THE FEAR OF BEING IN THE "CURLY POSITION."

The THREE STOOGES, acting as detectives are searching for clues in a haunted house.  Suddenly, Moe is confronted by a man-eating gorilla and thrusts Larry towards the beast...before fleeing.  Larry sees the homicidal ape, grabs Curly, pushes him into harms way and scampers off.  When Curly is nose-to-nose with certain death, he turns to throw the next stooge under the bus...except there's nobody there.  Curly must now take a stand.  Of course he's as undependable as his buddies so he runs away too.  It wouldn't be much in the way of slapstick had he stood his ground.  If Curly had that would be the essence of responsibility...standing up, regardless how frightened you are to be singularly accountable.

WHETHER IT WAS A GORILLA, THE WOLF MAN,  DRACULA OR ANY GARDEN VARIETY MENACE, CURLY WAS ALWAYS LEFT TO FACE THE MUSIC BUT HE "AM-SCRAYED" JUST LIKE MOE AND LARRY.

It's a challenge to be put in the "Curly" position.  President Harry Truman used to say, "The buck stops here."  That meant while most people don't relish making tough decisions or being alone in scary/difficult situations...he was dedicated to his office and that the American public could rely on him.

HARRY TRUMAN (1884-1972) WAS OUR 33rd PRESIDENT,  (1945-1953).  A FEW MONTHS INTO HIS TERM, HE HAD TO MAKE ONE OF THE MOST CONTROVERSIAL DECISIONS OF ALL-TIME...TO DROP THE FIRST NUCLEAR BOMB ON HIROSHIMA.

I was always more of a Curly than a Truman but when I owned a dealer training school from 1986-1990, it seemed like I was frequently left in the lurch...to single-handedly face a metaphoric killer gorilla.

My school was located on a bustling city avenue. On our side, there was a church, radio station, health food shop, liquor store and a mom and pop convenience store.  Across the way, there was a firehouse, funeral home, an auto glass center and beauty parlor.  Plus, four eateries could be seen from our front door.

In the early stages of getting this enterprise off the ground, I had difficulty coping with the pressure of getting the entity licensed.  Oddly, the requirements were the same as if it were an actual casino. I had invested my life savings so every delay and added cost that held up opening, added to my anxiety.  I was so choked by the fear of failure that to cushion the burden of uncertainty, I found a safe haven at the liquor store or the Italian restaurant's bar. Luckily, I fought off the drinking demons when the school finally opened.

After the grand opening, the school was also susceptible to spot checks by gaming enforcement agents, (state police). These impromptu drop-ins usually concerned internal auditing or record keeping regarding student attendance. But on one occasion, they wanted to see the procedure for safely locking up our valueless practice chips. My heart jumped into my throat when the first key wouldn't lock a blackjack table's chip rack.  The inspectors weren't heartless, they said they'd come back after lunch. 

In a panic, I ran across to the firehouse.  A ghastly looking fireman with an eyepatch saw my desperation and joked, "I'll lend you an ax."  When Mr. Cyclops saw the shock in my face, he smiled, brushed away some cobwebs and handed me a can of WD-40.

WD-40 WAS INVENTED IN 1953 AND BECAME AVAILABLE TO THE PUBLIC IN 1958.  IT WAS DESIGNED TO PREVENT CORROSION IN METAL AND TO REPEL WATER.  LATER IT WAS FOUND TO HAVE PRACTICAL HOUSEHOLD USES...LIKE UNFREEZING, RUSTED CASINO CHIP TRAY LOCKS.  WHEN I RETURNED THE CAN TO THE FIREMAN, I SAID HE RESCUED ME AND THAT I'D  DO A TV COMMERCIAL FOR WD-40...FOR FREE.

By the spring of 1987, the school's enrollment and staff gravitated to the tiny, corner convenience store on their breaks.  The Indian couple that owned it, (Wolf's Market), were friendly and appreciated the new influx of business our student body provided. 

One day, a student, (he was twenty years older than me) sadly approached me
and whined, "Meestah Stu, Meestah Stu."  I said, "Asmat, this is an inform place.  You don't have to call me mister...and my name is Steve...not Stu."  He said, "Okay Meestah Stu."  (I didn't correct him the second time).  He continued, "I bought orange juice at the store with a ten dollar bill.  When I returned here, I realized that the woman gave me change for a five.  She denied her mistake and hollered at me to get out!"

Again, I was low-man on the totem pole.  I knew there was no upside for me but I had to step-up and solve the problem.  I was filled with negativity because the store owner's wife was far less approachable than the husband.  Reluctantly, I put on a necklace of garlic cloves and headed over there. 

The rigid hag looked like Stella Lugosi.  I tried to look away but my eyes were riveted on the wart at the end of her nose and the mole on her cheek, (with coarse, cable wire hairs blooming out of it). Then, acting as Asmat's advocate, (without accusing her of short-changing him), I explained his side of the story.  I politely concluded with, "At the end of the day, double check your receipts.  Then IF there was an overage, please refund the five dollars." 

I realized she was all tricks and no treats when she started yelling at me in a combination of Hindi and bad English.  First, she showed me that her cash register didn't generate receipts.  Then white gauze formed at both corners of this female werewolf's mouth as she howled, "I can't believe you would side with a (expletive deleted) Pakistani."  She tore a five-dollar bill in half, balled it up and threw it at me.  When I looked at her like she was crazy, she started yammering, (I guessed from her tone that they were profanities in her language).  Finally, this queen of mean spit on the floor and ordered me out.

Thirty minites later, like a mad scientist, together with my Igor-like secretary, we angrily designed an Edgar Allan Poe themed boycott poster targeting the corner store. 

OUR BOYCOTT POSTER INCLUDED A PHOTO LIKE THIS.  WE WERE TRYING TO INCORPORATE THE PHRASE, "NEVER MORE" WHEN WERE INTERRUPTED.

That's when the store's diplomatic owner came in waving a new, truce-like five dollar bill.  I pointed out Asmat and the two shook hands.  I was glad my mediation succeeded in defusing a potential international incident while cementing my alliance with the Wolf Market, (my case is proven by the wife's brother, a nephew and the store owner himself eventually becoming my students).

Being in the Curly position sometimes is just a matter of facing the daily responsibilities of owning a business; like using my apartment's kitchen trashcan as a scoop, to dig my car out of twenty inches of snow, just to drive into town, borrow a shovel from the health food store to clear the school's sidewalk.  I must have looked like a shivering Yeti when I came in to answer phoned-in "snow-day" questions.  Later in this horror plagued day, I was pissed-off enough to use a chainsaw on the moron who accused me of being unprofessional for wearing jeans.

These uncomfortable situations aren't a matter of life and death but believe me, when you receive a report that some devil has vomited in the sink, your first reaction is to turn around and see who you can delegate the nasty task to.  It's frightening to be in the Curly position and find out there's nobody behind you.

Other times, you are faced with a snap judgement.  For instance, the school had a men's room and a separate ladies room.  These facilities consisted of a single toilet, a sink and nothing more.  So when I witnessed two male students come out of the men's room seconds apart, I knew something was amiss.  Inside the restroom, the air was so saturated with the distinct stink of harsh marijuana that it smelled like a mummy's crypt.  The last thing I wanted to do was confront these guys and run the risk of reprisals.  But I generated, "a zero tolerance policy for illegal drugs and alcohol," so without backup, I was compelled to dismiss both of them.

Occasionally, Mother Nature threatens your livelihood with something far more horrifying than the temporary inconvenience of a blizzard. The school building was attached to a radio station...and we were tenants of the same landlord.  One day there was a surprise visit from an exterminator after the station manager discovered sagging floor boards.

The bug buster said, "I have bad news."   "Really," I said, "what did you find in the dungeon, a walking skull, tarantulas and thirteen black cats?"  He said, "No, just a termite infestation." Nothing was more disgusting to see than a sea of undulating maggot-like creatures feasting on the floor panels and joists.  By the time the workmen ripped and tore out the floor, twenty percent of the space had been damaged by the wood-eating invaders...but the whole floor and support system had to be replaced.

The school had to answer to the state gaming commission so we COULD NOT close our doors during advertised class hours without being heavily fined.  This complication forced negotiations with the evil landlord and the blood-sucking contractor, to continuously work around the clock from 11:PM Thursday until 9:AM Monday to avoid any down time. 

Forget about ulcers, after one delay led to another...causing arguments and work stoppages, I felt as if the black magic of Voodoo was giving me a heart attack.  By the time I wiggled out of the termite fiasco and the doors opened on time for business on Monday, my skin was still crawling and I looked like a zombie. Maybe being in the Curly position was a matter of life and death.

