WTF ! WOK THRUSTING FIRE !

Last Thursday, (February 13th), my wife Sue and I enjoyed a double celebration. We observed the 25th anniversary of moving into our house, (February 10th), at the same time as Valentine’s Day, (February 14th).

The time has gone by in a flash so the crazy process of getting our house built is fresh in my mind. The obstacles we met to qualify for our loan, (on meager salaries), was difficult to overcome. Then we had to increasingly badger the builder because his delays were jeopardizing the great, time-sensitive loan we locked-in. But my clearest memory was the circumstances that surrounded the first time I saw my partially built, future home.

SUE AND I WENT HOUSE SHOPPING SO LONG AGO THAT THE NAME OF OUR TOWN, HADN'T CHANGED YET FROM ABSECON HIGHLANDS TO GALLOWAY. (above) IN EARLY 1988, BEFORE GROUND WAS BROKEN, THIS WAS THE PARCEL OF LAND WE SELECTED.

Sue and I were renting an apartmrent nearby. So in the hope of getting a sneak peek at our new digs, it was a easy drive to the construction site. Unfortunately, a security guard in a trailer blocked the dirt road into our future, ninety-six home sub-division. Therefore, whatever progress was being made on the houses close to the entrance, we had to assume was being made on ours.

On the Fourth of July 1988, (six months before the house was finished), my folks came to visit. In the early evening we went out for dinner. Along the way, I thought it would be exciting to show them the street we would be moving onto. Lucky for us, due to the holiday, there was no guard on duty. I drove around the chain that bore a “DO NOT ENTER” sign and was able to continue up the sandy, dirt road. Around the bend, our homestead was the seventh lot off the corner.

(stock photo) THE REASON SIGNS LIKE THIS ARE PUT UP, IS COMPANIES WANT TO AVOID MISHAPS BY UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES AND THE LAWSUITS THEY BRING.

The four of us shared a first glimpse at our raw property. The skeletal house had no walls, windows or doors and a rudimentary, handmade ladder linked the bedrooms upstairs to ground level. The show didn’t last long so we piled back in my Chevy. But the car wouldn’t go. The tires couldn’t get traction in the soft beach-like sand. Sue took the wheel and dad and I got filthy pushing my car out of the rut. So without getting a tow truck involved...unless we were going to sue over losing four minutes of our lives or getting dusty, our unauthorized vehicle adventure never became a federal case.

Months later, through Sue and I’s pushiness, we went to closing on the last day of our favorable loan. Had we failed, a new loan would have cost us 3/8 of another percentage point.

To incorporate Valentine’s Day into last week’s double celebration, we bought lobster tails, clams, scallops and shrimp, (Valentine dinners should feature a red food), I cooked them all together and we feasted in honor of our house's silver anniversary and the Valentine symbol of our love.

My special dinner wasn’t a complete success. Think back, did your mother ever tell you to NEVER buy frozen fish? I hope you listened because I didn’t and I got burned with two nasty tasting lobster tails, (the fact that we returned them for a full refund is secondary).

While it’s true the lobsters were the focal point of last week’s Valentine’s Day dinner, we still ate well. But the temporary inconvenience of not having it all, steered our conversation to another dinner disaster, at the apartment we lived in from 1986-1988.

Sue and I moved into, “THE CLUBS” after one year (1985) at the Sunrise Bay Apartments. In the early eighties, the Clubs were built as a series of housing developments designed to accommodate workers in burgeoning Atlantic City.

Our complex, the Club at Mattix Crossing was new. It included a pool, a community recreation room, wooded bicycle paths and lit tennis courts. Our unit was on the second floor, (of one of five, three-tiered buildings). Further along were single family homes and then a huge, teardrop-shaped loop of townhouses.

OUR BUILDING WAS IDENTICAL TO THIS ONE. WHEN WE MOVED IN, IT WAS NICE PLACE TO LIVE...TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER...NOT SO MUCH.

Before taking possession of that new apartment, I recall going up the exterior staircase for the first time.  At the landing, I noticed Astroturf extended down the covered hall to our front door, (rear left). I commented to the management representative, "If this turf was a slightly deeper shade of green, it would look like real grass." The rep said, “The best part about it will be in summer when you can get the mail without shoes and don't burn your feet.”

Some time after we settled in, Sue was inspired to cook oriental-styled dishes by an Asian coworker. Her friend gave her some stir-fry recipes. The meal was pretty good but it lacked the pizzazz you get from an authentic Chinese restaurant. It was brought to Sue’s attention that the key ingredient to that method of cooking…was to use a wok.

Sue bought a wok. The first time she used it, I was keeping her company in the kitchen. With each passing moment, the whole apartment filled with an ever-improving, delectable scent of vegetables and shrimp. My mouth was watering.

YUMMY, JUST IMAGINING A PLATE OF LUSCIOUSNESS LIKE THIS, IS ENOUGH TO MAKE YOUR HEAD SPIN IN HAPPINESS.

I was setting the table as Sue lifted the lid to check the progress. Incredibly, flames thrust up to the ceiling. I figured the recipe didn't call for an actual dragon breathing fire as Sue hustled towards me holding the lid. I yelled, “No, put the lid back on.” In the scant seconds before she did, the kitchen filled with billowing gray fumes that activated the smoke alarm. The lid smothered the blaze but the wall to the ceiling and neighboring cabinets were charred. In a panic, I got two pot holders and took the whole smoldering kit and caboodle outside.

Sue speculated that she used too much oil. I turned on the exhaust fan and opened all the windows. The choking haze lingered and it seemed like an eternity until the piercing alarm went off. We got cleansers and overwhelmingly wiped away the sooty smudges. There was so little actual damage that I matter-of-factly called up for pizza. I was pleased how we avoided burning down the building and covered-up most of the fiery evidence. While waiting for our “Plan-B,” dinner to be delivered, we relaxed and watched TV.

Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang. The glossy-eyed stoner pizza guy pointed to the wok in front of our door and said, “Phew, I can smell why you called us.” He was right. The strange foulness was nauseating but I didn’t address the situation even when he asked, “Who shit himself?”

I recognized that the stink was different from the burnt food or smoke but my curiosity was trumped by hunger, so I wouldn’t mention anything to Sue until after eating.

