions.” “Can’t they give me something now…?” Larry said, “No. And don’t blame the doc…"  I whined, "C'mon, if you really wanted to..."  Larry said, "NO!"  I said, "But..."  He said, "What are you a twelve-year old?"  Larry saw I didn't appreciate his reaction.  So he added, " Put yourself in the surgeon's position. How would you feel if you had to drive somewhere important and your windshield was obliterated with mud…and the wipers didn’t work?” I wanted to call him a wise-cracking asshole but if there’s one thing a New Yorker can understand, is where another New Yorker is coming from.

ROAD RAGE, NO PROBLEM WHEN YOU'RE SURROUNDED BY SEVEN FRIENDS...

THIS PAST WEEK, MY WIFE GOT TOGETHER WITH SOME HIGH SCHOOL GIRLFRIENDS, AT ANGELINA’S ITALIAN RESTAURANT, IN LYNBROOK LONG ISLAND. I’M HAPPY TO REPORT THAT THE ONLY THING BETTER THAN THE FOOD WAS THE COMPANY. 

ANGELINA'S SHOULD GIVE THEM SELF MORE CREDIT.  THEY CALL IT A PIZZERIA/RESTAURANT BUT EVERYONE IN OUR PARTY OF TWENTY LOVED THE FOOD AND NOBODY ORDERED PIZZA.


THREE YEARS AGO, WE DID THE SAME THING. BUT AFTERWARDS, I WAS DISAPPOINTED IN MYSELF FOR NOT EXTENDING THE INVITATION TO TWO OF MY FRIENDS WHO ALSO SHARED A CONNECTION WITH THAT GROUP.

THIS TIME I DIDN’T FAIL AND THE *TWIN BROTHERS ERIC (TICKLEMEERIC…TIC) AND ERNIE (THEIMPORTANCEOFBEINGEARNEST IMP) AND HIS WIFE ATTENDED.

* THE E AND E BROTHERS WERE THE STARS OF MY JANUARY 11, 2010 BLOG, “HUT TO PEEN AND SMOOTH SAILING.” THE STORY HAS TO DO WITH THEIR CHANCE MEETING WITH CAPTAIN JACK McCARTHY. TO FIND THAT ARTICLE,  GO TO MY MGTP HOME PAGE.  ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE IS THE ARCHIVES.  CLICK ON 2010 AND SCROLL DOWN TO JANUARY.

WE WERE STILL CLINGING TO OUR TWENTIES, ERIC (TIC) IN THE FOREGROUND WITH TWIN BROTHER ERNIE (IMP) IN THE BACKGROUND WITH ME, AT MY "BROOKLYN VERSUS THE WORLD" THEMED PARTY, AT MY PARENTS HOUSE, JULY 1984.

I HADN’T SEEN THE BROTHERS IN 28 AND 29 YEARS RESPECTIVELY AND TRUE TO FORM, OUR CONVERSATIONS WERE SEAMLESS.

         CLINGING TO OUR SANITY, TIC (left) AND IMP (right), AT ANGELINA'S.

DURING OUR REMINISCIENCE, I WAS REMINDED THAT ON A 1963 BUS TRIP TO BROOKLYN’S MANHATTAN BEACH WITH WINGATE DAY CAMP, THEY POINTED OUT THEIR GRANDPARENTS’ BAKERY, ON WEST END AVENUE.

THAT FACTOID LED ME TO RECALL ANOTHER INCIDENT INVOLVING DIFFERENT “FRIENDS,” LATER IN MY LIFE, ACROSS THE STREET AND DOWN THAT SAME BLOCK.

In 1976-1978, I played organized foot-hockey in the INTERBORO ICELESS HOCKEY LEAGUE (IIHL). My team, (the MP’s) was made up of friends, and friends of friends from Brooklyn College. My only real friend on the team was Captain Krunch (CK). Most of CK’s teammate buddies were jerks so I only slightly warmed up to a few, (see my January 7, 2013 blog, “THE IDIOT SAVANT GOALIE.)” However, CK’s influence with his BFF (AK, the MP’s captain) got me occasional work as a valet parker at a catering hall, (on West End Avenue, down the block from E and E’s family bakery).

Our immediate boss was twenty-three year old Jack. Jack had juice with the caterer and was in charge of maintaining and overseeing the parking crew. In reality, he was a do-nothing.  He delegated his responsibilities to AK which included mid-week recruiting calls, to staff the next gig, (other than two of Jack’s cronies, the parkers were exclusively MP’s).

Another negative about Jack, was that during our idle time, he took a powder, (it was believed that in addition to staying warm in winter and cool in summer that Jack was lavished with food and drink in the kitchen). We couldn’t even gripe behind his back because one his asshole cronies was a cousin and the other, a brother of a close friend.

Jack remained invisible to us, except to greet the incoming cars before the affair and standing out there afterwards, to collect all the tip income (from us) in order to divvy it up later.

For those of us who didn’t have anything better to do on a Saturday night, making $40 off-the-books, for six hours, (mostly hanging out) was better than decent money. Then one night, Jack announced that he had earned his certification and had accepted a big accounting job near Albany.  He also said that AK was now in charge.

Suddenly, this decent job got much better. AK never called Jack’s people which cleared me for more work. Interestingly, suddenly our tip income took a sharp upward spike, (obviously, Jack had been robbing us). Plus, like Jack, AK disappeared during our idle time. The difference was, he came right back with two kitchen utility guys carrying huge soup tureens full of pepper steak, dinner rolls, bottles of soda, ice, cups, plastic silverware and napkins. This perk became a regular practice, (always pepper steak…with much more pepper than steak…which in my case, led to a crippling barrage of farting that was usually well-timed for the guests’ return trip).

The other bonus that AK installed was bringing a hockey net in his car trunk. This allowed us to have a shoot-a-round, to work off the meal and speed along the course of my (our?) gaseous emissions. To his credit, AK’s improvements made the job fun.  We had a lot of laughs which brought a stronger sense of camaraderie between me and my MP teammates.  Soon I felt bad that I had misjudged these guys who were clearly more than just hippie pot-heads or pre-law dullards.