Shortly there after, I got a visit from a toothless, homeless person with a Jack-O-Lantern grin and his witchy, skinny as a skeleton companion.  The strangers informed me that their friend PT, a former student of mine, had been killed and they wanted me to come to the cemetery and attend the burial...less than an hour later.  I tried to explain that I had to oversee the daily operation of the school...but they thought I was an insensitive jerk.

PT'S LIFE WENT HAYWIRE AFTER HE LOST HIS CASINO JOB. HE WAS APPARENTLY SLEEPING "ONE OFF" IN AN OPEN FIELD SOMEWHERE ALONG THE ATLANTIC CITY EXPRESSWAY WHEN HE WAS MANGLED TO DEATH BY AN OVER-SIZED INDUSTRIAL LAWN MOWER.

In the true spirit of Halloween, the scariest position I was left alone to face did not involve a monster.  Instead, it involved a pretty, blond, twenty-four year old student.  Ursula had a truancy problem which forced me to call her home several times.  I never spoke with her but Ursula's mother finally confided in me that her daughter had an extremely rare blood disorder.  During a later call, her mom doubted that Ursula would return to class in the near future.

A month later, I was informed that Ursula had passed away.  Her mom encouraged me to attend the wake which was going to be held directly across the street from the school...I did not refuse.

I stayed at the school late that night and busied myself so intently on paperwork that I lost track of the time.  Even though the gathering was over, I hustled across the street and went into the eerie, dark and empty chapel.  I passed rows of empty chairs as I advanced towards a hall that led to a dim light.  I was hoping that Ursula's mom might still be there.  If not, I wanted to sign the register and ask a representative of the mortuary to send along my condolences. At the door, I glanced to the left and saw through the diffused light, Ursula in the open coffin.  I was so spooked that the few hairs I still had...stood on end.  Childishly, as if hobgoblins, Frankenstein and ghosts were chasing me, I zoomed like a bat out of hell and went home.

I told you I was more of a Curly than Truman.  So if you are ever behind me in a Three Stooges episode, (on an expedition to find the Phantom from Forty Fathoms, in the piranha invested Amazon), be aware that if Moe pushes aside some branches and they smack me in the face...I'll be doing the same thing to you...even if your name isn't Curly.

REAL LIFE APPLICATIONS OF SPANISH - 101

A few days before entering junior high school, a lightning bolt of panic exploded inside me when my friend's older brother said, "If you're taking Spanish...watch out for Mrs. Bialyschtock...she's the worst!" 

Mrs. Bialyschtock's real name was Bialowicz, (BEE-ALO-WITCH).  But because of the end of her name and heavy Eastern-European accent, most of the female students called her "The Witch." Nobody said the girls were wrong because Bialowicz was also hunched over, limped and was the strictest teacher in the school.  If that wasn't enough, her raggedy "bag-lady" appearance included small, wart-like splotches on her face.

The boys were less critical.  They saw her resemblance to the Zero Mostel character from the 1963 movie, "THE PRODUCERS," and simply exaggerated the Max Bialystock name.

ZERO MOSTEL (1915-1977).  WAS A COMIC STAGE AND FILM ACTOR.  HE EARNED HIS NICKNAME BECAUSE HIS PARENTS THOUGHT HE'D NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING AND CALLED HIM "GORNISHT," (YIDDISH FOR NOTHING). HIS METEORIC CAREER AS A CLASSIC ACTOR  WAS HAMPERED THROUGHOUT THE 1950's BY BEING BLACKLISTED DURING THE McCARTHY-ERA.  HE'S BEST KNOWN ON STAGE AS TEVYE FROM, "FIDDLER ON THE ROOF" AND AS PSEUDOLUS IN, "A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM."  MY FAVORITE MOVIE ROLE  (above) WAS AS BIALYSTOCK.

The bolt of panic then vanished when the other two seventh-grade Spanish teachers, Mrs. J and Miss B, (both in their early twenties) were described.  I would later see for myself that Mrs. J was exotic looking.  In addition to a slinky, model-like body, she was warm, encouraging and patient.  In the mind of a twelve-year old in the throes puberty, this was the embodiment of everything you could want from a woman teacher.

Of course sexuality even for pre-teens, is a matter of personal taste and it seemed that Miss B was clearly every little boy's choice. Miss B was less professional, easy-going and a high grader.  She was plainly pretty but her overly buxom figure highlighted by buttoned blouses displaying a hint of cleavage or tight sweaters were enough to keep the male students attentive to every move she made.

I was thrilled to be put in Mrs. J's class. She must have thought I was her most knowledge-thirsty student because she was so beautiful that I would just stare at her.  Once she sat on her desk cross-legged and read a passage.  My mind was clouded by erotic fantasies...that I understood even less than the Spanish lesson. Then while envisioning her and I in the eraser-cleaning closet, I snapped out of the trance when Mrs. J said in English, "Abraham Lincoln" and "Kentucky," in the same sentence. 

Some of the other kids saw the humor and politely smirked.  But when the balloon of my confused flight-of-fancy popped, my notebook fell on the floor.  Everyone laughed.  They really laughed when Mrs. J asked me to stand, to answer a question.  I refused to get up because I didn't want anyone to see the dent in my pants.  Maybe she sensed my predicament and allowed me to remain seated.  Still, I had no idea of what she was asking. Thus began my Spanish career that remained on the grade 70%...forever.

The next year it was obvious that I had no grasp for the Hispanic language.  This unfortunate fact was typified during an oral recognition test.  My new teacher, Miss M had replaced the retired Mrs. Bialowicz.  She asked questions in Spanish and the class had to write the proper response, in Spanish.  As usual, I was buried.  So, on a couple of occasions, I copied off the girl (JS) sitting next to me. 

A few days later, I was proud to have gotten a 79% on that test.  After class, Miss M asked to see me privately.  She accused me of cheating. I went into denial-mode and lied through my teeth.  She said in Spanish, "What did you wear to school yesterday?"  I had no idea what she said.  When I didn't answer Miss M said in English, "How come you answered the question so well on the test and now you can't?"  I shrugged, "Lucky guess?"  She said, "You know what else is funny, you got the exact same answer as JS...wanna know what the question was?"  After she told me she added, "You know what you and JS answered..."  I gulped as she continued, "Yesterday, I wore a blue dress to school."

Somehow, Miss M gave me a 70% that year.

In high school I failed sophomore Spanish.  I had to re-take it.  The repeater class I was put in was all seniors.  They were a collection of juvies (juvenile delinquents), druggies and morons, so little teaching went on.  I had no competition.  So based solely on putting in a decent effort, in a sea of chaos, I was able to assume the role of the star pupil and score a rare 80.

To my chagrin, in college, I was required to take another year of Spanish.  I took a Spanish Literature course and did "C" work.  One assignment was to read the short story, "EL HOTEL DEL CISNE," (The Swan Hotel).  During the professor's lecture, he asked us (in Spanish) to name other birds.  Someone said, "Aguila is an eagle." The next few students answered, " Pollo is a chicken," "Cuervos are crows," "Una paloma esta un pigeon "and "buitre is a vulture."  I was thinking that buitre sounded like a cool word when Professor S added in Spanish, "Does anyone know what kind of bird a *pato is?"   When I broke out into laughter, S shocked the class by saying in English, "Ah, I see Senor Edelblum has a deeper knowledge of Spanish than he lets on."

*Pato - Is a Spanish slang term for a homosexual.

Professor S and I developed a friendly bond.  At the end of the semester, I was rewarded with a C+.  The problem was, Brooklyn College did not use plus or minus grades.  I even begged him to give me a B--- but my plea didn't sway him...maybe the bond he sought was more than friendly?

During the next semester, my last bit of formal Spanish training was highlighted by a test on the subjunctive tense.  An hour before that certain failure, I bumped into FLOWGLO. She was a Spanish major.  She said, "They should only teach conversational Spanish.  Even if you were addressing parliament in Madrid, the subjunctive wouldn't be necessary."  She sat down and drilled the normal grammar for these tests into me...complete with the typical exceptions to the rule.

The 83% I earned on that exam should have been the high water mark of my Spanish career, (the next highest grade was a 71 and nobody else broke 50).  That professor (G) threw out the test results and blamed himself.  At the end of the year, I got a C.

Today, I can not speak Spanish.  But I have probably gotten more practical use out of the language than most of the students who breezed to high grades and immediately forgot it. Down through the years, I have used the little I know to help and/or entertain Latino friends and customers...even at the risk of being laughed at.  In Las Vegas, my Hispanic friends at the Golden Nugget nicknamed me El Gato (The Cat)...because  even though I bastardized their language, they thought I was, as cool as a cat, for trying. 