We had the pizza in the bedroom, as far from the reeking kitchen as possible and closed the door. About an hour after our potential calamity, I suggested checking on the wok.

The disgusting odor was less strong but still painfully obvious. I experimented by dabbing my finger on the wok’s wall…it was cold. I lifted the lid and the contents almost looked edible. Sue said, “We gotta clean this up.” I grabbed the wok by its handles…but it mysteriously wouldn’t move. I took a better grip but it felt like it was screwed to the floor. Finally, I forced it and ripped it off the ground.

For several seconds we were bewildered...the wok’s hot base had melted the synthetic carpet. Our mouths gaped in amazement when we realized that a perfect circle had been burnt through the turf, down to the raw plywood. Now cool, the molten goop had gelled and permanently affixed itself as a green globular mass to the wok’s bottom.

I tried to pry the re-formed Astroturf off the underside of the wok. Like a fifty-year old barnacle, the forest green blob wouldn’t budge.  So I tossed the whole mess into the dumpster.

In the morning, I reported the incident to the management office as an apparent act of petty vandalism. A representative came out to investigate. He was clueless how such a distinct shape could be cut-away from the fake rug. I played dumb (it unfortunately comes so natural to me). A month later, workmen came by with a round patch of Astroturf, (a mismatched green) and *refilled the hole.

* YESTERDAY, MY CURIOSITY GOT THE BETTER OF ME.  I VISITED THE BURN SITE FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE MOVING OUT...SOMETHING TOLD ME, IT WOULD STILL BE THERE, SO I BROUGHT MY CAMERA. WELL, WITH A TOUCH OF AMBIVALENCE, I REPORT THAT THE WHOLE CARPET HAS BEEN REPLACED...NO PHOTO NECESSARY.

This little episode never came back to haunt us until we gave up the apartment. Sue and I were freaking out as the landlord had his meticulous, final walk-through to inspect for damage.  But as thorough as he was, he didn’t notice the traces of ashy residue stains, on the inside of the cabinets above the stove.

Twenty-five years later, we have managed to avoid burning down this house. But like my mother said about NEVER buying frozen seafood, she also said, “Make sure you have a fire extinguisher in your kitchen."  And we still don’t.

More importantly, HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

CHERISH EVERY MOMENT BECAUSE YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOUR APARTMENT IS GOING TO CATCH ON FIRE.  MAKE EVEN THE SIMPLEST THINGS AN ADVENTURE BECAUSE IT'S BETTER TO BE "OUT THERE" THAN LETTING BOREDOM RULE YOU. SO AS LONG AS YOU CAN NAVIGATE AROUND LIFE'S REAL CATASTROPHES, BE PREPARED TO SEE THE HUMOR IN ALL YOUR SCREW-UPS. AND IF YOU DO THESE LITTLE THINGS, YOU AND YOUR SPECIAL SOMEBODY WILL HAVE ENDURING MEMORIES THAT WILL DEFINE YOUR RELATIONSHIP AND LAST FOREVER.

And of course, choose your red food carefully.

DON'T CALL HIM, "ONION DAN."

I watch a lot of old movies. Since 1994, my favorite source is a free cable-TV network, “TURNER CLASSIC MOVIES (TCM). One of their annual special events is called, “THIRTY-ONE DAYS OF OSCAR.”

EACH YEAR, TCM CONVERTS THE SHORTEST MONTH (LEADING UP TO THE ACADEMY AWARDS CEREMONY), INTO A CLEVER GIMMICK CALLED, "31 DAYS OF OSCAR." THIS UNIQUE CELEBRATION FEATURES ONLY OSCAR-WORTHY FILMS.

Oddly, during this fantastic span, there’s no guarantee that you’ll spot a tasty morsel. Last week, I fell into one of those lulls in the programming, until I scanned TCM's upcoming schedule. I saw that 1970’s, “LITTLE BIG MAN,” starring Dustin Hoffman was coming on that night.

NEITHER THE FILM NOR HOFFMAN WON AN OSCAR BUT THEY SHOULD HAVE.

Before show time, I referred to my colassal movie book and read the Little Big Man description. While I'm guilty of watching my favorites a gazillion times, I realized that this one had slipped through the cracks. I’m sure I never saw one frame of this flick, EVER! When it came on, I was enraptured immediately and hardly took my eyes off it for two and a quarter hours.

This film is a wild, rollicking adventure, set in the American west. If it was nothing else, it would stand on its own as an exciting fantasy featuring stunning, on-location photography. But once you peel away the rousing excitement, the humor, the sad commentary of the human condition and our unique sensitivity and spirituality that guides us through every day…the movie’s inner theme leaves us with one unfortunate notion…everyone’s full of shit!

In childhood, it is correctly instilled in us that the only true way to get from Point-A to Point-B in the game of life is…to treat everyone as you would expect to be treated. “Little Big Man,” teaches us that message too but also warns us to be prepared for the disappointment when the agenda of others prevents our idealism from materializing.

NO SPOILER ALERT NECESSARY…I won’t be giving away much.

The plot is framed by Dustin Hoffman’s character, (Jack Crabb), being a 121-year old man. A journalist comes to interview him because the old coot claims to be the sole-surviving white man from, “Custer’s Last Stand.”

"THE CUSTER FIGHT," (above) WAS PAINTED (1903) BY CHARLES MARION RUSSELL. CUSTER'S LAST STAND, (THE BATTLE OF LITTLE BIGHORN), IS THE MOST FAMOUS BATTLE BETWEEN NATIVE AMERICANS AND THE USA MILITARY. IT TOOK PLACE ON JUNE 25 AND 26, 1876, IN PRESENT-DAY MONTANA.  CUSTER'S LEGIONS WERE OUT NUMBERED AND SLAUGHTERED BY THE LAKOTA, CHEYENNE AND ARAPAHO TRIBES, LED BY SITTING BULL, CRAZY HORSE AND CHIEF GALL.

Jack Crabb’s account is outlandish...so the reporter encourages him to stick to the facts. The fossil is insulted that his life history is being shrugged-off as an exaggeration. Nonetheless, he plows on and soon, sweeps away the interviewer (and the audience), in a series of flashback vignettes.