Early one summer morning, the wedding upstairs was breaking up. When I started retrieving the cars, I was happy all my pick-ups were parked on the streets behind the hall, (I had once scraped the molding off somebody’s car, in the cramped quarters of the small underground parking garage). Luckily, it went unnoticed. That’s why I preferred the wide open spaces outside.

A half block to the right of the main entrance was a one way street. There was a tiny parking lot down that street but overwhelming, we parked the majority of the cars throughout the residential neighborhood.

West End Avenue was especially long. So at 1:30AM, in the interest of time and convenience, for cars parked along that first one way street, all of us, even the heavy-duty nerds drove the cars in reverse on the desolate street. Once on West End Avenue, it was simpler to continue in reverse to the hall’s entrance.

On this occasion, I easily backed out of the quiet street. Then after a full and complete stop with the great caution I always used on the much wider and busier West End Avenue, I crept slowly backwards. Suddenly, from far down the street, a souped-up Chevy Impala Super Sport convertible flew towards me, (in the correct, opposite lane). As soon as the muscle car passed me, it made a screeching, high-speed u-turn…and the driver was forced to slam on his breaks, inches from my bumper. As a means to encourage me to pull-up so he could pass, he obnoxiously honked his horn. It was a rare case of us both being in the wrong. But I didn’t like being bullied.  So I stubbornly stuck out my left hand and waved him around me.

THE 1967 IMPLALA SUPER SPORT CONVERTIBLE IN QUESTION HAD ITS ROOF DOWN AND WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF A RESTORATION. IT WAS A FADED MELON COLOR WITH GIANT GRAY SPLOTCHES WHERE COMPOSITE HAD FILLED IN DENTS.

The prick in the convertible was stubborn too.  He didn't like the idea of backing up before going around me.  He stood up in his car and screamed, “Somebody needs their ass kicked!” After I ignored another round of honking, this six-foot-seven bearded behemoth got out.  He slammed his door and used the purest forms of vulgarities while describing how he was going to dismember me before killing me. Under the hall’s portico, I saw seven of my “friends” twenty-five feet away. With tons of back-up so near, a rush of dormant bravery compelled me to get out and face this road-raging jerk-off.

What a mistake! I was staring into the chest of a lumberjack-like guy who looked like Grizzly Adams' evil twin. He was over three-hundred pounds and even though he was fat, I could see he was a strong, manual laborer. Then from deep within my subconscious, a confident roar of my own profanity ripped into him. Every time he tried to say something, I aggressively interrupted. I got on a roll and injected every expletive in my deep arsenal.

In a cresendo of hatefulness, I insulted his family and wished a pox on all his ancestors. I never felt so in control. Everything was happening so fast. I wish they had video apps and cell-phones back then so I could have savored my golden moment forever. Still, I couldn’t believe my eyes when he retreated to his car. I expected some level of stupidity, in his last ditch effort to get the last word but he just whimpered, “I don’t want no trouble, mister.”  Considering that he was ten years older than me, as he sped away and I thought; wow, I won.

Deep down, I knew he had to be somewhat intimidated by my seven, similarly dressed and rapidly approaching calvary of friends.  But when I turned to share my victory with them, they were still twenty-five feet away at the entrance. They had never moved. I guessed that they were disappointed that I didn't get my butt kicked. CK was bringing around another car so I realized that ALL of them were NOT my friends.

Later, CK reminded me about a scene from, “THE IDIOT SAVANT GOALIE,” in which I refused to join a mob of MP's and jump an enemy player. I said, “These geeks didn’t jump him either and neither did you.” He said, “But we said we would. You just caused dissension.”  I shook my head in disbelief.  Then when I realized how amazing it was that I stood-up to that goon, I didn't care that those weasels didn't like me.

I bet the ultimate pacifists, TICKLEMEERIC (TIC) AND THEIMPORTANCEOFBEINGEARNEST (IMP) would have defended me against Charles Manson, a psychopath axe murderer or Bluto from Popeye...unless they had another chance to hang out with Captain Jack.

THE BALONEY AND CHEESE DIET

In 1978, my father pulled up in front of his store. Typical for 8:30AM, it was easy to park on the desolate street. I was about to get out when dad said, “Wait.” He gestured across the street towards the next corner. A rival shopkeeper from ten blocks away was jogging, at a snail’s pace, towards us. I knew of gluttonous Mullins because my dad always cursed the sight of him, (he had a bigger, better business, in a dynamite location…and routinely started price wars designed to hurt my dad).

In silence, the two of us transfixed on the big man. My eye gravitated to the sun rays glistening of his blue, satin-like gym shorts. As he got closer, I found myself mystified by the seemingly impossible way his blubbery belly and man-boobs defied physics by bouncing in different directions, to an unsynchronized beat.

Dad, who was famous for unfunny jokes quipped as Mullins passed, “His stupid sweatband looked like he yanked the elastic off his underwear and dyed it periwinkle.” I didn’t react. He added, “Oh yeah…you’re color-blind…Periwinkle is like an effeminate shade of blue.” I guess dad was insinuating that his nemesis (a father of four) led an alternative lifestyle. When I didn’t react again dad said, “If Mullins really wanted to lose sixty pounds of useless fat…he should cut off his head.”

My father was always slim and never had a weight problem. The skinny-merink went into the army as a ninety-eight pound weakling and matured to a comfortable and consistent 165.

Dad got that way by being an incredibly picky eater. At no point do I ever remember him agreeing to try something new. Even his old standards like pastrami, he ordered “extra lean.” Then like a surgeon, he’d trim away the fat…and all the meat attached to the fat.  In the end, he was basically eating, mustard on rye, (some delicatessens were so frugal, I’m certain they recycled his scraps…that’s why I always steered clear of all half sandwich/cup of soup specials).

Plus my father ate such small portions that my mother used to say, “He ate like a bird.” Therefore, it was annoying to me that a man who could be satisfied from a dinner of sour cream and peaches say, “You (me) don’t know how to eat.” Then once I started my horizontal gastric sprawl, I became the first fat guy in my family’s post-depression era. So you can understand why I was equally galled when he called me, “Buddha Belly.”

BUDDHA (c.563 BCE TO c. 483 BCE) WAS A SPIRITUAL SAGE WHOSE TEACHINGS BUDDHISM IS FOUNDED.

