GETTING HOOKED-UP BY NEW YORK'S FINEST

In observance of Veteran's Day, I would like to thank all those in the military, past, present and future, for their great sacrifice and selflessness.

YOU ARE ALL HEROES AND I SALUTE YOU FOR STANDING IN HARM'S WAY TO HELP PRESERVE OUR FREEDOM, AMERICAN VALUES AND WAY OF LIFE.

I would like to also give kudos to domestic agencies whose people risk their lives every day but aren't acknowledged with a specific national holiday, (police, firefighters, emergency personnel and postal workers...even if their threat is from friendly fire).

Today, I will concentrate with the police because we have the most contact and highest reliance on them. Plus, because its easy to focus on the negative press they get and the resulting sensationalism, I believe its important for us to understand that overwhelmingly the cops, under stressful conditions, do a great job and deserve tons more credit than they get. To maintain this support, I have instilled this appreciation into my son Andrew.

While on his learner's permit, (Andrew will be getting his driver's license in three months), I have accepted both the bulk and "joy" of teaching him the rules of the road. In so doing, I have drilled into his head these two beliefs. First, whenever you see the police, take your foot off the accelerator and check your speed. Second, if you are stopped, to minimize the officer's possible anxiety, keep both hands in plain sight atop the steering wheel, (at night, flick on the dome light too).

In using these suggestions, I have reduced my contact with the police. Then on the rare occasion that I am in contact with them, the respect and sensitivity I have exhibited, has resulted in me being treated fairly. I have also received leniency even when I didn't expect it. I still feel that way even though a gun was once pointed at my head during a routine traffic stop in Las Vegas (October 1980) and more recently, I'm certain that I was being profiled as an out-of-state driver when I was served a $187.00 nonsense/nuisance ticket for using a "Car Pool Only" exit (in no traffic) in Fairfax Virginia (June 2010).

I will now share with you two of my favorite "kind-cop" stories that I've heard and one of my own.

The Western Casino was the worst job of my gaming career. I might have made less money at Slots-A-Fun but the Western was a toilet and attracted such grungy clientele that during weekday afternoons, our craps table struggled to get $100.00 in drop, (cash buy-ins). This meant that most of the time, we were open for business with no customers. That translated into hours of idle conversation, playing games like "20 Questions" and my favorite, staring off into space.

THE WESTERN, 899 FREMONT STREET, AS I REMEMBERED IT DURING MY SIX-WEEK STINT, (SPRING 1979). TWO SUMMERS AGO WHILE IN VEGAS, I VISITED THE WESTERN. LIKE PUTTING A BAND-AID ON CANCER, THEIR COMPLETE REMODELING EFFORT WAS WASTED, BECAUSE IT WAS STILL THE ULTIMATE, FILTHY DIVE. TO PROVE IT, EVERYONE WAS REQUIRED TO WIPE THEIR FEET BEFORE GOING BACK ON THE STREET.

One of my fellow craps dealers at the Western was Terry. He was in his thirties and unlike the rest of us break-ins, Terry was a retread. We newbies were struggling to make our way up but Terry had already fallen from the top. He worked several years at the Frontier Casino and made tons of money. So being reduced to the penny-ante Western, left him jaded, cynical and rude. The other bubbly dealers couldn't relate to his indifference to the job but on dead games, he was admired for his wealth of colorful casino and non-casino stories.

He once said about his rural Northeastern Pennsylvania upbringing, "Where I lived, a man either grew up to become a coal miner, priest or criminal. I thought there had to be more to life so I hit the road." Terry settled in San Francisco in the early sixties and prefaced all those stories by proclaiming, "I was the world's first hippie." He lived in an apartment in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood and used to say, "I didn't need a TV, if I wanted to see action, all I had to do was look out the window and see around the clock sex, violence and rock n roll."

The one story he told that brought a smile to his withered face and brightened his bloodshot eyes was going to the Fillmore Auditorium on December 10, 1965. That night he saw, "The Grateful Dead," in their first concert after changing their name from the "Warlocks." (Among other groups, the "Jefferson Airplane" also appeared). "THE FILLMORE," WAS THE FOCAL POINT FOR PSYCHEDELIC MUSIC AND ITS COUNTERCULTURE. LOCATED AT FILLMORE AND GEARY, IT'S WHERE THE PACIFIC HEIGHTS, JAPANTOWN AND WESTERN ADDITION SECTIONS MEET.