One of the times when my mind wandered off during the movie, I had my own flashback. I drifted back to when I worked at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget, (1982-1984). One of my craps supervisors was a boxman named, Dan. To typify the point that I will soon make, I don’t remember this great, yet mostly anonymous man’s last name.

In a sea of weasels with the same job, Dan “sat” like a gigantic, noble sovereign on his adjustable stool, (augmented even higher, by his ever-present hemorrhoid cushion), between the craps dealers. In addition to being funny and interesting, he was also talented in the technical aspects of his craft. Dan was so confident in his role that he easily deflected the regular flow of irate, frustrated and drunken dice players off his dealers.

Off duty with his hemorrhoid ring tucked under hs arm, Dan literally and figuratively shrunk. At five-foot-two, this forty-plus year old man was so heavy, he resembled a bowling ball. He was so caught-up (bashful?) in his physical shortcomings that he never accepted the sincere social invitations of my clique.

Dan was a lonely guy. He was always broke because he drank to excess and pissed the rest of his money away playing twenty-five cent craps, at the worst toilets downtown, (primarily at the Orbit Inn).

So it was sad when he refused our kindness because the job was his life. Beyond that, all he had to fall back on was a cheap efficiency (apartment), in a terrible part of town.

Dan was bright, articulate and funny while talking about his colorful experiences in the obscure casinos throughout the state as well as mining boon towns in rural Nevada and California.

DAN SAID HIS FIRST TASTE OF CASINO LIFE (1963) WAS DEALING BLACKJACK (*IN BIB OVERALLS) IN A "BUST-OUT" BARN NEAR THE IDAHO BORDER.  THEN HIS CAREER TOOK-OFF WHEN HE HIT THE BIG TIME AND WENT TO WORK AT THE STOCKMEN'S HOTEL CASINO, IN THE BIG CITY...ELKO NEVADA.  * (THE BARN WAS SO HOT IN THE SUMMER THAT HE DIDN'T WEAR A SHIRT WITH THOSE OVERALLS).

At the Golden Nugget, Dan was so committed to his profession that while speaking like a gifted historian, he never stopped doing a great job or protecting his dealers.

It's too bad Dan was a victim of circumstance because into the 1980's, it was still rare that a female would become a craps a dealer. In private, my male friends and I hoped that a fledgling woman might get hired that Dan could take under his wing...because even in his old stories, he never mentioned any companionship. But no girl desperately in need of his help ever magically appeared.

Far worse, he got no Cupid-like support from the female blackjack dealers that I hung-out with.  They didn’t see his qualities so they couldn't relate to how wonderful a person he was. To his chagrin, they called him, "Meat-Ball." The girls only saw a tiny, fat, bald guy who frequently smelled bad, alternated between two flimsy sports jackets and had destructive habits that left him penniless.

So while watching the movie, I was reminded that I nicknamed Dan, “Little Big Man,” and it stuck. Technically, I came up with name because he was short and heavy, (vertically challenged yet big horizontally) but he accepted it more in the vain of; good things come in small packages.

So considering I never saw the movie until now, I feel better knowing that I bestowed a short man with a big heart such a positive nickname.

When I mentioned to Dan that I wanted to take my wife Sue to Yosemite, Little Big Man was enthusiastic about mapping out a special route. He said he would include hidden places of interest along the way that most people don’t know.

More importantly, I wanted Sue to meet him and hoped that she could witness his guarded, yet infectious personality. I suggested we meet in the afternoon for drinks so he could give Sue and I the details together. He agreed but preferred we pick him up and take him for breakfast at Sambo’s.

ESTABLISHED IN 1957, SAMBO'S IS SIMILAR TO DENNY'S.  BY 1979 THERE WERE 1117 FRANCHISES.  TODAY ONLY ONE SAMBO'S LOCATION STILL EXISTS.  TO ILLUSTRATE HOW HARD-UP DAN WAS FOR FOOD, I WROTE A SHORT STORY CALLED, "NO HELP'S HALL," BECAUSE THE GOLDEN NUGGET WAS THE ONLY CASINO I KNEW OF THAT DIDN'T PROVIDE ITS STAFF A FREE MEAL. NOBODY WAS MORE NEGATIVELY IMPACTED BY THIS THAN IMPOVERISHED DAN...UNFORTUNATELY, HIS NAME WAS EDITED-OUT OF THAT STORY.

There’s a strong possibility, Dan thought getting picked up and treated to a two-dollar breakfast meant he was taking advantage of me but he was completely wrong. The service he provided was worth more and Sue got to meet “Little Big Man,” at his best.

Thanks to Little Big Man, Sue and I made cool stops in ghost towns, Beatty and Tonopah Nevada as well as Independence, Bishop and Mammoth Lakes in California.

COMPARED TO THE DOTS ON THE MAP DAN SENT US TO, BEATTY NEVADA WAS COMPARITIVELY BIG.  IT HAD THE SAME AMOUNT OF STOP LIGHTS AS CASINOS...ONE.  AND IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH, "THE POT SHOP" (above) OFFERED CAT-HOUSE MAPS.

Shortly after Sue and I returned from that vacation, Dan got lumped into a mass firing in which he was an innocent bystander. I wrote another short story, “A GUMMY CONSPIRACY” about that incident. Dan was originally named in it but he like many individuals, his name didn’t make the final cut.

Poor Dan, he loved being a boxman at the Golden Nugget. But he got caught-up in the colateral damage caused by an artificial shit storm when a couple of dopes panicked, while trying to keep an accident (perceived as an attempted casino theft...that never happened) above board.

I never saw or heard from Little Big Man again. But weeks later, it broke my heart to hear a female “friend” venomously say, “Roly-Poly, Onion Dan's hemorrhoids went away years ago, he only carries that stupid doughnut around because it's lighter than a couple of phone books.”

It’s just so annoying to respect a girl and find out she’s superficial without an ounce of compassion or willing to take a second to peel away exterior layers and discover that there’s more to a person than their scent…kind of makes you want to cry.

While recalling how I worried about Dan, two pivotal lines from the movie, “LITTLE BIG MAN,” came to mind. First, please note that the main tribe of Indians in the movie call them self; Human Beings. Also be aware, the chief considers black people as whites and refers to them as; “black, white men).”