Unfortunately for me, I’ve been watching my weight…forever. I played on the offensive line on my high school football at a rather lean 185. Through college, I maintained that weight but because I was less fit, I looked fat.

I moved to Las Vegas in January 1979. I took a vow of poverty (I worked at the Slots-A-Fun casino and grossed $150.00 a week). This lack if funds caused me to usually be broke. But the food in Vegas was dirt cheap. So, I lived off buffets my first year and ballooned to 222.

When the December holidays rolled around, a gracious friend invited me to his family’s huge Christmas dinner. After dessert, his wife encouraged me to ask out her sister. What a disaster (see my April 7, 2008 blog “THE MIGHTY MACS.)” On the bright side, her reaction to me spurred the first successful diet.

For those who are so blessed that they can eat all they want and never get fat, (the Ed Norton Syndrome)…I say up yours!

THE CLASSIC 39 "HONEYMOONER" EPISODES RAN THROUGH 1955 AND INTO 1956.  ART CARNEY (right) PLAYED ED NORTON THE EVER-SKINNY BOTTOMLESS PIT, OPPOSITE JACKIE GLEASON AS RALPH KRAMDEN.

Whether the rest of us blame bad genetics, a slow metabolism, the ever-popular and all encompassing “psychological disorders” or tough luck, the harsh truth is…it’s hard to lose weight and much more difficult to keep it off.

The cold hard fact is you must be honest with yourself. The dieter needs to understand that the correct mindset must be put in place before you make long term lifestyle changes. So the combination of eating healthy with a regular exercise regiment is only a part of the equation. The inspiring hit TV show, “THE BIGGEST LOSER,” should scream-out and prove to the staunchest nay-sayer that nobody should disqualify them self from looking better and feeling great.

SINCE 2004, THIS COMPETIVE TV SERIES PITS OBESE PEOPLE AGAINST EACH OTHER TO WIN A GRAND PRIZE.  ALTHOUGH THE CONTESTANTS ARE SEQUESTERED AWAY FROM REAL LIFE RESPONSIBILITIES, LAVISHED WITH PERSONAL TRAINERS AND LURED BY FAME, THE SHOW DEMONSTRATES TO THE REGULAR JOE THAT THROUGH HARD WORK AND DETERMINATION, ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.

Down through the eons, money savvy geniuses “feast” off the premise that overwhelmingly few people have the long term patience and willingness to make a realistic, permanent commitment.

One of the bosses at my job was addicted to the soft-serve (self-serve) ice cream machine. We work at night so when the unit broke-down at one in the morning, he left dozens of messages on the its customer service 800-hotline. He even came to work on his private time to oversee the afternoon repair and to be certain the job was done properly. It didn’t surprise me that he volunteered as a taste-tasting guinea pig until the various flavored products met up to his taste and texture criteria.

This same knucklehead eventually went on a diet. He’d carry special food from home, in a thermal box slung by a strap over his shoulder that was reminiscent of Johnny Appleseed.

JOHN "JOHNNY APPLESEED" CHAPMAN (1774-1845) WAS A MISSIONARY AND A GARDNER.  HE INTRODUCED APPLES TO THE THEN WESTERN TERRITORIES THAT ARE NOW OHIO, WEST VIRGINIA AND INDIANA.

This man, to his credit, lost eighty-something pounds. But what was so irksome about him was, his implied golden ticket to preach to the rest of us chubbies. This born-again authority on weight loss, on different occasions looked at my tray on the food line and said to me, “You’re not really going to eat THAT, are you?” Or, “You’re not going to eat ALL that, are you?” And my least favorite, “Either eat less or get a bigger shirt.”

Of course this man is enormous again. But due to economic cut backs, the ice cream machine, as well as the adjacent fixins’ bar are gone. So if the rumors are true, his sweet tooth pipeline to high calories is now being supplied by McDonald’s…who call him daily, twenty minutes before their chocolate chips cookies are ready.

I get my fat attacks too. So, I shouldn’t make fun of fad diets because I only get mileage from one gimmick, (the Atkins Diet. Also, the last time I saw the inside of a gym was two years ago,when I locked myself out of the house and a neighbor drove me to where my wife works out).

"THEY" SAY, GOING TO THE GYM REGULARLY WILL ADD TWO YEARS TO YOUR LIFE.  I SAY, NOT GOING TO THE GYM WILL ADD TWO YEARS OF LEISURE TIME TO YOUR LIFE.

I’m also, not a juicer or living off vitamin enriched shakes or smoothies. And of course, I don’t condone radical surgeries or amphetamines (to stimulate metabolism or lessen appetite).

What works for me is, plenty of protein while avoiding sugar and carbohydrates. These days, I'm on a bologna and American cheese for lunch kick.  I know it sounds ridiculous, especially when you consider my brand's nutitional facts chart is labeled; NONE!  Then below it, the content read, 10% meat, 95% fat and 8% byproducts, fillers and chemicals.  Something is out of whack there, so I doubled checked the numbers and I was tight, the math doesn't add up.  Still, my ultimate goal is to avoid looking like Mullins and his bouncy man-boobs...without killing myself some other way in the process. Hence, to be on the safe side and to make my endeavor livable, I mix in salads, fruit and vegetables.

I might have a slight advantage over others in my shoes in that when my weight hits 230, I develop acid reflux. This condition acts as a red flag, as it makes me feel lousy and hurts. So only a moron wouldn’t be compelled to do something about it. I may not be Einstein but recently, I’ve been smart enough to understand that the pain is coming. So rather than wait till I bottom out, I start my carnivorous bingeing at 225.

This scenario, after our Bermuda cruise, played out earlier this summer. So since July 4th, I have steadily lost weight from 226 to 215. But here’s the bug-a-boo!

The greatest thorn in the side of a dieter is the word; plateau. In this case, the plateau signifies a point on the scale where…even if you do everything correctly, you don’t seem (for weeks) to get under this number.

This past week, (after weeks of frustration) I dipped below 215. If you can’t relate, the one pound probably sounds silly. But in my world, it’s cause for celebration. My celebration in hopes of maintaining this victory, took the form of eating very little. I reminded myself of a little kid who has a puppy follow him home from school. When he shows the pooch to his mother he says, “Can we keep him?” Well that’s how I felt when I saw 214…can I keep it.