In Atlantic City, in the early 1990's,  I used to say that I only got hired because the administrators were impressed that on my application, I included that I was "mono-lingual."  A lot of people thought that joke was funny especially my new Latino friends.   Soon I mentioned my El Gato nickname and I'm happy to say that moniker has survived (with a select few friends) down through all the years. One of those friends (J) had been a fly-weight boxer in his homeland, Paraguay.  Despite being short, his heavily scarred face and muscular physique made him a chick magnet.

One night (1992?) our "cougar" supervisor (way before the term cougar was in vogue) asked J if he ever played the Vulture Game?  I chimed in, "Buitre is the Spanish word for vulture."  My supervisor didn't like that I interrupted her while she was conducting the business of hitting on him.  But my vocabulary and pronunciation impressed J.  The cougar repeated herself and J said, "I never heard of the Vulture Game.  How does it go?"  She said, "I play dead, you drag me home and eat me."  J laughed it off, (these days, he could have made a case for sexual harassment).

WHAT A COINCIDENCE, ALL THE INTERNET PHOTOS I SAW OF VULTURES WERE FROM SPANISH SPEAKING COUNTRIES.

To the best of my knowledge the Vulture Game was never played but J's new nickname, "Buitre" survived even though there was a groundswell of support to call him "Killer," (shortened from, "My Little Killer)."

THE TERM, "MY LITTLE KILLER,"  ORIGINATED FROM THE 1942 CARTOON, "BUGS BUNNY GETS THE BOID."  ALTHOUGH THE CHARACTER (above) IS ACTUALLY NAMED "BEAKY BUZZARD," HE IS DRAWN TO LOOK MORE LIKE A VULTURE.  THE NAME, "MY LITTLE KILLER" IS USED BECAUSE BEAKY IS INEXPERIENCED AND BASHFUL.  SO WHEN HIS DOMINEERING MOTHER (IN A GREEK ACCENT) DEMANDS HE HUNT DOWN A RABBIT AND HE REFUSES. SHE ENCOURAGES HIM BY CALLING HIM, "MY LITTLE KILLER."   AND LIKE BUITRE, BEAKY'S FINAL WORDS WERE, "NOPE, NOPE...I AIN'T GONNA DO IT."

Once when Buitre and I were on the same craps crew, he was in a deep conversation, in Spanish, with a man with thousands of dollars in chips in front of him, (who wasn't playing).  When I came to relieve him, Buitre exchanged some parting words with the high-roller before saying to me, "He doesn't know how to play, I told him you speak Spanish..."  Buitre left before I could remind him of my severe limitations.  Then in his native tongue, the player started speaking ...fast.  I understood...NOTHING!

This would have made a great, "CANDID CAMERA," moment because when he paused I stupidly said in fluent Spanish, "Si."  The man set a fifteen-hundred dollar bet on the table as another man threw the dice.  The stickman called out, "Three craps, line away."  When I scooped up the man's losing bet, he went berserk.  He was so loud and angry that the game came to a standstill until a real translator could be found.

I soon learned that the question the man was asking was, "Am I the next shooter?"  And the man only wanted to bet if he was going to throw the dice..to which I confidenly said, "Si." Management took a hard stance and refused to give his money back.  They explained through the interpreter that if the bet had won, the man would have been paid.  I could still hear the man screaming when he sat at a blackjack table on the other side of the casino.

I have had enough real life, funny and embarrassing applications of Spanish, to fill another blog.  Maybe I'll call that one, "SPANISH - 102."  My son Andrew took French in seventh grade or should I say French took him.  He saw the more practical use for Spanish and requested it.  But through a clerical error, he was given French.  We found out it was quick fix, but once Andrew saw how many of his friends were in his classes, he decided not to switch.

Andrew did well in French but there were few, if any, real life applications for it.  Therefore, he missed out on the potential for funny or embarrassing moments while using it.  Now in college, he decided to fulfill his foreign language requirement by taking Spanish from scratch, (Spanish - 101). 

Come to think of it, Andrew's was exposed (slightly) to Spanish in first grade.  That's when his teacher found out I "knew" Spanish and asked me to make a game for an end of year activity.

I came up with a simple, sound recognition matching game, "Spanish Bingo."  The "B" column were colors, "I" was simple vocabulary, "N" was pronouns, "G" was numbers and "O" was animals.  So if I called out "O, Gato," the kids would search their "O" column for Gato (which would include in small letters...the English translation).

I XEROXED TWENTY-TWO BLANK BINGO BOARDS.  THEN BY HAND, FILLED IN SPANISH WORDS AND THEIR TRANSLATION.  THIS IDEA SERVED ITS PURPOSE WELL ENOUGH THAT IT SPAWNED THE YEARLY TRADITION OF ME CREATING AND EMCEEING YEAR-END GAME SHOWS, (IN ANDREW'S SECOND TO FOURTH GRADE CLASSES).  THOSE GAMES WERE: "THE GREAT AMERICAN CLAM RACE," "SHANTEAU'S FEUD" AND "THE STATE CHASE RACE." THEN IN FIFTH GRADE, I SET-UP ANDREW AS THE EMCEE FOR, "CLUELESS...THE SEARCH FOR BUBBA'S GOLDEN COLLAR."

Now I pass the Spanish torch onto Andrew.  I expect his college Spanish courses and its real life practicality will result in him having many more adventures with the language than me.  The rationale behind my confidence is, Andrew never got a 70% in anything!  I just hope he doesn't get a descendant of Mrs. Bialyschtock as his professor.  Buenas suertes, mi hijo! 

SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING

I went to my niece's wedding this past Saturday night and had a blast. In the morning, there was a big breakfast party in the hotel. Over coffee and a bran muffin, the groom told me that at midnight, during the height of the festivities, there was a "cat-fight" under the country club's portico, in the valet parking area.

The two Snooki-esque combatants must have really went at it because neither my bouncer-like nephew or anyone else could stop them. Through the miracle of cell-phones, the police responded in five minutes. Although there were no arrests, enough blood was shed that first-aid was administered to one of the dainty young ladies.

This North Jersey battle royal reminded me of the two donnybrook-laden seasons, (1976-1977), when I played in the INTERBORO ICELESS HOCKEY ASSOCIATION (IIHA). These street-hockey games were played on Kings Highway in Brooklyn on Saturday and Sunday mornings. At the height of its popularity, the league had eight teams with four of New York City's five boroughs being represented.

To reduce the probability of injuries (player ages ranged from 15-50), great restrictions were placed on physical play. Still each team had chippy instigators and when emotions ran high each team had pugnacious goons.

Our goon was named Stavros. His family owned a bunch of diners so he rarely showed up. When he did play, he was neither athletic or mentally stable. Therefore, he only came to hurt people. He was on our team because Stavros was a close friend of Ambrose, our team captain. Stavros further legitimized himself by treating select teammates to after-game meals.

Stavros used to boast how he dragged drunks out of his restaurant and beat them up. It annoyed him that I wasn't impressed. During a game, he once, "put out a hit," on an opposing player. Even though this jerk deserved a beating only the most ignorant of our lemmings actually elbowed him in the face or body-checked him into the brick wall. Most of the team enthusiastically said yeah, yeah and did nothing. Of course I had to be different, I called Stavros an asshole. I was never included in his free-meal plan before that and I'm certain that I was never even considered afterwards.

At first, I missed-out on another Stavros perk. He had a connection with a caterer in Manhattan Beach. He hooked-up Ambrose with work in valet parking. Soon the captain was bringing his cronies in. Eventually, he was furnishing the whole eight-man crew. About twenty times from 1976-1978, they were so short-staffed that I was included.

The catering hall was on extra wide but not especially busy, West End Avenue. The work was always on Saturday nights so even if I didn't get to bed till 3:00AM, I was ready for IIHA games at ten.

On the Sunday mornings that I wasn't playing hockey, I played basketball in my Junior High's schoolyard with my close friends, (SLW, RCC were regulars and IRAK, DRJ and GRAMPS also participated). This tradition was carried through from when I was fifteen until I left for Las Vegas when I was twenty-three.

JOHN WILSON JUNIOR HIGH, (JHS 211) , CIRCA 1989. IS STILL LOCATED ON CANARSIE'S AVENUE 'J,' AT EAST 100th STREET, (THE BASKETBALL COURTS ARE OUT BACK).

In my late teens, these pick-up basketball games were a great forum to brag about who you dated the night before and what you did. These conversations were rather competitive. So during valleys in my love life, when others were saying how they were snuggled on a couch with their girlfriends watching, "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, (SNL), " I felt compelled to tap dance around the truth. So rather than admit that I was alone the previous night, I implied that I had something better to do than watch TV and pretended to not know SNL's best lines. In fact, talking about valet parking became a convenient way for me to skirt, the no date issue.