The chief complains, “There are too many white men and too few Human Beings.”  Like the point I made in my June 17, 2013 blog, "ONE PENGUIN, IN A FLOCK OF SEAGULLS," in this crazy, mixed-up world, great human beings like Dan, are out incredibly numbered.

The other key line, sums up the whole movie. On the day that the chief decides to die, after making the preparations, he goes through the sacred ceremony and lays on the ground waiting to be taken...and nothing happens. He stands up and says to Little Big Man, “The magic doesn’t always work.” To me, that translates to: whatever greatness we attribute to our mystics…in the end…we're all on our own.

And speaking about Oscar winning great movies as well as everyone being full of shit…the next time you see, “LITTLE BIG MAN,” please note how “FOREST GUMP,” shamelessly ripped off their format.

WHAT A SLAP IN THE FACE FOR, "THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION." IT KILLED ME THAT "FOREST GUMP" BEAT IT OUT FOR 1994's BEST PICTURE.  WHEN I TOLD "TREEBEARD" THAT I HATED GUMP, HE COULDN'T BELIEVE HIS EARS.  THEN I SAID, "THE ONLY REASON I DIDN'T WALK OUT IN THE MIDDLE...WAS BECAUSE I SAW IT (A RENTAL) IN MY OWN HOUSE."  AT THE TIME, I THOUGHT GUMP RIPPED-OFF THE MOVIE, "ZELIG," AND NOW I SEE THEY TOOK LIBERTIES WITH "LITTLE BIG MAN," TOO.

It is true I have softened my stance on, "FOREST GUMP." But I feel guilty that I never went out of my way to check in on Dan after he lost the Golden Nugget job. I wasn't certain where his apartment was but if I tried, I could have staked-out the Orbit Inn.  I would hate to imagine that the real, "Little Big Man," might have given up on life and decided one day to lay down on Fremont Street...to die.

Instead, I prefer to think Dan'll live to 121-years old.  I think it would be fitting that the story of his life would show that he was as pure of heart as the driven snow...and thusly, not full of shit.  Maybe the movie version could be called, "SITTING PRETTY." Then he could be forever immortalized with an Academy Award...and featured every February during the "31 Days of Oscar."

THIS JUST AIN'T YOUR DAY

In the interest of humor, the “MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND,” blog has never shied away from sharing my most embarrassing moments. However, there was one extreme incident I purposely held back. My reasoning was, unlike the times that I was the victim of circumstance or fell into incredible awkwardness due to poor planning or no planning at all…I never seriously endangered the welfare of a friend or put their life at risk…

A few week’s ago, I had a conversation with Matt, (one of my son Andrew’s college roommates). During our chat the story below, came up.  Matt's positive feedback encouraged me to see the amusing qualities in my folly.  But I said, "If you were responsible for someone, you wouldn't see it as comical if you endangered their well-being."  He said, "After all these years, I'm sure the statue of limitations has run out."  Before I could counter he added, "Besides, someone might avoid a similar mistake by reading it."

I LIKE TO CALL ANDREW, TOM AND MATT (center), "THE ATM."  BUT THESE GREAT FRIENDS AND ROOMIES PREFER TO BE CALLED, "DRUNKEN BRONUTS."  A LOUD SHOUT OUT TO MATT BECAUSE HE'S STUDYING THIS SEMESTER IN GERMANY.

In March 1981, my wife’s BFF Sami, flew out from Brooklyn, to visit us in Las Vegas. Sami was my friend too so when Sue couldn’t get that night off, it was no big deal for me to pick her up at the airport.

Sami was unattached at that time. She was (still is) a good-looking girl of exotic Brazilian and Egyptian lineage. Back in our Brooklyn College days, to avoid scaring off potential suitors, this six-footer used to down-play her height by saying she was five-foot-twelve.

We had six hours to kill after Sami landed, (before Sue got off work). Sami carried a heavy winter coat off the jet. She was amazed that compared to New York that the temperature was comfortable.

Sami had never gambled or been to a casino but she wasn’t keen on doing it without her buddy, (I thought it was cute that she brought five rolls of quarters for slot machines because as she put, “In case, we can’t get to a bank).”

She was hungry so after we buzzed down the fabulous Las Vegas strip, we continued to my condo and dropped off her stuff. I got my thin, denim winter coat and made sure she had hers as we headed further north and out of town.

For many visitors (and Vegas residents too) Mount Charleston is an unknown treasure…about forty minutes away. This unincorporated town has a sparse year-round population (in 2010, still only 357 people).  During the summer, the area is much cooler and is a great place to beat the heat.  In winter, the nearby trails in Lee Canyon and Kyle Canyon offer adequate skiing to intermediates and beginners. But our destination was the rustic ski lodge restaurant and bar, near the summit.

(STOCK PHOTO) THE HIGHEST PEAK THERE, RAISES UP TO 7700 FEET.  WHEN PEOPLE GO TO LAS VEGAS AND SAY THEY SNOW SKI IN THE MORNING AND DRIVE AN HOUR TO WATER SKI IN LAKE MEADE, THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT MT. CHARLESTON.

I believe the roadways around Las Vegas have changed in the last thirty-two years but back then, Interstate-15 was the only northerly highway out of town. While driving in the wide open spaces of the desert, despite spring being only two weeks away, distant peaks gleamed in the dark from the whiteness of snow.

At the Mount Charleston cut-off, (Highway 157), I brought to Sami’s attention, the end of the barren wilderness and the far-off glitter of neon behind us. She said, “With all the mountains around us, I didn’t realize how high we were getting.”

Two signs of interest are there, (one points the way to Mount Charleston and the other says in giant letters, NO GAS ON MOUNTAIN)! A quick glance at my silver, 1975 Chevy Monte Carlo’s fuel gauge satisfied me that even at less than a quarter tank, I had plenty to safely complete our journey.

Our new, winding, one lane (in each direction) byway brought new meaning to the word dark. Shrouded from the moonlight by ubiquitous forests, the only way to navigate up this country road was to concentrate on the glowing lines painted on the ground.