Well, I did keep it…for one day. Then the day after, I had mixed feelings about going to visit my son Andrew at college.

OBVIOUSLY I'D RATHER HAVE MY BOY AROUND. BUT WITH HIM AWAY,THE MYRIAD OF SNACKY TEMPTATIONS THAT FILLED MY PANTRY...HAVE VANISHED.  I EVEN DOUBLE-CHECKED THE VEGETABLE CRISPER IN THE FRIDGE, THAT'S WHERE MY WIFE SUE HID ANDREW'S SNICKERS BARS FROM ME.

The idea behind the get-to-together was to bring Andrew some necessary odds and ends that were left home while also taking him and his girlfriend Amanda to lunch. I actually lost sleep as my mind twisted and turned trying to figure out how to maintain my dietetic success in a restaurant environment without being a whiney stick in the mud.

Andrew and Amanda suggested Houlihan’s, a restaurant, bar in Lawrenceville. We had a great experience, the food was terrific, (I had prime rib, a baked potato and a salad) and Oona, our waiter was out going, knowledgeable and an expert server. So on top of having a great time, I ate like a king and only gained a pound (okay, a pound and a half).

The bigger picture is, I’m back home and ready to go back on my bologna and cheese diet. Trust me, I know a diet predicated on lunch meat and cheese is baloney. I’m also aware that the first Klondike bar within my reach will ruin me.

"THEY" SAY WHEN YOU'RE DIETING, GIVING IN TO JUNK FOOD WILL SET YOU BACK TWO WEEKS.

But until that moment of weakness happens, I’m forging ahead (or in this case, below) my new plateau of 214.

About ten years ago I reached 204 (for one day). But I have bigger fish to fry, I’m shooting for 199. I haven’t been under 200 since I hurt my back in January 1987.

I’m already picturing the celebration party with 199 candles in a can of generic tuna. Really no baloney and of course, no party of mine would ever serve my guests, bologna. At this time, I can’t tell you to save a date but hopefully it'll be in the summer. See you in sixteen pounds.

Plus, here's an added bonus for all attendees...my personal guarantee that I won't preach to you the value of weight loss.  And just in case some of you don't recognize me, I'll be the svelte gent in the Speedos !

HERE'S SOMETHING CHARLIEOPERA COULD NEVER FORGET

September is here and it brings two bits of great news. First, football season is upon us and second, the Feast of San Gennaro is just over the next horizon.

Unfortunately for me, my beloved New York Jets are projected to have still another miserable year. That forces me to remain focused into October, on my playoff bound New York Mets. Lordy-Lou, the Mets making the playoffs or even being relevent, has become a fantasy.  Hell, it's even tough to say with a straight face. That means, with the Jets and Mets out of the picture, I’m left to root (far less passionately) for my auxiliary football teams, the Redskins and 49ers. Or more likely, be entertained by the NFL for the sake of entertainment.

On the other hand, the Feast of San Gennaro, in Manhattan’s Little Italy, is a highly recommended New York City tradition. To mark this eleven-day block party’s, 87th anniversary, this year’s big event will be held from September 12th through the 22nd.

To varying degees and in their own way, other U.S. cities observe this holiday.  So San Gennaro's religious origins are sometines overlooked in contemporary society. Therefore its general significance has evolved to a celebration of Italian pride…more specifically, an appreciation for the faith and spirit of the countless immigrants who settled in Little Italy, during the early 1900s.

MULBERRY STREET (circa 1900).  I MARVEL HOW HOLLYWOOD USED THE SAN GENNARO FEAST AND THE ACTUAL STREET PERFECTLY, IN CAPTURING THE ABOVE VIBE IN, "THE GODFATHER II."

Remember to bring your appetite because the San Gennaro festivities include dozens of existing Italian restaurants, cafés and specialty shops. Plus temporary food stands cram Mulberry Street with ethnic fast-foods from around the world. Additionally, there is free entertainment, rides, souvenirs, religious ceremonies and parades.

OUR LAST VISIT WAS 2009.  NOTHING BEATS THE AROMA OF SIZZLING SAUSAGE, PEPPERS AND ONIONS FROM FORTY CONCESSION STANDS.  EVEN IF YOU STRAY ACROSS CANAL STREET AND HAVE LUNCH IN CHINATOWN, YOU CAN STILL HAVE A GREAT DESSERT AT SAN GENNARO...ESPRESSO AND CANNOLIS GO WELL WITH EVERYTHING...WELL, MAYBE NOT BORSCHT, BITTER HERBS AND GEFILTE FISH.

There is one person I know who shares the same appreciation for the NFL and the San Gennaro Feast…and that’s my friend, crime novelist Charlie Stella, (a.k.a. CHARLIEOPERA). This pass week, Charlie and I had a long overdue meeting which included him accompanying me to the New Jersey Casino Control Commission, a walk on the Atlantic City boardwalk and lunch with MRS.OPERA, at the Tropicana Casino.

I don’t get out much, so this four-hour laugh-a-thon was exactly the medicine I needed to combat my doldrums. Charlie's face lit-up when I mentioned San Gennaro.  He said, "I know a guy who knows a guy on Grand Street who makes the best suffrite."  I said, "What's suffrite?"  He said, "It tastes great but the secret ingredients are so disgusting that if I told you the recipe, I WOULDN'T have to kill you...you'd gladly do it yourself."  When we switched to football, a small part of our conversation included commiserating each other on our inept teams, (his Buffalo Bills...my Jets).

If Charlie didn’t piss me off twice, it would have been the perfect outing. First, for some strange reason, he now insists in calling me Stevie. I spent a good deal of my adolescence trying to wean my mother off calling me that. After wasting tons of money on beaucoup hours of therapy, I learned the hard way that regardless how she referred to me, I’ll always be mama’s little boy.

So I confronted Charlie and insisted he stop. As the lovely and talented Mrs. Opera might say of Charlie, "My big galoot is a funny, generous, sensitive, caring person...with sociopath tendencies." So I shouldn't have been surprised when he apologized by smirking, “I won’t call you that anymore…Stevie.”