I STILL FEEL THAT THE ORIGINAL, "NOT READY FOR PRIME TIME PLAYERS," LIKE DAN AYKROYD AND JOHN BELUSHI WERE THE BEST SNL CAST...HOWEVER LATER INDIVIDUAL STALWARTS LIKE EDDIE MURPHY WERE JUST AS GOOD.

My first few times that I parked cars, a man named Jack was our supervisor. We handed over all our tips to him and at the end of the night, he divvied up the proceeds. When Jack moved away to attend graduate school, Ambrose took over. Without Jack holding the money, our tip income nearly doubled. More importantly, now everybody in the car-jockey gang was a hockey teammate.

During our "down-time," after all the invitees arrived and before they left, we occupied ourselves by having a hockey shoot-around, in an unused portion of the underground garage. This fun was rarely interrupted except when a guest took an "early-out," or when the caterer brought down a tray of food, (almost always pepper steak) and a soup tureen, (almost always beef barley).

We were able to sacrifice the space in the garage for hockey because around the corner, on the adjacent side street, there was a large, outdoor parking lot. And when it was an extremely big affair, we had the added luxury to park on residential streets.

Cars parked in the garage were easily pulled up in front of the hall's main entrance. However, cars in the lot or on the street, required a left turn before passing the entrance from across the street and then a U-Turn to get back in front. Whenever possible, when retrieving those, it was faster to make a right instead of a left and unlawfully go in reverse a few hundred feet.

All of us, including me, were quite adept at this maneuver. But it was that move that sparked the most remarkable moment of my valet parking career.

On a summer night, the first group of folks were coming out of the wedding. I was bringing back one of the first cars from around the corner. West End Avenue was quiet so rather than going through with the rigmarole of making the left, passing the front entrance and making a U-Turn, I decided to make the right and go in reverse. While backing up, a souped-up Chevy Impala convertible with its top down roared by me. He screeched on the brakes and made an abrupt U-Turn behind me. Suddenly, our equally illegal moves left me blocking his path forward while he blocked my path backwards. For thirty seconds we gave each other the stink-eye before we simultaneously screamed, "Get out of my way!"

Suddenly, a monster who looked like a cross between Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant jumped out of his car and growled, "I gonna kick the $!?#$! shit out of this guy." AT THE TIME, 6 FOOT 7, 302-POUND TERRY BOLLEA, a.k.a. HULK HOGAN, WAS THE MOST RECOGNIZABLE NAME IN PRO WRESTLING (WWF). ANDRE "THE GIANT" ROUSSIMOFF, 7 FOOT 4 AND 500+ POUNDS WAS ANOTHER WWF MARQUEE PERFORMER.

The Elton John song, "Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting," flashed through my mind. So the prospect of getting annihilated was quite apparent...I knew I had to think fast. At the catering hall's entrance, a hundred feet away, I glanced at five of my hockey buddies watching this incident unfold. In addition to Ambrose, three of them were Stavros' surliest stooges. Inspired by the assumed camaraderie and protective spirit of my teammates, I stupidly burst out the car.

ON JUST ABOUT EVERYONE MY AGE'S LIPS, "SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING," WAS ONE OF ELTON JOHN'S ICONIC HIT SINGLES FROM HIS 1973 ALBUM, "GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD."

Despite having a big belly, my ornery adversary's heavily tattooed arms looked like etched, granite pythons exploding out of his torn, AC/DC tank-top. Without dillydallying, I stared into this bearded low-life's eye-level chest and aggressively advanced towards him. In a style that would have made someone with Turrets Syndrome blush, I looked up and got eye-contact. Then I loudly unloaded, in rapid-fire, every form of the harshest profanity I could think of.

I couldn't believe my eyes, this creature's body language changed and he went into retreat mode. My tirade of intense swear words was so intimidating that he didn't even notice that five guys wearing identical white short sleeve dress shirts, black slacks and sneakers were at the curb, ready to back me up. He said, "Hey, I don't want no trouble." He even smiled and gave me a friendly wave as his car coasted around mine before he hit the accelerator and zoomed away.

My valet parking pals sincerely pounded me with congratulatory pats on my back for standing up to that heinous beast. But it wouldn't be until a week later that I privately learned that Stavros' weaselly friends had no intention of helping me.

THE COLLYER BROTHERS RE-VISITED

Yesterday, we honored our mom's with the celebration of Mother's Day. Today I would like to keep the warm afterglow going by relating one of my mother's strongest points.

My mom was a spring of knowledge. Had she lived in another era or under better circumstances, I'm certain her raw wisdom combined with a college education would have catapulted her into a great career. Of course, if she did, I may not be sharing this story now.

FOR QUESTIONS, MOM WAS THE APPROACHABLE PARENT. ANYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW, SHE WAS THERE FOR ME. EXCEPT WHEN I WAS TWELVE, SHE HAD DAD GIVE ME THE, "BIRDS AND THE BEES," SPEECH. IN RETROSPECT, SHE SHOULD HAVE HANDLED THAT TOO !

Since I was a teenager, I have been a big fan of the 1950's TV sit-com, "THE HONEYMOONERS." The show featured two blue-collar stiffs, struggling in Brooklyn to provide for their families. The characters were portrayed by Jackie Gleason as bus driver Ralph Kramden and Art Carney as sewer worker Ed Norton. I HAVE BEEN LOVING THE ORIGINAL 39 EPISODES OF THE HONEYMOONERS FOR 44+ YEARS. SO WHILE I WAS IN NEW YORK CITY ON JUNE 26, 2010, I WENT OUT OF MY WAY TO CHECK-OFF A BUCKET LIST ITEM BY POSING WITH THE RALPH KRAMDEN STATUE, (8th AVENUE AT WEST 43rd).

When I was thirteen, in one Honeymooners episode, Norton poked fun of Kramden's cheapness by comparing him to the Collyer brothers. When the live audience erupted in laughter, I didn't understand the joke. So I sought out my mom.

Mom told me, the Collyer brothers (Langley and Homer), were wealthy eccentrics. They lived from 1925 until 1947, in a big brownstone on 5th Avenue at 128th Street, in the Harlem section of Manhattan. In the late 20's, something snapped and these Columbia University graduates shut them self off to the outside world. Although the hermits had plenty of money, when Homer's health began to fail due to rheumatism, Langley ventured out only under the cloak of darkness, to forage for food.

This nocturnal foraging included going through dumpsters at restaurants, grocery stores and butcher shops. At the same time, Langley also started picking trash. Over the course of decades, he obsessively brought home incredible volumes of abandoned junk. This worthlessness was an eclectic mixture of newspapers, books, lamps, baby carriages etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc.

Due to the recluses "need" for thrift, they stopped paying for utilities. One by one, the phone, water, electricity and gas were all cut-off. Due to the poor living conditions, malnutrition and lack of proper medical assistance, Homer lost his eye sight in 1932 and soon became paralyzed.

The long story comes to a sad end in March 1947. Neighbors complained about the stench coming from the Collyer's house. Upon a police investigation, it is believed that a mass of the hoarded material, (piled to the high ceiling), toppled onto Langley and killed him. Homer soon starved, waiting to be fed. To illustrate how much debris was accumulated, after the authorities discovered Homer's body, it took several more days, (which included a manhunt as far as Atlantic City New Jersey), to find Langley...whose far worse decomposing, stinking, rat eaten corpse was only ten feet from his brother's. When the house was gutted, an estimated 130 tons of stuff (95% garbage) was carted away by the Sanitation Department.

TODAY'S CABLE TV SHOW "HOARDERS" HAS NOTHING ON THE COLLYER BROTHERS. HIDDEN BEHIND THEIR TRASH TONNAGE, THE BOY'S BROWNSTONE WAS ROTTING...AND, VERMIN RULED THE ROOST.

According to mom, the Collyer brothers were such a laughing stock that ten years after their death, the humor was still topical enough for a big laugh on the "Honeymooners."

In September of 1973, the Collyer brothers came to mind again.

Gaetano (Gae), (the Italian immigrant buddy of my friend GRAMPS), arranged a job interview for me at, "COZEN'S ANTIQUES." (Gae and Gramps were featured in my June 7, 2010 blog, "SODA, SODA, EVERYWHERE BUT NOT A DROP TO DRINK)."

I mentioned Cozen's to my mom. She said, "I don't know about now but the store had a great reputation dating back to the depression." When I took the interview, it was conducted simultaneously by the twin, mid-50's brothers, (Seymour and Dudley), who inherited the store from their father. We agreed on an eighteen-hour schedule, (Monday, Wednesday and Friday), that fit perfectly around my classes at Brooklyn College. My pay was a dime an hour under minimum wage, "off the books."