While seemingly driving straight up, Sami and I enjoyed a great conversation until she said, “It’s been ten minutes and I haven't seen another car. If I didn’t know you so well, I might panick about where you're taking me.” We were laughing as from out of nowhere, a car whipped around the bend and nearly sideswiped us. I was calling him an asshole as my eye flashed to my gas gauge. In the short time we were on that road, I went from nearly a quarter tank to being solidly on “E.”

What a lazy moron, I convinced myself that the upward angle of the car was affecting the gauge needle. Then I compounded my poor judgment by deciding it would be a drag to turn around, drive to town, fill-up and come back.

Seconds later, we crossed the snowline. The pavement was dry but everything else was blanketed in the white stuff. Sami was commenting on how pretty the snow in the trees made the scenery as the car sputtered. In no time, my Chevy, belched, farted and wheezed...until it lost power. At the apex of a sharp curve, I rolled onto the white shoulder.

This was twenty years before cell phones so after five minutes went by, I thought our chances of being randomly rescued were bleak. Then I came up such a stupid idea that the “THREE STOOGES,” would have retired early because their preposterous, asinine antics paled in comparison to me.

I told Sami that I would put the car in neutral and with her behind the wheel, I could push the car across the hazardous raodway, into a K-TURN.  Then we could coast down the mountain…for a better chance of getting help on the Interstate.

There were many flaws in this plan. But the most glaring was…Sami didn’t know how to drive. But she was enthusiastic about helping…and there was so little that had to be done.  I gave her a brief; how to use the brakes tutorial, and we sprang into action.

Still no knight in shining armor drove by to prevent the dangerous comedy of errors that was about to unfold.

It was easy for me to push and get enough momentum for the car to roll forward across the road. But I didn’t stress that Sami would have to continue “cutting” the wheel. When I did, she became indecisive. Sami was flustered enough that when I told her to use the brake, she hesitated and the car got caught in a shallow ditch.

My Chevy was now stuck with it's rear end up in the air, on a 45º angle. Much worse, it was exposed to traffic because 10% of it was sticking out into the road. To make matters still worse, it was in a blind spot that downhill speeders would have trouble seeing, (like the genius who almost sideswiped us).

I turned on my emergency flashers (clearly this was the only time I EVER really needed them in my forty-plus years of driving). Before we split in opposite directions, Sami asked if she should be concerned about man-eating bears or mountain lions. I was confident as I said, "No."  But I was guessing.  We took our positions up the road, to try to flag down assistance or at least warn speeding knuckleheads.

She and I were wearing sneakers, didn’t have gloves or a hat and froze up there. When the first car in twenty minutes finally came up, the bastards didn’t even slow down.

We were stuck in this insanity until a second car coming up indeed stopped. Our "savior" was driving a black, Triumph Spitfire. In that era, this sexy, English two-seat sports car was right up there with Corvette as the ultimate chick magnets.

IN THE 70's, TRIUMPH NEVER ACHIEVED THE SUCCESS IN THE USA YOU'D EXPECT BECAUSE IT WAS HARD TO GET PARTS...AND OH YEAH, THEY WERE HIGH MAINTAINENCE TOO.

Our savior was falling down drunk and reeked of booze.  To keep steady, he held the side of my car as he introduced himself as Wyatt Winslow. Winslow was wearing a three-piece suit and mentioned that he was a blackjack floorman (supervisor) at the Dunes Casino. He seemed useless until he suggested that Sami and I push my car free while he steered. The car wouldn’t budge…even when he offered to push with Sami at the wheel.

Winslow’s fancy suit was filthy when he said, “I live on the mountain and I know a volunteer fireman…so I know where to get gas.” Wow, what a hero. At that moment, I would have kissed his ass in Macy’s window. So when he said, “I’ll take the girl,” I didn’t confer with my exotic beauty. I shrugged, “Sure.”

At the precise second the Triumph’s rear lights were out of sight, I realized my potential mistake could be of biblical proportion. First I envisioned him being so messed-up that he’d accelerate the car to impress her. I worried about a crash and Sami never being in gem, mint condition, ever again. It got worse when a fear of her being sexual brutalized crossed my mind…until the horror escalated to include a beating and murder too.  Maybe I would be better off if a bear ate me alive...if Sami didn't come back in one piece.

Somehow, I didn't soil myself as I tried to estimate how much farther Winslow had to go and come back.  But the next half hour was an eternal, internal nightmare. I turned my back on the lane coming up the mountain and stood, literally and figuratively frozen, staring in a silent vigil, hoping to see the Triumph’s headlights coming down from Mount Charleston.

I was engulfed by frustration and angst. In desperation, I was willing to throw down my atheism and start praying. But seconds before I reached for heavenly guidance, I heard a car engine and saw a glimmer of light ricochet through the woods. A smile came to my lips as the car came into view. But the driver didn’t slow down. I was trying to wave the prick down but he zoomed past me and narrowly missed clipping my car.

My heart was still beating through my chest when another car’s lights filtered through the trees. Except this time, I recognized the unique sound of a Triumph’s engine. Winslow, (still in his scuffed-up suit) was staggering as he carried a two-gallon gas can my way. I walked past him and whispered to Sami, “You okay?” She laughed as if it was an idiotic question and shrugged, “Yeah…”

Winslow unscrewed the gas cap and poured plenty of fuel in. I started the car…and nothing happened. It failed a second time and he said, “Pop the hood. I’ll put gas right into the carburetor.” From the little space between a gap in the steering wheel and the crevice under the raised hood, I watched him unscrew the wing nut that held down the air filter protector. Then I saw his shaky hand careful allow a few droplets to find their target. He stood away from the car and said, “Try it.” Again, nothing happened. He was more liberal with the gas the second time and even more so with the third. Still, my car wouldn’t start. On the fourth try, the jerk splashed gas all over the place.  And my Chevy…DID NOT start. But to add to the fun, the car caught on fire!

I MIGHT BE A STOREHOUSE OF USELESS INFORMATION BUT WHEN IT COMES TO PRACTICAL LIFE SKILLS, ALL I KNOW IS...FIRE+GAS=EXPLOSION!  IT WAS TIME TO RUN.