Before the concert, Terry picked up some friends in Marin County. On the way back to San Francisco, everyone in his crowded VW bus was already tripping on LSD as he got to the Golden Gate Bridge. THE VOLKSWAGEN TYPE 2, T1, HAS BEEN IN PRODUCTION SINCE 1950. IT IS COMMONLY KNOWN AS A VW BUS, VW TRANSPORTER OR KOMBI. WHEN CUSTOM DESIGNED IN THE PSYCHEDELIC DAYS , IT WAS CALLED A HIPPIE BUS, HIPPIE VAN OR HIPPIEMOBILE.

At the crest of the bridge, the piercing sound of a police siren got Terry's attention. In the rear view mirror, he saw a patrol car zooming up from behind. He stopped in the left lane. The gruff officer chose to ignore the billowing marijuana aroma and said in a southern accent, "Son. Do you realize how fast you were going?" Terry tried to come off as innocently as possible without insulting the man's intelligence and shrugged, "I dunno, 65 maybe 70?" The officer said, "Son, you were going eleven miles per hour. Now tell me, are you too drunk to drive this vehicle safely off the bridge?" Terry smiled internally and said, "Yes, I'm too drunk." The officer told Terry to squeeze into the back. The squad car was temporarily abandoned as the policeman got into the VW's driver seat. He lectured Terry on his responsibility to other motorists and his own passengers as he drove them off the bridge. After issuing a warning, he made Terry promise not to drive until he sobered up.

Another "kind-cop" story happened when I worked at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget, (1982-1984). My friend Mateo was going through the divorce wringer and came out with only the clothes on his back. A year later, in a move that he described as; mental masturbation, he scrounged up every cent he could and bought a used Corvette. This selfish pleasure helped him achieve his life-long dream of owning a sports car and zooming it through the desert after work, (5:AM).

DECEMBER 1982, MATEO PULLS UP AT MY CONDO WEARING NOTHING BUT HIS NEW 'VETTE AND A SMILE.

Mateo had weekend custody of his two sons, (three and five). The boys were fascinated by daddy's new toy especially because of the enthusiasm their father had for it at a time when he was riddled with depression. One afternoon, the kids talked him into a joy ride. On the way back from the wilderness, Mateo slowed down to 95MPH. At the city limits, two motorcycle cops chased him down. Mateo pulled over and waited. The officers strode up to the car. Then the boys poked their head through the T-Roof and the older son said, "Look Jimmie, its Ponch and Jon.""CHiPs" WAS A POPULAR TV "DRAMEDY" FROM 1977-1983. THE SHOW STARRED ERIK ESTRADA AS PONCH AND LARRY WILCOX AS JON. IT FEATURED OVER-THE-TOP FREEWAY COLLISIONS, NO ACTUAL VIOLENCE AND PLENTY OF HUMOR.

The approaching officers couldn't hold back their smiles. After all the paperwork checked-out, Mateo was told he was lucky he had cute kids. But if he was ever caught going that fast again, nothing would help him.

Last week I had a "kind-cop" experience of my own. My wife and I took Andrew and two of his friends to play tourist, in Manhattan. We started with window shopping in Greenwich Village. After lunch, we took the subway to Rockefeller Center. Along Fifth Avenue we made several stops including the Nintendo and Apple Stores.THE ALLURE OF RIDING THE SUBWAY HASN'T CHANGED IN 30+ YEARS. GUYS ARE STILL EATING OUT OF TRASHCANS, THERE'S NO SHORTAGE OF FOLKS TALKING TO THEM SELF, MEN IN TRENCH COATS ON SUNNY DAYS WILL ALWAYS LOOK SUSPICIOUS AND VARIOUS RELIGIOUS CULTS AND BEGGARS ARE EVERYWHERE. ON THE POSITIVE SIDE, WE SAW NO RATS, MICE, ROACHES OR OTHER PESTILENCE.

Rush hour was over when we re-traced our steps back to the car. We decided to swing by Ground Zero on our way to Little Italy. After we paid our respects, we were going north on the Westside Drive. I ran through a yellow light, side by side with a taxi on my left. A half-block up, there was an unexpected traffic light and two policemen. I found myself in a right turn only lane and blocked by the cab. I was forced to make the right. While turning, I read the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel sign. I saw a third cop, a sergeant and pulled over. I called out ti him, "I don't want to go to Brooklyn." The sergeant smirked, "Nobody does." The other two policemen came over and one said, "If you didn't want to go in the tunnel, you should have gone straight." I said, "I was in a right turn only lane." He said, "We wouldn't have stopped you." The other cop said, "Well, you can't stay here." I joked, "Could you help me back out?" And they did. One went back onto the Westside Drive and held up traffic. The other officer guided me from the back and the sergeant remained at my side and orchestrated the whole move...very cool.