Over the years, four-storied Cozen's absorbed the three stores attached to it. In a bygone era, the mega-store was Brooklyn's king of upscale antiques. When I started, the once formidable staff was reduced to the twins, one full-time worker, one part-timer and a bunch of kids like me who worked when I wasn't there.

I met the part-timer Hildy, she was about 50. Due to a clash in our schedules, I didn't see this saleswoman too often but when I did, her clever wisecracking aimed at the cheapness of the brothers was a pleasure to listen to.

The full-timer, Rufus, (also about 50), was a jack-of-all-trades from Barbados. He was there long enough to have worked for the father. A delicate craftsman, Rufus specialized in fixing broken furniture and as an upholsterer.

On my first day, at three o'clock, I was summoned into the office. Hildy had set-out five Styrofoam cups and was making a pot of coffee as she told me it was break time. Dudley handed me two, one-dollar bills. I was sent to the donut shop across the street, to get five pieces of apple cake. I didn't want coffee or apple cake. So I bought, four pieces of apple cake, a French cruller and a chocolate milk.

I came back and gave the change to Dudley. "Hey," he said, "you're twenty cents short." I was taking out the apple cake and said, "I got myself a doughnut and a container of milk." Seymour got angry, "Out of the goodness of our hearts, we supply apple cake and coffee. You should have never taken advantage of us." After Hildy made a sarcastic, "Ahem," sound, Dudley added, "It's okay this time but it will NEVER happen again...will it." And it didn't because whenever I wanted a snack, I paid for it with my own money.

This early rift never healed. In my second week, the frugal businessmen docked me a quarter hour for being ten minutes late. When I challenged this decision, Mr. Moneybags said, "Ten minutes? A quarter hour? What are we talking about fourteen cents? At your age, you shouldn't be so petty." Needless to say, I hated being there every minute of my six months there.

If I wasn't vacuuming, dusting or the like, I spent most of my time (hiding) with Rufus. In the privacy of his workshop, he told me that after nineteen years, Daddy Warbucks and Diamond Jim Brady (as he liked to call them), were only paying him $3.85 an hour. Even though it was also "off the books," it was such a small wage that he occasionally trolled the streets at night looking for discarded furniture that he could refurbish into an saleable antique. He laughed, "When I do, I still only get a pittance of what they get for the finished product. If I complain they say, 'You fix it on our time with our material.' When I say, I invest my own time to bring it in, they say, 'If you don't like the arrangement, don't do it.'"

Rufus said, "My financials are so bad because I support four children, a girlfriend, two ex-wives and three bartenders. My situation is so tough that for fifteen years, I work a second, full-time job as a graveyard shift elevator operator in a hospital. I'm stuck, those tight-ass Cozens don't offer no health insurance or benefits of any kind."

Once he and I were making a delivery and Rufus said, "The Cozens could squeeze a nickel so hard that the Indian would be riding the buffalo. To prove it, in all my time with them...other than that friggin' apple cake and shitty-ass coffee, I never got a penny over and above my regular salary. Nothing extra at Christmas, no bonuses of any kind...EVER!" He scratched his chin stubble and said, "Well, except once. One of them was too ill to go to a Mets World Series game in 1969. Those misers are so interchangeable, I'm not sure which one got sick and which one I went with. After a short pause he grinned, "Yeah, yeah, I went with Daddy Warbucks and he smuggled in his own sandwich into the game. Later, he used the water fountain when he was thirsty."

When I doubted him, he added, "Did you notice they bought the identical cars? Believe it or not, it's a little cheaper that way."

The first time I did a solo delivery in the Cozen's Antiques step-van, I broke one of the tail-lights when I parked. COZEN'S STEP-VAN LOOKED A LOT LIKE THIS EXCEPT WITH THE NAME ON IT.
One of the brothers accused me of breaking it. I denied it and suggested that it could have been vandalism. That Friday, I held my breath because I was expecting the price of replacing it to be deducted from my pay. Even though it wasn't, the hassle made me hate them more.

It was worse when Rufus wasn't there because I was exposed to Itchy and Scratchy all day. On one of those days I heard the metallic rattle of the loading dock door going up. The interior side was next to the freight elevator, a regular elevator and an extra wide staircase. I was feather-dusting on the second floor showroom when one of the brothers called me down. A wooden crate stuffed with straw (like from the 1940's), had been delivered. The taller Mr. Cozen used a crowbar to open it. Inside were cut-glass, lamp globes wrapped in Asian newspaper. I was told to be careful and bring all twenty-four to the fourth floor.

To elongate my time away from the brothers while exercising, I decided to carry this precious cargo, two at a time, up the steps. I had never gone higher than the second floor so the storage space on the top two levels were like being in a museum. After considerable dawdling, I found several large pieces of furniture meticulously wrapped in brown paper and labeled, SOLD - McSPICE.

My lamp globe mission was about half complete when I got busted. Mr. Boss Man barked, "What's taking you so long?" I came down and played dumb. He said, "You've been at it over thirty minutes and the crate is still here." That's when I said, "You said be careful...I didn't want to risk having to pay if I broke such an expensive antique...so I was walking them up, two at a time." Big Mr. Cozen was flabbergasted. He controlled his anger but a trace of white gauze oozed from the corner of his mouth as he said, "These aren't antique!" I said, "But they're imported from Japan..." "No," he whined, "they were made last month in China...they get attached to antiques."

That night I groused to my mom. She said, "You're a big boy now. It's up to you. If you don't like the treatment quit or shut up." I knew she was right but I couldn't decide what to do so I changed the subject, "Is the name McSpice common?" Mom said, "I never heard that name in my life. Why?" "Well that was the name of my elementary school librarian...sometimes she would be a substitute teacher." She said, "So?" I said, "Well upstairs at Cozen's, there's a big bunch of furniture marked sold, with the name McSpice on it."

Mom got the phone book and said, "There's only two listings in Brooklyn for McSpice and both just use the first initial, 'H.' I bet it's the same person and they own two houses. They must be rich because one address is on Falmouth Street. The only Falmouth I know is in Manhattan Beach. And the other is on Beverly Road and that part of Flatbush is a ritzy too."

The kids at my grammar school hated Mrs. McSpice. She was probably sixty but looked older. And because of her pancake make-up, she resembled Bette Davis from, "WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE." Far worse was her condescending attitude towards children. I can still remember he phony, sugary-sweet voice saying, "I hope you are as well-behaved as the class that just left."

Aside from not being kid-friendly, Mrs. McSpice was old, deeply wrinkled and scary looking. Even worse, every bone and tendon in her neck was permanently visible, (if you ask me, I can imitate that look by exaggerating a frown).

My next day at work, I asked Rufus about McSpice. "Ah, Miss Hortense. The brothers call that snob Horty...she thinks she's the Aristocracy...me, I call her; an old bitch of a whore." When I laughed, he continued by describing her. I said, "It sounds like the same woman from my school." He then added, "All the McSpice merchandise is in. The Cozens have been putting this sale together for two years...and now we're going to delivery it to Stamford Connecticut next Monday." I said, "It would be weird to see her...I doubt she'd remember me." Rufus said, "This is the biggest sale since I've been here...over $20,000.00. Miss Hortense comes in all the time to check her furniture, add more shit and make installment payments. I bet she comes in this week, to pay off the balance."

The Friday before the big McSpice delivery was a cold, windswept, misty day. It was March first and even though it was thirty-seven degrees and completely raw and miserable outside, I was glad to put the winter (January and February), behind me.

Due to the weather, the store was unusually quiet. I'm guessing that with the big delivery on the horizon, the brothers were extra tense. Rufus was out of the store and Hildy was coming in after I left, so I was at the brother's nitpicking mercy. They were ordering me around worse than ever and being hyper-critical of my work. I was still shivering after buying two pieces of apple cake for the brothers grim when Dudley told me to go outside with a squeegee and water bucket, to wash the windows.

I said, "I don't want to do that." He said, "You have no choice." I said, "It's raining. Nobody washes windows on a rainy day." Dudley sneered, "Just do your job! I will not tolerate insubordination. " "Do my job?" I said. "You should hire a professional. Window washing is not the nature of my job..." He interrupted, "The nature of your job is to do what I tell you to do." Seymour butted in, "I'll find him something else to do." He lead me to a storage closet next to the restroom and told me to scrub the sink, floor and toilet.

I did a slow burn until he came back at ten to five and handed me my $38.70 pay envelope. Every Friday, it struck me funny that they chose frugality over convenience and didn't round my pay up to an even $39.00.