I rushed out of my car, grabbed Sami and hustled her away. She twisted out of my grip and stared at the carnage from about thirty feet away.  Sami had a fascinated expression on her face and said, “It’s only burning the top of the motor…” I said, “No, I don’t care.  It's going to explode. Let it burn…” She drifted towards the fire and said, “Get snow, we can put it out…” This crazy girl ran over and was doing it herself. I followed and then Winslow joined in. When her plan worked and the flames diminished, I took off my coat and smothered the last few hot spots.

There’s an old joke, (of extreme bad taste) that fits this situation; In the middle of nowhere, a man picks up a hitchhiker. On an especially quiet stretch of road, the hitcher brandishes a knife and tells the driver to pull over. The driver is stripped naked and handcuffed to a tree behind some bushes. His car and all his belongings are robbed. Dozens of cars go by until a truck driver notices the man and his predicament. The man says to the approaching truck driver, “Boy am I glad to see you…” The truck driver starts taking down his pants when he looks down at the man and says, “This just ain’t your day…”

For several minutes after the fire was out, Sami, Winslow and I stood in stunned silence. That's when, in the distance, I heard the strong vroom of an engine. It didn’t sound like an ordinary car, the pitch was too intense. The forest reverberated in this baffling noise. Soon, it became apparent that I wasn’t hearing one engine, I was hearing several.

A few seconds later, I regretted NOT praying to God when Sami’s well-being was in peril because if this noise was our “deliverance,” it was taking the absolute wrong form. The first motorcycle that came into view immediately slowed down.

The bearded rider was a huge, disheveled toughie wearing a red bandana. His dungaree jacket’s sleeves were cut-off at the armpits to fully expose his tattooed, python-like arms. He didn’t even seem chilly as he signaled his comrades to stop. In seconds, eight ornery motorcycle gang-looking dudes dismounted across the roadway.

The punch line to that bad joke made me think; this just ain’t my day. Except in addition to me, it was obvious, all three of us were getting raped, sodomized and murdered. Even my car’s butt stuck-out like a fluorescent silver welcome mat.

I had visions of Charles Manson and Hell’s Angels pin-balling though my mind. I knew running wouldn’t get me anywhere so against my instincts I stammered, “B-b-boy, are we glad to see you.” The leader smiled in a way that suggested that he knew that old joke. I was feeling the pressure of an elephant doing a head stand on my groin when he asked “Need help getting out of that trench?” I gulped, “Y-yeah.” The red bandana dude called the other gang members and said, “C’mon.” I’m not positive but I think I closed my eyes in terror as they rushed past me. In five seconds, they freed my car.  On semi-level ground, (on the first try), my trusty Monte Carlo started right up.

It’s funny, these scary guys were like the Lone Ranger and eight Tontos because they didn't linger.  I wanted to thank them individually so all I could do was shout my appreciation as they mounted up and left.

I heartily thanked Wyatt Winslow but he too without much fanfare followed the bikers up the mountain.  Sami and I had enough, we went in the opposote direction, (on the way down, I noticed that the road frequently flattened-out for long stretches...so my orginal idea of coasting down wouldn't have gotten us too far).

I didn't want to take any chances so at the outskirts of Las Vegas, I filled my tank at a Husky Truck stop.  We were "burnt-out" and starving. So we decided to do some one-stop shopping and eat there too.

TRUCK STOPS ARE IMMENSE PROPERTIES THAT CATER TO LONG-DISTANCE HAULERS.  IN ADDITION TO GAS, THEY OFFER MECHANICAL ASSISTANCE AS WELL AS LODGING, SHOWER RENTALS, FOOD AND A CONVENIENCE STORE.

The clientele in the coffee shop were nasty-looking truckers...even our waitress was named Bubba.  She was serving a goliath with an eye-patch, what looked like a nineteen-egg omlette, in a colassal, charred skillet. But, even 'Ol One-Eye didn't make me think of the trucker from that bad joke.  Who's going to mess with us?  NOBODY!  Because by stinking of gasoline with soot on our face and hands...we were one of them.

We picked up Sue and shocked her with our near-death experience.  She said, "You should have come here first, my boss said if you showed up, he'd manage to get through the shift without me."

Yes thirty-two years later, I'm still embarrassed by this incident.  I doubt I'll ever live this haunting down...even if it's only in my own mind.  So,"Danke" to Matt, for giving me the bravery to "out myself." And for the sake of avoiding your own embarrassment Matt, I hope that your German vocabulary has exceeded, "I am ticklish."

MY THIRTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF LEAVING LAS VEGAS

1983, my last full year in Las Vegas, was accidentally, an incredibly great experience…but through all that positivism, the same thing that made it good resulted in a huge disappointment and almost a disaster.

To understand that year’s bonanza, you should understand that the Vegas portion of my craps dealing career included seven casinos. This five-year period spanned the first week of January 1979 until (almost to the exact day) the first week of 1984.

In 1979, I earned my stripes working eight months in three different toilets. On   September 10th, I was ready to break my bonds of poverty so I pounced on a rumor that Union Plaza Casino needed craps dealers. I dressed for the occasion, put on my swagger and marched to their craps pit. But after careful scrutiny and much internal debate, the flying fickle finger of fate, diverted me away, (I chickened-out because my color blindness couldn’t differentiate the shade of their red and green chips).

I felt like a loser as I stood frozen, outside the Union Plaza’s front door, (not far from where the 1974 movie, “HARRY AND TONTO” filmed Art Carney getting arrested for peeing in a potted plant).

EVERY TIME I THINK OF THE UNION PLAZA, I THINK OF ART CARNEY. "HARRY AND TONTO," MAY NOT HAVE BEEN THE GREATEST MOVIE BUT ANYTHING WITH ART CARNEY IN IT, IS WORTHWHILE.

I was disgusted.  My nuisance malady just cost me a chance to get up in the casino world. But I snapped out of my funk and decided that as long as I was already wearing “black and whites” (black slacks and white shirt, the unofficial uniform of a dealer applicants) that I would knock on random casino doors along Glitter Gulch. My goal was to hit the top four jobs on Fremont Street. Destiny smiled down on me that day because I started my quest at Hotel Fremont…and was hired.

I WISH THE PHOTOGRAPER WOULD HAVE SAID, "SAY CHEESE," BECAUSE I WAS SO AWE-STRUCK BY GOOD FORTUNE, I FORGOT TO SMILE.