So whether its Veteran's Day or not...regardless of your politics, never forget there are dedicated individuals serving us around the world and around the corner. They are doing a job that few of us could ever imagine our self doing...so please appreciate their work and remember that they are people too.

LEARNING A LIFE LESSON THE EASY WAY

The maggot! Behold the lowly worm-like insect larva of a housefly. Luckily, I have only run across these ubiquitous parasitic devils twice in my life...or was it three times?

The second time was during my film studies course at Brooklyn College. We were watching the 1925 Russian silent movie, "BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN." In the film, the long suffering crew is further inspired to mutiny when cooks scrape countless waves if these buggers off the rotten meat being prepared for them.

The first I saw maggots was four years earlier while working at Buck's Rock Work Camp, in New Milford Connecticut. And unfortunately for me, it occurred up close and personal .

I LOOKED THROUGH A HUNDRED PHOTOS OF MAGGOTS AND NONE OF THEM CAPTURE THE NAUSEATING ESSENCE OF SEEING THEM UNDULATE EN MASSE.

I was sixteen at Buck's Rock and on my own, away from home for the first time. My friend Patrick Clark, the assistant chef had gotten jobs for DRJ and me as kitchen-utility men. While Pat had semi-private living quarters near the mess hall, our eight man gang of "untouchables" was sequestered a mile away. Our barracks were in eye-sight of a pig barn, horse stable and an octagonal dormatory for a team of non-English speaking, Slavic charwomen...nicknamed by DRJ as, "the sweat-hogs." (Several years later, TV's, "WELCOME BACK KOTTER," put that term in vogue).

Needless to say, that corner of the forest needed an aerial deodorant bomb dropped on it!

The best perk of our job was that in our spare time, we were permitted to use the camp facilities. I learned a lot about cultural diversity and met people from all over the country and several foreigners too. Yet with the opportunity to network with interesting, wealthy, influential people, I befriended a fellow Canarsian named Jerry.

At twenty years old, Jerry's position in the camp was a half-notch above mine. He was the camp sanitation engineer...the garbage man. Its seems ridiculous now but I was drawn to Jerry because he was sophisticated and I equated that worldliness to being a chick magnet.

I should have realized my folly when he asked me if I wanted to help him do a run out to McNulty's Dump.
HIS TRUCK RESEMBLED THIS ONE EXCEPT THE WALLS WERE SHORTER AND THERE WAS NO ROOF.

We threw so many trash bags into the back that we had to tamp them down so they wouldn't slip out. On the way off the camp grounds, we passed the nature hut. Jerry pointed out a junky, military looking vehicle parked out front and said, "Check it out, it a VW Thing." I said, "Huh?" He said, "They are so cool, one day I'm gonna take it for a joy ride."

AN EARLY VERSION OF A COMPACT SUV, THE VOLKSWAGEN TYPE 181, (The Kurierwagon), WAS POPULARLY KNOWN IN THE UK AS THE "TREKKER," IN MEXICO AS THE "SAFARI" AND IN THE USA AS THE, "THING." IT WAS A CONTINUATION AND IMPROVEMENT OF THE WWII KUBELWAGON, (BUCKET SEAT CAR). THE THING WAS PRODUCED FROM 1969-1983 BUT WHEN IT FAILED STRICTER AMERICAN SAFETY STANDARDS IN 1975, VW STOPPED SELLING THEM HERE.

We were heading to the dump on a quiet country road. A few minutes later Jerry said, "Wanna drive?" I said, "I don't have a license and my permit is only good in New York state. Plus I never drove a manual transmission." He said, "Okay. But some night I'll teach you on my car, its easy."
At the dump, the administration office was empty. A dark green work shirt with "McNulty's Dump" embroidered into the back was hanging on a nail. Jerry examined it and said, "I love the McNulty patch on the shoulder and look it has 'MOOSE' stitched over the pocket." Jerry looked around and stuffed it under his shirt. I said, "Maybe Moose needs it." He smiled, "I've had my eye on this baby for two weeks."