His second dagger in my side was him doubting my memory. Nothing riles “Instant Recall” Edelblum more than being challenged on a point that his is certain of. Of course, even as a storehouse of useless information, I don’t claim to be perfect, (in last week’s Disney blog, RBOY made several noteworthy corrections).  But Charlie's long and short-term memory might have been affected by millions of head hits he endured while playing college football at Minot State (North Dakota)  Plus he was already swilling a third Dos Equis beer during our chat.  Our brewing argument was delayed when he belched, "I only drink this crap because I like the 'most interesting man in the world' commercials." 

WHEN CHARLIE RATTLED OFF SOME CATCHPHRASES FROM THE COMMERCIAL SERIES, I ADDED, "HE'S SO INTERESTING, HIS MOTHER HAS A TATTOO THAT SAYS, 'SON.'"

Charlie responded by rolling down his sleeve and showing me his work in progress.  It was a tattoo of the Buffalo Bills' Mount Rushmore.  I'm not a body art fan but this detailed modification of the landmark was truly artistic...except it was unfinished. Like the familiar images of Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson and Teddy Roosevelt, I saw Jack Kemp, Thurman Thomas and Jim Kelly.  But the last face was left blank.  I said, "I guess you're reserving that space for O. J."  Charlie said, "HELL NO!  The Butcher of Brentwood will never defile my bicep.  I'm just waiting for some new guy to take us (the Bills) to the promised land."  I joked, "It might be a long wait."  Charlie just gave me the malocchio, (Italian evil, dirty look).

Our conversation (difference of opinion) went back on point.  The debated topic dates back forty years when Charlie and I were both Canarsie Chiefs on our high school football team, (he was a year behind me). When Charlie reminded me that he missed his entire junior season (my senior year) due to an injury, an "Instant Recall Edelblum" red flag went up.  I said, “That means, we were NEVER on the field at the same time.” I won’t bore you with the details of our screaming profanity-filled argument that ensued. All you need to know is, I’m right and he’s wrong!

Down through the years, I thought Charlie might’ve been on my JV squad as a freshman. But he assures me that as a ninth grader, he was still attending the, "OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL MENSTRUAL CRAMPS MIDDLE SCHOOL."  So, in the spirit of camaraderie, now that I know he wasn't there, I'll share with him (and you) a deep dark secret from my JV (sophomore) season, guaranteed to be remembered, even by Charlie, for a long time.

TO ASSIST CHARLIE IN REGAINING LUCIDITY, I SUBMIT THIS 2002 PHOTO OF MY SON ANDREW.  IN HONOR OF MY MOTHER'S 72nd BIRTHDAY, HE'S WEARING MY JV (SOPHOMORE YEAR 1970) GAME JERSEY, (CHARLIE WASN'T IN CANARSIE HIGH YET).  IN HIS RIGHT HAND IS MY JUNIOR YEAR (1971), VARSITY JERSEY, (THAT SEASON, CHARLIE WAS ON THE JV).  IN MY BOY'S LEFT HAND, IS MY SENIOR JERSEY (1972).  CHARLIE MISSED THAT ENTIRE YEAR DUE TO AN INJURY. 

My deep dark secret dates back to early September 1970.  Our school’s first ever (barely funded) JV football team (without buses) piled into the cars of parents and were taken to the Bronx. Our premiere action versus a live opponent, was a scrimmage (practice game) against the Governors, of DeWitt Clinton High School.

DeWITT CLINTON (1769-1828) WAS THE GOVERNOR OF NEW YORK (1817-1822).  A NATURALIST AND PROGESSIVE THINKER, HE PRIORITIZED IMPROVING THE STATE'S INFRASTRUCTURE AS A PATH TO ECONOMIC GROWTH AND A BETTER WAY OF LIFE.  HE IS CREDITED WITH THE FORESIGHT TO BUILD THE ERIE CANAL.  I'M POSITIVE, ELIOT SPITZER WILL NEVER HAVE A HIGH SCHOOL NAMED AFTER HIM!

During the week before our debut, wise guys from the varsity had filled our (my) naive head with propaganda. The nonsense that stuck in my brain centered on the fact that DeWitt Clinton was all-boys. We all knew that parochial schools weren’t co-ed but I was told that the fact that Clinton had no female students and was public...that meant it was a "reform school." As soon as I was duped into believing that it was a reform school, I drew my own conclusion that all the students were juvenile delinquents and future criminals.

To intensify the fearful butterflies in my stomach, the car I was driven-up in, also had MIKE85 and NICK9. When I whispered that we were playing a bunch of depraved, drug-ravaged desperadoes with nothing in life to lose, they nodded in agreement. Hell, I was immature and inexperienced so the mind games took an immediate toll on me. Maybe the 1974 movie, “THE LONGEST YARD,” was inspired by someone else going through similar trepidation that I was going through.

SET IN A PRISON, THE ORIGINAL "LONGEST YARD" WAS A COMEDY. IT FEATURED A FOOTBALL GAME WITH THE SYMPATHETIC INMATES GOING AGAINST THE PRISON GUARD BADDIES.THE 2005 RE-MAKE WAS FAR LESS FUNNY.

My first eerie glimpse of DeWitt Clinton High School, is as clear in my mind today as it was forty-three years ago. Against the beautiful blue sky and harmless puffy clouds of that Saturday morning, the old and ugly, red brick school, like a penitentiary, sat on an isolated perch, atop a barren hill.

In a parking lot, along side the buses that brought the varsity, I got out of the cramped back seat of a 1960 Ford Comet and joined some teammates. Most of them had experience in organized football so my Baptism under fire was no big deal to them. But in the short time before the others arrived, a tingly nervousness excitement invaded me.

I marveled at the sharp playing field (complete with an electronic scoreboard) and the perceived extravagance of a separate practice facility, (we had no home field and practiced in an open expanse, in Seaview Park...complete with broken glass, rusty beer cans and assorted litter than included the occasional spent condom...they were called prophylactics back then).

When I turned away from Clinton's sports complex, I noticed, the ancient-looking, gothic, vaulted entrance that led into the bowels of the school’s basement.

When all twenty-two JV players were accounted for, the coach gave us an uninspiring rah-rah pep-talk and led us to the ominous, gothic slit in the building.  My (our) eyes had trouble adjusting from the brightness into the dark.  Confusedly, while toting our equipment-filled duffle-bags over our shoulders, we entered the foreign territory of a long, narrow, stone-faced corridor. Immediately, the loud blare of a record player bombarded our ears with segments from classic Knute Rockne, pre-game, locker room motivational speeches. The ultimate psych-out, I'm getting goose bumps typing these cob-web filled memories as I recall their impact on my previously mentioned jitters.