That Monday was a beautiful pre-spring day. I came home after college instead of going to work. My mother didn't notice me puttering around the house until the phone rang. It was Hildy. After mom and I argued about me taking the call she cupped the receiver and said, "Work wants to know why you aren't there." I said, "Tell them I'm out." Mom said, "They know you're here." I said, "Just tell them I quit." Mom said, "Oh no you don't. You're an adult, it's your responsibility...Wait." Mom said, "Someone in the background is telling her what to say. No, no, no...there's two people telling her."

Mom eased up on me and listened as Hildy pleaded for her to encourage me to come in. Mom said, "This lady says this is the biggest delivery in their history...that they have to put on a good show for their best customer...plus that Rufus guy can't put all that heavy stuff on and off the the truck himself." "Tell her they should hire more people today or tell McSpice she'll have to wait till Tuesday." When mom smirked I added, "And tell 'em to give Rufus a big raise." Mom ignored me and said, "This lady...or your bosses in the background can ALMOST guarantee a twenty dollar tip." I said, "Rufus'll understand, I don't care." She said, "They'll come pick you up and bring to the place." I said, " Tell her, to tell the Collyer brothers that after I finish this piece of apple cake, I have to do something more important...I'm going to the park to shoot hoops." Before I walked out, mom told Hildy, "He quit," and hung up. I told you my mom was smart.

Mom thanks for always being there for me, HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY !

AND HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL MY READERS AND THEIR MOMS.

PROFESSOR ERIC DONALDSON

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Our family search has begun for a suitable institution of higher education for my son Andrew. Through my wife Sue's research, we found several computer apps, like CollegeProwler.com. With this program, an applicant's statistics are fed in and calculated with specific needs and concerns like; distance, cost, educational specialties etc., to find the most appropriate choices.

Once the possibilities are narrowed down, Sue bought a tome called the, "Princeton Review."

WHETHER YOU'RE A SKATER-DUDE OR A GOTH, A HARD LIQUOR KIND OF GUY OR A NERD, "THE PRINCETON REVIEW," WILL HELP FIND THE BEST COLLEGE FOR YOU.

This voluminous 825+ page volume, is chock-full of information on the top 373 USA colleges. It'll help you see minute differences so you can make a more informed decision between the likes of the Mighty Ground Squirrels of Watzamatta U. and the Maroon Space Cases of Whippy Tippy U.

The next step after eliminating 95% of schools, is to start visiting campuses of potential candidates. That is where we are now. We went to Ardmore Pennsylvania yesterday, to see Haverford College and the week before to Pennington New Jersey, to scout-out the College of New Jersey, (TCNJ), formerly Trenton State. SINCE 1833, THE ONLY WELCOMING ICON AT ULTRA-SNOOTY HAVERFORD IS THE DUCK POND.

At TCNJ's open house, our hectic morning started by parking behind Loser Hall. They say you only have one chance to make a first impression. So I thought that whoever endowed the university with enough money to get an entire building named after them, should have at least bypassed their actual name and used a nickname.

Loser Hall? I mean, really. What's next on the quadrangle, the D'Minus Gymnasium or the McPhail Observatory? Think about it, if they had named that building anything, say Snooki Hall, it would have provided mega-tons more positivism, even if only on a subliminal level...than leaving a "losing" taste in your mouth.

From the parking lot, like lemmings, we followed an endless caravan of others into the student union building. A thousand aimless people, representing high school juniors and their families were penned-up there. Until, a horde of happy, helpful student ambassadors clad in broad-banded blue and white rugby shirts came out of the woodwork to assist.

Together with about a hundred people, we joined a walking tour of the grounds. Our rotund guide was well versed in everything TCNJ. When someone asked about the origins of the name Loser Hall, I only felt slightly better when she roared with full Lion's pride, "The name is pronounced to rhyme with Hoosier."

The area of expertise that our guide really excelled in was, her in depth knowledge of the dining hall's offerings, (that night was one of her favorites, fried scallops). Like a computer, she also rattled-off nearby restaurants and supermarkets, plus, the most reliable pizza and Chinese food delivery services. If that wasn't enough, she knew the exact dates of the ethnic food festivals as well as the location of each campus convenience store and vending machine. She capped off her portion of our visit by dropping us off at a huge auditorium.

On the stage, a series of gifted speakers assisted by PowerPoint presentations and other visual aids, discussed and promoted various aspects of TCNJ life. A question and answer period followed that was led by three student ambassadors. These hand selected representatives weren't gifted public speakers. I was in the sixth row and barely heard any of them. Trust me, if they were alerting us to a fire, I wouldn't be writing this now.

The last stop Andrew, Sue and I made was to a classroom, to participate in a "workshop" on, "Selecting a Major." Workshop? I know a lecture when I hear one. I can prove it, because within fifteen minutes of this inspiration, I was magically transported back in time. That means, I nodded off. Yes, the more things change... Ironically, in my brief dream, I saw myself back in college.

In January 1973, I made a near fatal mistake by finishing high school six months early and starting college immediately.

NORMAL KIDS WHO GRADUATED IN JUNE, GOT THE BIG PRODUCTION NUMBER CEREMONY, DOWNTOWN IN THE ALBEE THEATER. KNUCKLEHEADS LIKE ME WHO FLEW THE COOP EARLY, GOT AN "EAT IT AND BEAT IT," BUM'S RUSH, IN OUR MULTI-PURPOSE ROOM BETWEEN TRY-OUTS FOR THE FRESHMEN ACAPELLA CLUB AND TWIRLER PRACTICE.

The way I arranged things meant, I graduated Canarsie High on a Friday. After a brief celebratory weekend, I started Brooklyn College that Monday. Therefore, I fell into the four and a half-year syndrome known as, Thirteenth Grade.

My early collegiate days produced lots of C's, so my scholastic highlights were well-spaced. I started as a sociology major but it didn't pan out. I realized that I had enough trouble getting out of bed every morning. Even showering, brushing my teeth and combing my hair...yes I still had use for a comb back then...were daily challenges. So the concept of dedicating myself to others wasn't a good fit.

When I switched majors to mass media, I put myself in a position to do what I was probably destined to do, (some aspect of television production). Unfortunately for me, this was thirteenth grade and the heat of my personal creativity light bulb was only forty watts. So my clogged pipes of sloth didn't melt in time to display my latent and still questionable talent.

The best part of my college experience was a course called, TV Criticism. It was a requisite for my major and only one person taught it. His name was Professor Eric Donaldson and he had a wacky personality. Today we call folks like that bipolar or at least polarizing. Some students hated him and others swore their ever-lasting allegiance to him. I was one of the latter.

Donaldson was a tall, gaunt Texan. His once blond hair was a dusty white and the deep-set wrinkles on his pasty face made him look much older than fifty. During my initial exposure to him, he announced to the class that he preferred a more intimate group. He mentioned the importance of openness and made several insulting remarks aimed at the superficiality of women. The most memorable of them was; if you are dissatisfied with a grade, ladies, don't parade your tits in my face...I'm a homosexual.

The shock value of admitting an alternative lifestyle back then was gargantuan. But it failed to thin out the herd. Then Donaldson, in the name of openness, stripped down to his boxers; they were thin, vertical, red, white and blue pinstripes, (odd the things our subconscious mind retains).

When he started, there was no response when he kicked off his shoes. However, the inflexible ones started hitting the exit when he removed his shirt. Our nutty professor continued his orientation as he loosened his belt. The exodus was in full regalia by this time and only two stragglers were left to witness his trousers come down.

In all, one third of the class, (all women) had gathered their belongings and left in a huff...thus he got his wish for a smaller group.

Donaldson gave me a B+ (Brooklyn College didn't use a plus, minus system). So, the plus aspect of my final grade was a symbolic compliment that he explained by saying, "I'm giving you the absolute highest grade possible...but you just didn't do quite enough for an A."

Beyond the curriculum and my grade, I developed a more analytical and critical approach to life. My blanket cynicism could no longer allow me to blither...that stinks or that's great. Through his tutelage, I discovered that we all need to support our reasoning...or our opinions become meaningless.

TV Criticism was like reading a self-help book. And the way he taught it, through intimacy and openness, I was also helped to accept my own flaws as well as people who were markedly different than me. Many students shared my appreciation of Donaldson and voted him, Brooklyn College Professor of the Year, (he managed to win without my vote).

To celebrate his victory, he invited all his students to a party at his Greenwich Village apartment. I saw him in his comfort zone and didn't like what I saw. But at least he had imparted in me the ability to accept his right to be different and to understand that his lifestyle had nothing to do with his professional identity and effectiveness as an educator.

I graduated thirteenth grade in June 1977.