We drove through long boulevards of refuse. Near the tree-line, Jerry stopped and said, "You never know what you might find here. A few days ago I found an Indian Head Penny." My face contorted when I thought, you didn't find that shirt, you stole it. He handed me a pair of work gloves and added, "And remember, you can eat anything you find."

It didn't take long to fling our garbage off the truck onto existing mountains. Then Jerry, in his rubber hip boots, took a stroll through memory lane. Ugh, I was so skeeved because there was no way I going to follow him into his Utopia...even if I was wearing something more significant than gym shorts and Converse hi-tops.

While Jerry snooped around, the fumes irritated my eyes and stench got to me. I was hoping to fart...to clear air as Jerry threw a headless doll at me. He then showed me a half-filled, classic green, six-ounce Coca Cola bottle and said, "Thirsty, want a drink?" A few seconds later he screamed, "Eureka, its the mother lode. You gotta check this out!" From the tone of his voice, I guessed he found a Buffalo Nickel so I tip-toed through the tulips to his side. He lifted some galvanized sheet metal and revealed the remnants of a bacon package with a gazillion bugs on it. Before I could divert my eyes from the tiny predators, I noticed that the light breeze seemed to effect their formation. I fought-off the urge to vomit and hustled back to the truck.

When Jerry got back I asked, "What were they?" He laughed, "Maggots."

That image has been burnt into my psyche for the last 39 years. But while it was still fresh in my mind, I was led astray again by Jerry.

Jerry owned a black 1959 VW bug. He enticed me to go back to Canarsie with him on our day off. He described a veritable cornucopia of girls that he knew in our neighborhood. The twisted reality was, he was going to see HIS girlfriend and wanted company for the drive.

I was homesick anyway and made the best of the situation. I spent the night with my folks and slept in my own bed. I liked the arrangement so much that I joined Jerry two other times. We were going to do it one last time but Jerry's car was in the shop. That night he came over after dinner wearing his neatly pressed McNulty shirt and said, "Let's get ice cream in town." I said, "How we gonna get there?" He said, "Follow me."

At the nature hut Jerry pointed to the Thing and whispered, "There it is." I said, "Why are you whispering?" He said, "Shush! I know the gimmick." As we approached, neither of us noticed the big difference...the Thing's convertible roof was up. Jerry tried the door but it was locked. When he muttered obscenities, I sighed in relief, "Its no big deal, forget about it." Jerry said, "NO! I said were goin' for ice cream and we're goin'."

Jerry's bunkhouse was at the far end of the property. It was a half-mile hike through the dark woods. His garbage truck was parked out front. He said, "Get in." Jerry leaned under the steering wheel and fiddled with some wires. He said, "I have to surrender the keys to the old man at the end of each day. That's why I learned how to hot-wire cars." Suddenly the engine started. He didn't turn on the headlights and we rolled off the camp grounds via the back way.

At the stop sign I said, "You just stole this..." Jerry interrupted, "Borrowed my dear fellow, borrowed." Instead of making a left towards New Milford, we made a right. "Hey," I said, "Where are you going?" He said, "To get ice cream." I said, "Ice cream where?" He said, "Torrington."

Through winding back roads that restricted our speed to 30MPH, I cursed myself for getting involved with stealing the truck. Jerry sensed my reluctance and said, "Dairy Queen is the only cool place in Litchfield County open after dark. Its a great hang-out and place to meet chicks." I wasn't buying it. So Jerry tried a different tact to pacify me, "Wanna drive." I said, "Yeah, but my permit's only good in New York and..." Jerry cut me off, "Yeah, yeah, yeah and you can't drive a four-speed. You wanna or not?" I said, "But what about the cops?" "Cops, you see any cops. We're in the middle of friggin' nowhere. Hell, we haven't seen another car for ten minutes."

We switched places. Jerry coached me as I struggled to time the gears. Once I got up to speed, I was lulled into thinking that I had conquered the beast. But as soon as I had to slow down and start the process again, I realized that I was buried. Twenty miles into our trip I saw a "Torrington 3 Miles," sign. In the distance, a moving van was going 15 MPH. We were stuck behind it for ten minutes before it turned off. When we were free again, I mis-timed my shift and the confused transmission caused the truck to buck and bounce. I was then gripped by fear as someone with his high-beams on, came up behind us. I almost soiled myself when the police car's rack lights were turned on. Jerry was cool. He said, "Slow down, pull over, put it in park and slide over and switch places with me."