KNUTE ROCKNE (1888-1931) IS REGARDED AS ONE OF THE GREATEST COLLEGE (NOTRE DAME) FOOTBALL COACHES OF ALL TIME.  IN ADDITION TO STRATEGIC INNOVATIONS, HE IS EVEN BETTER KNOWN AS A TREMENDOUS MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER, (PARTICULARLY HIS, "WIN ONE FOR THE GIPPER SPEECH.")  UNFORTUNATELY, ROCKNE SUFFERED A BIZARRE DEATH...IN A PLANE CRASH, IN BAZAAR KANSAS...HE WAS FORTY-THREE.

Rockne’s gifted words felt like they were intended just to churn and burn my innards. “We’ll beat’em on the ground, we’ll beat’em in the air, we’ll annihilate them all over the field…” Then when my eyes got used to the dimly lit dungeon-like hallway, I saw three, well-spaced, forty watt bulbs in the ceiling. When I looked down, I noticed, in the tight quarters, the entire Clinton team, seated in full uniform, lining each side of the passage with their out-stretched legs interlocked with the player across from them.

My heart was racing as I carefully tip-toed behind a teammate.  Rockne's voice continued to fire-up our opposition who were now rhythmically slapping their thigh pads in unison. It was intimidating to think that one false step on a stray ankle could ignite World War Three.  I felt a gurgling rumble in my belly when I envisioned, in that confined space, a bloody, if not deadly riot featuring our enemy swinging their helmets against our defenseless heads.

The massacre never happened but my internal damage was worsening.  At the end of this long, dangerous tunnel, the door to the visitor lockers was the most welcome sight I ever saw in my fifteen-year life. Inside brought quiet, open spaces.  My instincts caused me to scan the lay of the land.  In seconds, beyond the sea of battleship gray cubbies, I spied a glimpse of salvation, a tiled floor; coincidentally in Canarsie Chief light blue and navy colors.  A sudden torturous, sharp impulse of pain electrified my mid-section.  I was doubled-over as I scurried into a room full of unoccupied toilet stalls. I may not have been a fast runner but nobody was ever quicker.  Luckily for me, every second I shaved off my time paid-off because simultaneously as I sat at ground-zero, a Mount Vesuvius-like volcano exploded from the most remote abyss inside me. 

I’m so glad I side-stepped life's ultimate embarrassment, because I’m sure if my situation turned out different, I would have been immortalized in Canarsie football lore…for all the wrong reasons.

By the way, we kicked the crap out of Clinton that day…the JV included. I guess their coach retired the Knute Rockne psyche job because it’s a really stupid thing if you always lose. So each of the next two years, we went up there again and beat the tar out of them both times.  Additionally, my expectation about Clinton came true. In 2010, it had the distinction of having, New York City's, "Most Heavily Armed Student Body."  This assertion as well awful test grades almost caused this historic institution (since 1897) to close.

So because the statute of limitations on "almost soiling myself" has run-out decades ago, I'm willing to share my near-crappy event with CHARLIEOPERA and the world.  Unfortunately for me, Charlie will bust my stones over this...and far worse, this'll be the one thing that he NEVER forgets.   Plus, I'll be reminding him forever that he CAN'T call me Stevie!

LEONARD ZELIG SHOULD HAVE BEEN A MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER FOR DISNEY EMPLOYEES

It’s funny, the pressure of fitting in, usually causes people to stand out.

In June 1974, RBOY and I, in the comfort and safety of his parents’ car, set out for our grand adventure, a working summer vacation at Disneyworld. His folks were going somewhere in North Carolina and were kind enough to drop us off, (about halfway to our destination), at the Rocky Mount Greyhound station.

RBOY and I weren’t in this small town (Rocky Mount) to exercise our liberalism, introduce the deep south to hippie-ism or impress anyone with our Canarsie savvy. All we wanted to do was get on a bus and go to Disney. In retrospect, between our clothing and accents, I think the very Yankee swagger we prioritized hiding, burnt like a fluorescent neon beacon for all to see.

The depot wasn’t a hub so it catered to Tar Heel commuters.

IT'S BELIEVED THAT THE TAR HEEL NICKNAME IS DERIVED FROM THE TAR, PITCH AND TURPENTINE PRODUCTS THAT ARE MADE FROM NORTH CAROLINA PINE FORESTS.  ALSO IT ALSO SERVES AS A COMPLMENT TO LOCAL CIVIL WAR SOLDIERS WHO STOOD THEIR GROUND AS IF THEY HAD TAR ON THEIR HEELS.

Few amenities like electronic signs lavished this time-warped bus station. That meant overwhelmingly, the regular customers had a firm idea of where and when they were going and didn’t need fancy gadgets to help them. In the rare circumstance that foreigners like us were passing through, if they (us) weren’t clever enough to ask which bay (there were only four) their (our) bus was departing from; they (us) became reliant on garbled PA announcements that were laden by a thick Southern-twang.

We didn’t know where to go. I looked back at the stiff lady in the retro-1960’s beehive hairdo who sold us our tickets. She had nobody on her line but rather than give me eye-contact, she busied herself by adjusting the chain that held her cat woman glasses around her neck. I was intimidated enough by her to point outside and suggest to RBOY, “Let’s ask him.”

A driver with a leathery face and graying blond hair was off-loading packages from the bowels of a bus marked, “DEADHEAD.” RBOY said, “Excuse me sir.  Which is the bus to Orlando Florida?” The man took a long, thoughtful drag off the last nub of an unfiltered cigarette. Then he crowed in a loud Foghorn Leghorn-like voice, “I wouldn’t eat at issy-here lunch counter. Over yonder is a right-nice café and today is grilled ham-n-cheese with hush puppies day.”

FOGHORN J. LEGHORN WAS A LOONEY TUNES CHARACTER.  THIS BLUSTERY, LOUD-MOUTHED BRAGGART WITH A SOUTHERN ACCENT APPEARED IN 28 CARTOONS DURING THE GOLDEN AGE OF ANIMATION (1946-1963).