MY ENTHUSIASM TOWARDS GRADUATING COLLEGE WAS THE SAME AS MY ATTITUDE FOR ATTENDING...BAD! IN FACT, I OPTED TO PLAY TENNIS THAT DAY. LUCKILY, I BUMPED INTO BIGHEAD-JOHN WHEN THE CEREMONY ENDED. HE LENT ME HIS CAP AND TOOK THIS POLAROID SHOT. IT'S MY ONLY MEMENTO OF THE OCCASION.

I took my college diploma to all three TV networks in Manhattan. I never got beyond the receptionist, there were no interviews, I filled out zero applications, my resume wasn't presented and they wouldn't even take my name or telephone number.

Next, I tried ten small TV production companies and got a Xerox-like negative response...without experience, we can't use you. My last stop was a beat-up warehouse off Twelve Avenue. This was the only time I ever spoke directly with an owner. I followed him back and forth between a messy office, a control room full of employees and a sound stage being disassembled. While talking with me, he was juggling other conversations, giving orders, answering phones, making notations on a clipboard and popping antacids.

He stopped suddenly and said, "You want a piece of this." I said, "Yeah." "Well, I need a PA." A production assistant (PA), is a fancy word for a gofer. He continued, "The pay is $165.00 a week." Even by 1977 standards, that was peanuts. But I took into account that I was living at home and would commute. Then I remembered what Professor Donaldson said about the importance of getting your foot in the door. I paraphrased him by saying, "Sir, I'll be the best damned PA you ever saw...but will you teach me lighting, sound?..." Before I could finish my statement he said, "Kid, I got no time and I make no promises..." He started yelling at a cameraman and I left.

A few weltschmertz-laden months later, I enrolled in the New York School of Gaming and set my sights on becoming a craps dealer in Las Vegas. (Weltschmertz, is the psychological term for the phenomena of a young man who after his schooling, is overwhelmed by his need to find his way in the world).

My short story, "THE HEAT IS ON," opens on January 5, 1978. I'm running from that dealer school with my diploma in hand, down West 32nd Street. For dramatic impact, I used a mixed metaphor to tie the fact that I was hurrying through a frigid, windy nine degrees with my impatience to break the chains of childhood. The true events included me hustling down the subway stairs in search of warmth. Suddenly, I was light-headed. I was sweating profusely and felt feint. My heart was racing as I paid my fare so I took off my coat.

When I got in the train, I still felt uncomfortable and dizzy. When I got off at Fourteenth Street to switch trains, my heart was pounding as I walked down a flight of steps. I was a afraid that I might black-out and stopped twice to rest. I was so preoccupied that I had forgotten to avoid the farthest westerly end of the LL station. In this deserted area, dozens of blackened, metal garbage bins were stored. These burnt cans were filled with trash and hundreds of rats were scavenging all over them. I was repulsed and retreated back up the short stairway to the landing and came back down the easterly fork. I felt a rush of nausea as my train pulled in.

FOURTEENTH STREET IN MANHATTAN WAS THE LAST STOP ON THE LL, (CANARSIE LINE). THERE WOULD BE A TEN MINUTE WAIT UNTIL THE CONDUCTOR WOULD BE READY FOR THE RETURN TO TRIP TO THE FAR END OF BROOKLYN.

I scurried onto the empty train. Just my luck, it was one of the few old-fashioned trains left, (see photo above). The unheated cars were filthy and smelled like stale urine. The hard seat covers were made of plastic, straw-like strands woven together to look like beads. Most of the seats were torn and it hurt to sit on them. I was willing to sit on the sharpest edge but the bee-hive of rats was only a hundred feet away. So, because the doors remain open until the train was ready to leave, I reluctantly trudged through three cars to the center of the train.

I was breathing hard as I collapsed in the corner seat. A heart attack crossed my mind as I thought I was going to faint. The doors closed for a split second and reopened as another passenger squeezed through...it was Professor Eric Donaldson. My morose mood vanished and my spirit brightened. I staggered over and introduced myself. We hadn't seen each other in a year so Donaldson pretended to be insulted because I thought he had forgotten me.

The early part of our conversation concerned itself with my failure to break into TV, my new career path and impending move to Las Vegas. When I was done, he told me that his life-mate had just committed suicide. In the few minutes of our ensuing conversation, my distress was forgotten. When the train slowed down at First Avenue, he got up and said, "Casinos are a baby of an industry...its like TV in the early 50's. Don't look back, few people make it big in TV. I think you're going to beat the system and do real well." We shook hands and he left.

I felt renewed. Looking back, I bet that's the exact moment I transformed into an adult. I sat back down and relaxed. After the Wilson Avenue station and before Broadway Junction, I stood up and walked to the first car. I was staring out the front window trying to pull my future closer when the train burst out of its black subterranean hole, rose up into the sunshine and became an elevated train.

Wherever Professor Eric Donaldson is now, I hope he reads this because he was right; I did beat the system. Casinos have kept me clothes for over thirty-two years and that's more than most of my contemporaries can say. As for Andrew, I just hope that his reality of; the more things change, the more they stay the same, comes true. Because I sense that he won't experience thirteenth grade, whether he attends Watzamatta U., Whippy Tippy U., TCNJ or a school we haven't checked into yet, like Rutgers. He is on the right track, destined to have a far greater purpose in life than I am capable of imagining.

PAYIN' THE COST OF BEING YOUR OWN BOSS

Frequently, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," readers comment that I have had an uncanny amount of odd jobs. Just when you thought my supply would run dry, I find yet another to share. Perhaps this supports the notion that at some point in my life, I was indeed a go-getter.

Please note, the opening of this blog only concerns itself with the job interview. Maybe in the future, I will put a story together and fully describe the three months that I set industrial diamonds heads onto heavy-duty cutting tools.

In the spring of 1974, Pat, one of my less significant, blabber-mouth neighbors was a secretary, receptionist and charwoman at a tool factory. This factory specialized in setting industrial diamonds onto cutting tools. She told my mom that they needed someone part-time and got me an interview.

The owner of Triangle Diamond was Mr. Lewis Bling. That makes him the original Mr. Bling. The man's name was never funny to me until trendy slang put the word into our current vocabulary. In retrospect, Mr. Bling was the polar opposite of what bling means today. With quiet indifference, he spoke with an Eastern European accent, (maybe his last name was shortened from something more ethnic). Plus, in his gray-blue lab coat, white dress shirt, 1940's-era bow-tie and tattered, plaid cab drivers cap, he might have been the least cool person I had ever met. JUST IN CASE YOU ARE MORE OUT OF TOUCH THAN I AM, "BLING," FOR THE MOST PART IS GAUDY, OVER THE TOP AND WHOLLY UNNECESSARY JEWELRY.

While Bling read my application and during the interview, one of his idiosyncrasies was eating generic Saltines. The flying crumbs were distracting enough but his annoying eating habit took two, incredibly slow forms. First, he took such small nibbles that he looked like a gnawing rodent doing barbiturates. The other was, he'd bite off a tiny, yet solid section. Then he'd transfer the piece onto his tongue just long enough for me to notice, before slowly chewing it. He took me from the office into his blackened factory.

In its heyday, Triangle Diamond probably employed dozens of workers at a time. Now devoid of staff, the big space remained unlit until we came to individual assembly stations. Bling would then turn on an over head fluorescent lamp and describe the hand-made process.

When the tour was over, he escorted me to the door. He didn't excuse himself when cracker bits flew out of his mouth as he said, "Patricia...will call you after I meet some other candidates." The door was shut behind me for just an instant when he reappeared and called to me, "On one of your references, Llewellyn Images, you didn't include a phone number." Before I could conger up a lie he added, "I'll have Patricia look in the Yellow Pages."

Suddenly, eons before the cell phones, I was racing with time. I had to tell the owner of Llewellyn Images that I used him as a reference. Llewellyn Images was a photography studio being opened by Gary, a friend's older brother. He had just taken over the empty store and was hoping to be operational in a month. On my application with Mr. Bling, I wasn't prepared to give a third reference, so I fudged Llewellyn Images.

Please note that I was twenty years ahead of "SEINFELD'S," George Costanza who used the faux reference, "Art Vandelay" as an all-purpose former employer. JASON ALEXANDER AS "SEINFELD'S" GEORGE COSTANZA. HIS CHARACTER USED THE NAME ART VANDELAY (OR VANDELAY INDUSTRIES), FOR FAKE EMPLOYMENT REFERENCES, ANY IN A WIDE RANGE OF EXCUSES, A DREAMED-UP BOYFRIEND TO HELP ELAINE, A BOGUS AUTHOR AND A NON-EXISTENT CLIENT.