The Fremont paid much better than the Union Plaza…but in a short time, I learned it had an invaluable hidden perk. That extra benefit was, the Fremont was the sister casino of the Stardust on the fabulous Las Vegas strip, (it’s all a matter of prospective but at that time, no downtown casino could touch a strip casino in terms of economics or status). And like a minor leaguer from the Fremont, I was sent up to the “bigs,” when I received my transfer to the Stardust, in March 1980.

For the next two years, I loved the job so much that decades later, it seems impossible that I could ever have been so self-realized at work. When my world crashed in me, I was unemployed for six weeks. In that time, I found out how fortunate I was to reach such lofty heights without much experience, an abundance of talent or knowing the right people, (it is true however, that a fifty-dollar bribe cemented my ascension from the Fremont).

In February 1982, I wound up embittered and back downtown working for peanuts, at the Las Vegas Club. This flea-bitten, saw-dust on the floor, grind joint became a six-month long wake-up call that signaled the end of my impressionable youth. In that time, I frequently tried to free my experienced, casino savvy self by making applications and asking for auditions at the better, storefront properties in the area. Whether it was a weak national economy or bad timing I don’t know…but I was stuck.

A coincidence in August would change my lot in life. My wife Sue’s girlfriend (Rona) flew out from Brooklyn. They came to meet me after my shift, at 4:00AM. We gallivanted through casinos and took advantage of the fifty-cent drinks.

OUTSIDE THE MINT CASINO, RONA TOOK THIS PHOTO BEFORE WE GOT SEPARATED.  YOU CAN TELL FROM MY LIT-UP FACE HOW WASTED I WAS.

In a blur, I scoured our favorite haunts trying to reconnect with the girls. I was breezing through the near-empty Golden Nugget with a Heineken in my hand when my name was called.

One of my former crewmates (Benito) from the Stardust was the craps floorperson (supervisor). This Italian national was in his forties and resembled French actor Louis Jourdan.

LOUIS JOURAN (1921-Present) IS BEST KNOWN FOR HIS ROLE IN 1958's FOUR-STAR MOVIE, "GIGI."

When it was to Benny's benefit, he could exude sophisticated European charm. But generally, especially if he got excited, he sounded like Chico Marx.

Benny politely said, “Where are you working?” I was still wearing my uniform (see photo above) and held back a burp as I peeped, “Vegas Club.” Benny exploded, “Whattsa matta wid you? A guya like you shouda not have to work in a shithouse.” I took a short swallow of beer and shrugged. Benny blasted, “Whya you doan cumma here to work?” I said, “They don’t give auditions without an appointment. I put in five apps in the last six months and they never called…” He cut me off, “Fuhgeddaboudit!”  He turned to the drunken pit boss who was holding on to the pit stand to keep himself erect and said, “Heya Scotty, I gotta good man ova here who needsa audition.” Scotty barely looked up, “We ain’t hirin’. Tell him, come back during the day and fill out an application.” Benny said, “No! I’a knowa dis man and we needa guysa like dis.”

Scotty nodded. Benny said, “Cumma ova to second base and tap in.” I lifted my beer bottle and whispered, “I’m a little messed up…” “Doan wurry, Benito willa take care uh you.”

The only two players were standing next to each other. One had three white chips bet on the don’t pass line and his friend had three red chips, also on the don’t pass line. The first roll was; three craps. My job was to pay both bets. But in my fog, I paid the white chips with red and the red chips with white…and didn’t notice. I was so “out there” that I didn’t notice that the boxman (immediate supervisor who sits between the dealers) was another friend. Dave Wolf also from the Stardust pointed at my work and said, “Look what you did.” I was embarrassed but quickly grabbed up the two payoffs, crisscrossed my hands and corrected my mistake. Benito roared like I was a conquering hero, “Wow! Tap him out.” He pounded my back and called out to Scotty, “Seea, I tol you, dissa good man or what.” Scotty yawned, “We aren’t hiring.” Benny went over and whispered in his ear. While they chatted, I was tough on myself for doing so poorly in one dice roll and squandering a chance to make a better living.

Benny was all smiles when he rushed over, gave me a playful shove and said, “Calla dis mumba tomorra and to get processed.” Like the bribe I paid to get out of the Fremont, the Vegas system of "juice" is completely unfair…unless of course, it works to your advantage.

The Golden Nugget was one of the top four casinos downtown but it was nothing compared to the Stardust. It catered to budget-minded locals and economy-driven day-trippers from Southern California.

In the early stages of working there, the bad taste of losing my Stardust job was still in my mouth. So my wife and I decided to sell our condo and return east, to be closer to family and friends.

Someone must have been looking down at me from above because after a few months at the Golden Nugget, the owner, Steve Wynn presided over mandatory meetings. At the time, these gatherings seemed like empty rah, rah speeches. He discussed his vision of a better Golden Nugget. But the incredible images he projected in our mind, made the staff snicker. When he declared that everyone was getting a salary raise immediately…we listened more intently. He said he needed our cooperation to complete the casino’s metamorphosis into a global destination…and to put us all on the same page, he made us his partners, (we all soon received stock in the corporation). If that wasn’t enough, he directly addressed the dealers and said, “When the construction is done, your tip income will double within six month."

True to his word, he made that gloomy, claustrophobic dump into a palace. It was a miracle, the ceilings were raised, walls were knocked down, city streets were purchased and the casino expanded in every direction. The guest rooms were remodeled, upscale restaurants and shops were brought in and the clientele improved. We worked around the continuous refurbishing and the casino NEVER closed. In less than six months, we were a high class casino, dealing to astronomical limits and we more than doubled our tip income.

1983 was a gift from the heavens. I made more money than the Stardust and was fulfilled by constant social opportunites and tons of good friends. Sue and I led a high life and it got better every day.

During this time, my condo was put up for sale. So while living it up, I had the added luxury of being indifferent to the fact that nobody was looking at my place. Even crazier, Steve Wynn wanted to parlay his success at the Golden Nugget. He broke ground on the strip with the Treasure Island Casino. So as good as the Nugget was…it was anticipated (correctly) that this new venture would be a bigger and better opportunity for he entire Golden Nugget staff.