At the time, we thought the driver's answer made him an idiot. But over the years, I’ve come to believe, he was just putting us northern boys on.

In the wee hours of the following morning, we had a long layover in Jacksonville Florida. To kill time, RBOY and I left the bright, modern terminal and sat out on the curb. We stared off into the vast dark abyss of an open field and discussed our fear of the unknown.

A few hours later, that unknown was upon us as we switched buses in Orlando. At 10:00AM, the express to Disney dropped us off at the employment office. The scary part started as we hurdled forward, full of naïve excitement and lugged our luggage inside. Beyond a pleasant reception area, a sea of prim and proper teenage hopefuls, in their Sunday best, were completing applications or waiting to be interviewed.

RBOY and I were operating on pure adrenaline. We were dirty, in need of a shave and burnt-out from our 24-hours on the road. I was expecting to be immediately rejected because it was impossible to blend-in when you’re the only ones toting suitcases. Our competition, (the boys were in suits and the girls in conservative dresses) stared at us with open mouths as we strolled in wearing shorts, tee-shirts and sneakers. Still, we were treated like the others and eventually made it to an interviewer.

To help us further stand out, we insisted on being questioned together because if only one of us was hired neither of us would take the job. Interestingly, despite all the obvious obstacles, they were ready to hire us both, (either flipping burgers or sweeping the floor). However, we raised a red flag by leaving two glaring omissions in the paperwork (a local address and the question regarding transportation).

When we blankly shrugged, the interviewer sifted through his rolodex and said, “Call this place. They have limited availability. If you get lucky, they only rent to Disney employees and provide a shuttle to the park.”

This defunct motel was converted into the “Young American Inn (YAI).” We would soon learn the YAI was perfect for us, especially the $95.00 a month rent that we could split. Plus, they still had some vacancies. The problem was, they wouldn’t give us the room without a job and Disney wouldn’t hire us without a place to live. RBOY realized this CATCH-22 and took the bull by the horns. He eliminated the middle man (us) and had the two sides hash it out.

At a time when minimum wage was $2.25/hour, RBOY and I became sweepers on the 4:00PM till midnight shift, at $2.40/hour. We were both offered an additional nickel an hour to follow the parade horses. RBOY and I, in a unanimous vote, turned down this opportunity to stand out among the peons while giving up a perceived fast-track for upward mobility as well as the big salary boost.

Once RBOY and I were in our “clean-up” staff uniforms, we never had to worry about our uniqueness.


DISNEY HAD A STRICT DRESS-CODE AND AN EVEN MORE STRINGIENT PERSONAL APPEARANCE POLICY.  NEVERTHELESS, THEY NEVER CAUGHT ON TO ME POLISHING MY BROWN SHIT-KICKERS (above) BLACK.  HOWEVER, TO AVOID BEING FORCED TO WORK "UNDERGROUND," I BUTTONED MY SHIRT TO THE TOP, THE TIME I REPORTED TO WORK WITH A HICKEY ON MY NECK.

 We were assigned to the same department but our responsibilities and locations were different. My T-shaped territory was sweeping the floor in Fantasyland. I had the ramps through Cinderella’s castle then right to the Le Mans Speedway and left to the Swiss Sky Ride.

RBOY worked in Adventureland. He was in charge of refilling the paper products in the restrooms and reporting overflowed toilets and sinks. We were both trained in the procedure for dealing with vomit and shown where a product called Zip-Zorb was stored. I just put that scenario out of my mind because I’d run in the opposite direction if I had to deal with that, (trust me, if I was confronted by such a problem, I would double the need for Zip-Zorb).

My supervisor also demonstrated how to close the umbrellas on the snack tables. In the late afternoon, like clockwork, the wind kicks up in Central Florida and a brief squall, usually accompanied by an electrical storm stops everything in the park.

I thought my standing out days were over. But when it came time to close all those umbrellas, all my fellow sweepers were nowhere to be seen. I made matters worse by catching my finger in the umbrella’s fold-down mechanism and nipped-off a chunk of skin.

Later, I complained about my painful injury to a coworker. He winked and said, “Don’t be a chump. Let someone else do it. You don’t want to risk getting hit by lightning. Next time go up to the Swiss Sky Ride.” The following day, at the first sound of thunder, the guests evacuated the rides and sought shelter. I followed a sweeper up the ramp to Swiss Sky Ride and found ten other sweepers, (goof-offs I never saw) sitting on the floor,(hiding), smoking cigarettes and telling ribald stories at the expense of the company. I suddenly realized that not everyone thought it was a privilege to work for the “Tragic Kingdom” and “The Rat.”

When RBOY and I received our first paycheck, we net $78.38. I was already disillusioned that we had to pay for our daily meal but I was unhappily surprised that we weren’t paid for our forty-five minute lunch break.

In my second week, another supervisor (Kurt Doctor) heard that I was a fantastic worker, (everyone else did nothing, so I stood out because I did something). He was shorthanded, so he recruited me to work on Main Street for a day. Apparently, I had a say in the matter because he kept telling how great I was and could work for him if I wanted. I had gotten used to working Fantasyland without being bothered. I wanted to stay anonymous but Kurt liked me.  I didn't care that he implied that he could help me get ahead.  All I cared about was that he was an overbearing jerk. I just wanted to keep a low profile, get through the shift and return to my normal duties.

At one point, Mr. Gung-Ho gave me his walkie-talkie and said, “While I’m on break, you’re my number one man.” For a few seconds I was taken in by the power trip. Then I was annoyed by the continuous, unintelligible squawk of the radio, (to make matters worse, if there was a terrible emergency, I didn’t know how to use it).

Kurt was supposed to be back in thirty minutes. An hour later, I saw him hustling across the street carrying a camera bag. Later, I asked him about the bag. He stammered, “Y-you must have mistaken me for someone else.” Kurt never recruited me again.

Later that night, I wandered into the arcade and watched people play pinball. In an empty corner, I spotted a quarter on the floor.  It didn't feel right to grab it.   When I found two more, I swept them up.  Then I went back to the first and pocketed it too.