I'll never forget the sergeant's name tag: Walter Palmer. He asked for our credentials. Everything was in order but he jotted our names and other information into a memo pad. He shined his flashlight into both of our eyes and scanned the cab for weapons, alcohol or drugs. Its a miracle he didn't notice that there were no keys in the ignition.

Jerry was asked about his erratic driving, his New York license, why we were so far from the camp and why he was wearing a McNulty's shirt. Jerry was nonchalant, "I just learned to drive a stick, I'm only working in Connecticut for the summer, we're heard there's a Dairy Queen in Torrington and I traded my camp shirt with a guy from the dump." Palmer then asked me, "And who are you?" With my stomach in knots from the thought of going to jail my voice cracked, "I w-work at the camp too."

THE SUGARPLUM IMAGES OF LOADS OF CHICKS WAITING TO GET PICKED-UP EVAPORATED FROM MY MIND.

Palmer seemed satisfied as he walked back to his cruiser...until he did an about-face. He scared the crap out of me so badly that I wanted to dig a maggot hole and crawl in. The sergeant leaned into the cab and quizzically said, "DQ closed at 11. Maybe you should head straight back to camp. I got your names. And I'm gonna telephone your boss first thing in the morning and make sure everything is straight. If you play your cards right, this'll be what you call, learning a life lesson the easy way. That seems fair, don't it boys?" Jerry and I both said, "Yes sir."

I spent little time with Jerry after that.

Unlike the 1996 movie, "SLEEPERS," where the normal lives of four teenagers are shattered by a stupid prank gone wrong, I was scared straight, (or in my case, straighter), by my experience. Sergeant Walter Palmer helped me figure out how to avoid being influenced by a friend's bad decisions. And more importantly, the difference between a friend and a maggot.

JOHN WAYNE WOULD HAVE BURNT CARNEYS POINT TO THE GROUND

Have you ever had a gun pointed at your head? I have. Even if you're innocent and the gunman is a police officer....its not a good feeling.

In Las Vegas (1980), I was pulled over for a routine traffic violation.
I moved too quickly for my credentials and the cop shouted, "Stop!"
I turned around and found his service revolver an inch from my temple. After a sigh of relief by both of us, all my paperwork checked-out. He maintained his tough-guy stance but, he did let me slide. I guess he recognized how closely we (me), escaped disaster.

Ten years ago, I told that story to a police officer friend. He said once you are pulled-over for a routine traffic stop...you want everything to be...routine. To further assure that the situation is handled smoothly, he suggested keeping both hands on the top of the steering wheel. When the officer approaches, avoid sudden movements and speak politely. At night, the dome light should be flicked on.

Assuming you don't feel that you are being profiled or unjustly stopped, this simple gesture implies that you are no threat. It signals to the police that you want to make the distasteful procedure safe, easy and quick for both parties. My friend went on to say that there is a chance that the officer might be more lenient by your sensitivity to his risks and danger potential.

Of course, you never know the mindset of a policeman. He might be a jerk or having a bad day or going through personal problems. I have been lucky down through the years because I have heard horror stories. I'm proud to say, I have no horror stories. In fact, I have had so few moving violations that I bet I remember just about all of them. Today we'll concentrate on the first and last.

My first ticket was when I was eighteen. I was threatened by my folks into volunteering to drive my paternal grandmother each spring, to and from, a hotel in Ellenville New York. The first few times, my mom kept me company. Her job included alerting me to short-cuts and speed-traps. The two main speed-traps were in the tiny towns Sloatsburg and Tuxedo New York.

TUXEDO NEW YORK IS IN ORANGE COUNTY NEAR THE NEW JERSEY BORDER. THE TOWN GETS ITS NAME FROM "TUCSETO," THE LENNI-LENAPE INDIAN NAME FOR BEAR LAKE. IN 1886, JAMES POTTER GOT AN IDEA FOR AN ALTERNATIVE TO THE WHITE-TIE STYLE OF FORMAL DRESS AFTER VISITING ENGLAND. HE CAME TO A SWANKY DINNER PARTY IN TUXEDO WEARING A SHORT SMOKING JACKET. OTHER MEN COPIED HIM AND EVENTUALLY IT WAS NAMED A TUXEDO.

The necessity of mom's expertise always came into focus when she reminded me where to slow down. Inevitably, we'd pass someone being ticketed. So it was an accomplishment to never get caught speeding there.