It seems impossible but even with that joyride at the Nugget and a clear road to a brighter future…I still had enough. I wanted to sell the condo and go back home.

THAT'S NOT MY CAR BUT THAT IS MY CONDO COMPLEX.

One of the things that I did to sweeten the “going home” pot was outlining a thirty-day, cross-county vacation. I wanted to show Sue the west like, Utah’s Zion National Park, Arizona’s Grand Canyon, the Monument Valley, the beauty of Colorado, the enchantment of New Mexico, the Carlsbad Caverns and tour Texas.

By the time December rolled around, I was overcome by the feeling of being trapped. The great, ever-improving Golden Nugget experience had gotten old. I also assumed that hanging in and making the transition to the Treasure Island would only temporarily keep me going. I wanted out and I wanted to show Sue the world.

Two weeks before Christmas, the second prospective buyer (in almost a year) came to look at my condo. So I was shocked that he made an offer. But the shitty price he wanted to pay would have resulted in a loss, (back then taking a loss in real estate was unfathomable). I compromised with a counter proposal. This gentleman raised his bid but also demanded ridiculous terms. I accepted.

We closed on the property, in the first week of January. I worked a couple of shifts into 1984 and without much fanfare, said my good-byes. To lighten our load, I gave away Sue’s car, some furniture and other essentials to a friend.

One thing that made leaving town easier was our impending cross-country jaunt. But after the year-long build-up to go on such a wonderful trip, it was disappointing to be leaving in the heart of winter. My dream of a leisurely, thirty-day, once in a lifetime excursion wasn't feasible due to the threat of cold weather and unsafe conditions.

So Plan-B was a southern route with few tourist stops. From Las Vegas we would drive to Interstate-10 (in Tempe Arizona).  We would stay on that one roadway, all the way into Mobile Alabama.

The omen of what was to come, happened on the morning we were leaving. The U-Haul had already been packed but we had left our bicycles in the exterior storage closet. Unfortunately, I stupidly had surrendered the keys. It took a while to track down the buyer by phone. To get the key, we had to drive to the farthest corner of town, come home, pack the bikes and return the key.

Once we blasted off, we dragged that trailer all day, on a dusty two-lane road, through the Arizona desert. It was after dinner that we got on the interstate. We were in the car nineteen hours (and lost another hour due to the time zone change) when we found a motel in El Paso Texas.

In the morning, we paid the two-cent toll and crossed the pedestrian bridge over the Rio Grande River. We were comfortable in our thin, Vegas-worthy winter coats. So despite being only 28 ºF, it was a glorious and beautiful day for a walking tour of Juarez Mexico.

IN JUAREZ, SUE AND THE SHOP OWNER WERE MILLIONS OF PESOS APART.  BUT AFTER A STRONG HAGGLING SESSION, SHE GOT THAT DRESS FOR HER PRICE.

We got back in the car and projected our next stop to be San Antonio, (so we could visit the Alamo). Going east from El Paso, Interstate-10 is cut through the Davis Mountains. Soon the warm sun vanished and the wind kicked up. On some mountain passes, the highway was cut out just enough to fit a sliver of roadway through the rocks. When the wind was especially nasty, it felt like being in a hurricane.

I stopped for gas atop one of the mountain passes. It was around noon and the skies had darkened to the weird color that makes you expect snow. Just opening my car door in that rippling wind was a challenge. I pumped my gas and must have looked like mime as I struggled to walk against the howling gale. Inside the office, I asked the attendant how the roads were going east. He said, “We’re getting snow here tonight but it’ll miss you…you’ll be okay as long as you don’t have a trailer.” We were at an angle that he could see my 1980 Chevy Monte Carlo but not my U-Haul. I said, “But I do have a trailer…” He said, “Oh…”


YES INDEEDY, I'M WEARING TWO-TONE, SHARK-SKIN COWBOY BOOTS, (STILL GOT'M SOMEWHERE) BUT THIS IS THE ONLY DECENT PHOTO OF MY CHEVY AND THE TRAILER.


The skies brightened after we left that pass but it was still cloudy. Soon the mountainous landscape was covered in a queer, gray-colored snow. I took a picture of it as Sue drove.

NEARING THE PECOS TEXAS EXIT, BETWEEN MOUNTAIN PASSES, THE SNOW IS COVERED BY GRAY SOOT FROM NEARBY MINES.

Sue zoomed through the almost empty highway as we appreciated the stony crags and cool rock formations that can come up as close as a few feet of the road’s shoulder. Suddenly, our trailer started to fish-tail. It was still attached but it’s never a good thing when your possessions are overtaking you.

At 1:00PM, we lost control and went into a skid. The car left the road. I thought our lives were over as we barreled toward a conveniently located, jagged mountain wall. Luckily, we got traction on the unnaturally-colored snow and stopped a few feet from an awesome-looking rock formation.

We hugged each other for ten minutes. I got out and checked the U-Haul’s connection and was satisfied that it was okay. Appropriately, I was wearing cowboy boots as I walked up, onto the highway. Like being on skates, I slipped and slided until I realized that black ice covered the whole surface. I was numb all over when I got back behind the wheel. I drove about 20 miles per hour into the town of Fort Stockton until I had feeling in my extremities again.

THAT NIGHT IT WAS 12 DEGREES WHEN WE FOUND A MOTEL IN SAN ANTONIO.  THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE EVENING WAS SEEING A COUPLE SCREWING IN THE BACK SEAT OF THEIR FORD PINTO, (I GUESS THEIR FRIENDS WON THE COIN TOSS FOR THE MOTEL ROOM).  IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH TO HELP US FORGET OUR CLOSE CALL WITH DISASTER, WE FOUND OUT WAY AHEAD OF PEE-WEE HERMAN...THE ALAMO HAS NO BASEMENT!

January 2014 marks the thirtieth anniversary of me leaving Las Vegas.  It's true I occasionally wonder how my life would have turned out if I stuck around the Golden Nugget long enough to take the Treasure Island job.  But no matter how great the scenario I imagine...there's NO WAY, I'd ever trade considering how great my life has turned out.

Even crazier, it seems Las Vegas is the early leader to where Sue and I retire...I'll keep you posted.