A week passed and I told Carol who worked at the photo shop about Kurt. She didn’t know him but said, “He probably found it (the camera bag) and was going to keep it.” I was thinking; so much for the high moral fiber of middle America, as she added, “Did you know management leaves fake wallets around and spies on the employees to see what they do with them? I guess your friend Kurt didn’t care especially if there was a four-hundred dollar Nikkon in the bag plus a bunch of expensive lenses.” I was bewildered and said, “No.” She added, “Lost and found is another scam. A valuable item like a gold pocket watch is turned in and the kid behind the counter calls a friend or relative. An hour later when this kid is on break, their accomplice describes the lost piece to innocent third party and goes home with it.”

Carol sensed that I was stunned by the Disney hypocrisy and said, “You know Peggy my new supervisor, right?” I nodded and she continued, “Didn’t you just go through orientation with her…” I finished her sentence by saying, “And you can’t request a departmental transfer or apply for a promotion until you have been employed ninety days.” She sighed, “It’s the same who-you-know bullshit here…as anywhere else.”

I was sweeping off a bench at the Dumbo ride when I found a white, plastic package. It wouldn’t fit in my dust bin so I picked it up. It was warm and squishy. I was trying to figure out what it was when two moms started cackling and pointing at me. That’s the exact moment I learned what Pampers were. In embarrassment, I hustled to the, It’s a Small World ride.


THIS MUSICAL BOAT RIDE FEATURED BRIGHTLY COSTUMED AUDIO-ANIMATRONIC DOLLS FROLICKING IN THE SPIRIT OF INTERNATIONAL UNITY.  THE REPETITIVE THEME SONG WAS SO ANNOYING THAT I USALLY STAYED AWAY FROM IT.  SO WITH THAT IN MIND, I'LL SPARE YOU BY NOT INCLUDING IT.


The ground around the ticket taker station was heavily littered with entry tickets. From a near distance, I watched the ticket taker. He was in business for himself. Many times, I witnessed him pretend to tear them in half and miss tossing the still-good tickets in his trash can. When there was a break in the line, he scooped up as many as he could and stuffed them in his pocket.

I timed my approach and when he was busy I arrived. He said, “That’s okay, I’ll sweep up later.” I knew he was powerless to stop me and said, “No biggie, let me do it for you.”

Soon I noticed this racket was happening all over Fantasyland. After I amassed a gazillion free tickets, I used some on a date to the park. I mailed a ton to my aunt in Brooklyn and still had more than I can ever use.

Carol introduced me to a girlfriend who worked in a gift shop. She needed a shit-load of tickets. I gave her everything I had left without asking for anything in exchange. She said, “Next time you visit the park, come to my register with all the stuff you want…and make sure you get a bumper sticker.” RBOY and I showed up and we weren’t pigs but we both got two tee-shirts for the price of a fifty-cent bumper sticker.

It wasn’t even the 4th of July yet and the 8 ¾ hour shift plus the ninety-minute commute in each direction was getting tiresome. This was supposed to be a working vacation but I had no time to spend the little money I was making.

Two former Disney employees who lived in our complex put the idea in my head that there was a better way. Rob and Donnie were Laurel and Hardy-like guys from South Carolina. They quit Disney because of all the bullshit and got jobs as waiters at Red Lobster. I said, “Are they still hiring?” Donnie who spoke so slowly that when he pronounced the make of his car (Ford), it sounded like he was saying, “forward,” said, “There’s only one way to find out.”

Due a combination of laziness and stupidity, I didn’t follow through on this golden opportunity.

The next day at Disney, my destiny changed. I was sweeping in front of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and I found a clump of money on the floor. A ten-dollar bill was on the outside. Like a toad zipping his tongue at an unsuspecting insect, I swept the cash into my dust bin…and ran like a thief to the privacy of a toilet stall. My heart was racing as I unraveled my new found booty. It was a ten, two fives and two ones. What a coincidence that was exactly what I already had in my pocket. “Ugh,” I groaned. When I realized, I found my own money, I was disgusted in myself! I wanted so badly to blend in and took it too far by becoming one of them.

My situation took an odd twist an hour later when I was sent to my department head’s office. My big boss was around twenty-three and named Gaylord, (he was to this day, the only Gaylord I ever met). Gaylord was a six-foot-six stick. Between his crooked yellow teeth, awful face full of purple berry-like acne and enormous pulsating Adams apple, it was hard to take him seriously. Especially when he spoke even slower than South Carolina Donnie when he said, “Son, I got a report that you haven’t been smiling enough.” He saw the shock on my face and added, “Don’t worry, this isn’t a written reprimand, it's more like constructive criticism.” I said, “Okay.” He correctly sensed that I had something on my mind because as I was leaving it took what seemed like twenty minutes to say, “Don’t burn down your bridges. You can have a bright tomorrow here at Disney.”

Before work the next day I ran to Red Lobster and was hired. That night I reported to my immediate Disney supervisor and announced that it was my last day. The rest of the summer, I worked five-hour shifts and cleared more in two days than I made all week at Disney. Plus, I ate like a king and was driven by Rob and Donnie the five minutes back and forth to work. And talk about standing out in a crowd, I opened a bank account and saved over $600.00 to come home with.

ROB (left) AND DONNIE (center) WERE FROM SUCH A SMALL MAYBERRY-LIKE TOWN THAT IN 1974, THEY STILL USED A CRANK TO ACTIVATE THEIR TELEPHONES, MABEL THE SWITCHBOARD OPERATOR RECOGNIZED EVERYONE BY THEIR VOICE AND ALL THE PHONE NUMBERS HAD ONLY FIVE NUMBERS.

I think Leonard Zelig would have made a great motivational speaker for Disney employees.

"ZELIG" IS AN UNSUNG WOODY ALLEN GEM.  THIS 3 AND A HALF STAR DOCUMENTARY FARCE FROM 1983, IS ABOUT LEONARD ZELIG, A MAN IN THE 1920's WITH THE UNCANNY ABILITY TO BECOME AND ACT LIKE WHOEVER HE'S AROUND.  WHILE DOCTORS TRY TO FIGURE OUT THE MEDICAL CAUSE, ZELIG REALIZES IT BETTER TO BE YOUR OWN PERSON THAN A HUMAN-CHAMELEON.

In the long run, we all want to fit in.  But in reality, we're best served if we follow our own dreams.