On one of those trips (c. 1973), we were cruising home through the Bronx. When we reached the Triborough Bridge, (it links the Bronx to both Manhattan and Queens), we hit a major traffic back-up. I was inexperienced, (mom never learned to drive), so I thought I was really cool by flying by hundreds of vehicles in the vacant right lane that channeled cars onto Wards Island. When I tucked back into the bridge traffic, I crossed a double-solid line. An officer on foot was hidden behind an abutment waiting for drivers to make that illegal move.
THE TRIBOROUGH WAS RENAMED THE ROBERT F. KENNEDY BRIDGE ON NOVEMBER 19, 2008.

The officer used his finger like a gun and pointed me in an intimidating manner to the shoulder. I'll never forget, his name tag read, M. McKinley. He asked for my ID, shushed me when I tried to defend my actions and issued my summons without uttering an unnecessary word.

My last brush with the law was in 2005. We had just bought a new Honda and decided to break it in with a test-drive to Virginia. From here in South Jersey, a GPS would send you west on the Atlantic City Expressway, to I-295 south, to the Delaware Memorial Bridge and then to I-95. I never go that way. I think its better to take Route-40, the back road scenic route through megalopolises like Newfield, Mizpah, Franklinville and Elmer.

My memory of the speed-traps in Sloatsburg and Tuxedo kept me mindful of how small towns supplement the coffers in their community chest. So I'm always careful of the speed limits. The town of Woodstown is the last red flag. After slowing down there, its wide open unincorporated farmland to the Jersey border, through Cowtown and Pennsville to the last burg, Carneys Point.

In the shadow of the Delaware Bridge with no signs of a city, village or hamlet in sight, I had few cars to compete with. It was mid-morning and our spirits were high. Suddenly, in the rear view mirror, I noticed a police cruiser. Instinctively, I let up on the accelerator and noticed that I was doing 60 in a 55. I wasn't worried. Within seconds, the police car neared and the rack-lights on his roof were activated. I thought he was going after someone else so I moved over a little, to let him pass as I slowed down . But he wasn't chasing anyone but me.
VIEWING THE DELAWARE MEMORIAL BRIDGE FROM BEAUTIFUL DOWNTOWN CARNEYS POINT.

I stopped and assumed the position my cop friend suggested with both hands on top of my steering wheel. I greeted the overweight, Carneys Point sergeant through his mirrored sunglasses and pleasantly asked, "What's the problem sir?"
Impatiently he said, "License, registration and insurance!"
To avoid further upsetting him, I gathered my papers and asked, "Why did you stop me?"
"Sixty-one in a forty-five."
"No it was a 55..." He used rudeness as a force-field to support his authority and interrupted, "Son, it was a 45." "Huh? Hey, uh sir, I was just keeping up with traffic..."
"Be quiet! Or I'll also cite you for failing to pull-over for a half-mile!"

Despite being polite and non-threatening, I was treated coarsely and received a ticket for $105.00. I didn't like it but I got caught in a speed-trap and saw no other recourse but to pay.

When I got home, I re-read the ticket. That doughnut-chomping weasel-cop stuck it to me. That one extra mile per hour (61 rather 60), over the limit added $20.00 to my fine. I was seething because I knew it was intentional.

I wanted to forget the ordeal as soon as possible. That's when my eye caught the phrase; save a stamp, pay on-line. So I plodded through several personal information screens. On the last page, I accepted my responsibility and pleaded guilty. However, the one thing that pissed me off all over again was at the bottom, in the field next to the "send" link. It read; I accept a $3.00 computer processing fee. What sneaky, petty bastards! After schtupping me for an extra twenty and unnecessarily stealing ten minutes of my private time under the guise of saving me a 37-cent stamp, they rammed the joy of E-PAYING, up my...umm, a...nose!

I'M POSITIVE THE "DUKE" WOULD HAVE STAMPEDED A HERD OF LONG-HORNS THROUGH MAIN STREET OR FOUGHT TO HIS DEATH BEFORE BEING HOOD-WINKED INTO PAYING THAT $3.00. I DIDN'T. I GUESS THAT MEANS IF I WAS IN HIS SHOES, I WOULD HAVE KEPT THE NAME MARION MORRISON AND NEVER LEFT IOWA.

When I go that way, I still drive the back roads of Route-40...but a lot slower. And while I'm puttering around, I often wonder if John Wayne ever had a real gun put to his head !