Lucky for me, both businesses (Llewellyn and Triangle) were on the same street, a two-mile bus ride apart. Halfway there, I realized I could have called information and warned Gary by telephone. I was in a cold sweat when the bus arrived at my stop. I ran off and crossed the busy intersection by weaving through traffic.

At the place, I found Gary's brother and two of my other friends pitching in to clear out the debris from the former shoe store. While Gary orchestrated, I filled him in on my situation. Ten minutes later, the phone rang, it was Mr. Bling. Right before my eyes, I was given a sparkling recommendation...and soon got the job.

This column is NOT about my job as a diamond setter of industrial tools. This story is about the high risk of taking petty short cuts. And it starts shortly after I started helping my friends that day at Llewellyn Images. Gary developed a strong word-of-mouth business as a wedding and Bar Mitzvah photographer.

He was doing so well that he dropped-out of Kingsborough Community College to devote all his energies to his enterprise. Still, he didn't see a future working just weekends so he decided to expand his horizons by opening a full-time portrait boutique. He was on a limited start-up budget so with the help of family and friends, he was ripping and tearing out the previous tenant's interior himself. He even borrowed a pick-up truck, to cart the refuse away and had a connection to dump the mess for free.

I grabbed a hammer after Gary spoke with Mr. Bling and joined the process of dismantling the unwanted shelves and other fixtures. The five of us were having a lot of fun and in a short time, the store was virtually gutted. I was vacuuming when I noticed in the rear store room that they were struggling with the one last shelf, wedged high in a corner.

Two friends on ladders were pounding at the underside of the board but it wouldn't budge. Gary came over with a bigger hammer and handed it up. The first swing of the miniature sledge freed one side. The sick twisted sound of the other side's nails stubbornly trying to remain in place was coupled with the swift pendulum swing of the dusty wooden plank's free side. Before Gary could react, an exposed nail sliced across the inside crook of his elbow. A spontaneous geyser of blood caused three of the four of us to be frozen stiff by shock and ignorance. While Gary panicked and screamed in pain, nerd of nerds Marty Marvin stepped forward and took charge.

The unlikely hero pulled off his sweatshirt and used it to apply direct pressure to the wound. He then fashioned his belt into a makeshift tourniquet and ushered Gary out to his car and off to an emergency room. Gary could have been in serious difficulty if not for Marvin and recovered.

You would think that this life or death scare would have set a lifetime example for me to avoid cutting corners but it didn't. Just months after this, to save about fifteen dollars, I had a friend in auto mechanic school do a simple tune-up for me. He didn't properly set my timing belt and the result was enough engine problems that forced me into junking my car. BUMMER! I LOVED MY FIRST CAR ('68 DODGE POLARA) AND EVEN THOUGH MY DAD OFFERED TO FOOT THE BILL, I WAS TOO EMBARRASSED TO LET HIM.

I saw this bad mechanic trend continue when I lived in Vegas. To save money, an idiot I worked with had his brakes replaced by a bigger idiot. The bigger idiot didn't fully tighten one set of lug nuts. Then the regular idiot together with his fiance and future mother-in-law, had one of his tires fall off while speeding through the California desert to Los Angeles...somehow they got out with their lives but his restored El Camino was totaled.

Since then, I hate to admit it but I've gotten burned by pettiness a few more times. But a few months ago, when my wife Sue and I decided to remodel our kitchen, I thought it was time to end the cycle of ignorance. My first instinct was to re-face the existing cabinets and put in knock-off granite counter tops. We got estimates from some reputable outfits and couldn't believe the high price. Then we called in handymen. The cut-rate for the full job was tempting but the depth of the work called for; an artistic flair as well as expert knowledge in carpentry, electricity and plumbing. No one seemed to be masters of all the trades. Not to mention they had questionable liability insurance and couldn't make any guarantees.

Then out of the misty fog, HOBOKENKID stepped into the bright spotlight of center stage. She had no idea we were shopping for a kitchen make-over and was bragging about the job she just had done. Even stranger, I knew who did her job...I just had no idea that this Vietnamese gentleman and his three brothers were reknown kitchen re-modelers.

When HOBOKENKID told me how satisfied she was, Sue and decided to pay the boys at L & Z Stone Supply, a visit.

At their showroom/factory, I got reacquainted with Vinnie. I had lost track of him for five years. He was their salesman and possessed the best people skills. Like a patient friend, he guided us through our options and helped us formulate a plan. Another brother, Alex, specialized in the artistic design. He came to our house and made several interesting space saving observations and made other suggestions.

So when the oldest, behind the scene brother formulated a surprisingly affordable estimate and mapped out interest-free financing, our path was clear.

Vinnie said that the work, to temporarily re-locate our appliances, gut our kitchen, re-tile the floor, replace our cabinets, install the counter tops, do the back splash and re-install, and re-connect the appliances would take three to four weeks. Ouch! That's a long time to be washing dishes in the bathroom sink.

I work nights and suffer from sleep deprivation as it is. Sue would be at work so my ferocious dog Roxy served as my alarm clock. Promptly at nine each morning, after I got four hours sleep, my doggie would greet the youngest brother Wes the grunt laborer and his helper with vicious barks until I got my act together well enough to let them in.

Even if I was desperate, I could never take an afternoon snooze through their constant sawing, hammering and power screw-driving. During the first week, they even worked past six and prevented me from taking my necessary, pre-work nap. In no time, I became a zombie.

SARAH PALIN'S 2008 HALLOWEEN VISIT HELPS DISPLAY OUR OLD FLOOR, 1980's STYLE CABINETS, FORMICA COUNTER TOPS, NO BACK SPLASH AND HIDEOUS FLUORESCENT LIGHTING. L & Z REPLACED IT WITH A TUSCANY GRAY PORCELAIN TILE FLOOR, CHERRY RED CABINETS TO THE CEILING, A CHERRY-WHITE GRANITE COUNTER TOP AND RECESSED LIGHTING.

Luckily, something got lost in the translation. Vinnie's imperfect English said the job would take three or four weeks which meant to me, 15-20 days. However, after seven working days of having no washer and dryer, no microwave, no oven, no dishwasher and our fridge in the dining room, Wes started moving these essentials back into place. More importantly, he announced that they wouldn't be coming back for ten days while their factory used the template they made to measure and cut our granite counter tops. Hallelujah!

During our "vacation," Sue made a list of fourteen concerns. Most were adjustments, nicks in the cabinets or drawers that didn't slide freely. When Wes came back, all the little problems were handled easily and the counter top was installed. The next day (yesterday) they put in the tile back splash. Now they are coming back in five days, (for one last day), to add the back splash grout, install the sink and re-connect all the appliances.

The bottom line is, I'm thrilled that the temptation to cut corners was avoided. We are thoroughly pleased with the meticulous quality of their work and would enthusiastically recommend the whole L & Z Stone team. (609) 813-2323.

Yes, it's true there were a small handful of snafus but as a further testament to the quality of their work, each potential problem was handled gracefully. The worst of these was; not turning the water on and making us think our one year-old washing machine was broken, (LACC, from across the street was our trouble-shooter on that one).

Also, L & Z displayed impeccable interior cleanliness and neatly bagged all their waste. But outside, our backyard and driveway was littered with their personal junk like; candy wrappers, cigarette butts and spit wads. I accepted the cultural difference and policed what I could myself...and once it rained...everything else was washed away.

We will be taking "after" pictures soon and I will add them to this blog. In the mean time, don't be penny wise and dollar foolish. Look at the quarter you put in the parking meter as insurance against a $35.00 ticket and if you want to avoid an ugly IRS audit, don't cheat on your taxes. More importantly, unlike Mr. Lew Bling, if you want to hire top-notch applicants, be sure to eat your generic Saltines in private.

CAMP PALINDROME'S VERSION OF THE PUNT, PASS AND KICK CONTEST

My Disney World working vacation with RBOY in 1974 was a tremendous experience. It was so great that the following summer, we tried for an instant replay. We returned to Kissimmee Florida and got an apartment. Unfortunately, the "magic" wasn't there and for several reasons, after a week, we flew home. Back in Brooklyn, towards the end of June, I realized that my peeps had jobs or were out of town. I had to plug myself in somewhere, fast. One of my friends (Danny) was a counselor at Camp Palindrome. It was near South Fallsburg and Monticello in upstate New York, so I had a sparse knowledge of the territory. Danny arranged an interview with preppy wannabe nerd, Jacob Fenster. His official camp title was division leader. Apparently, the qualifications to be a division leader was; being a year older than me, having been with the camp since he was in kindergarten and possessing such a swelled head that I would know he was a douche-bag within a minute of meeting him. I headed into the interview with the security of having prior camp counseling experience. But Danny assured me that even without experience, they were in desperate need of people and that the interview was merely a formality. Nevertheless, Fenster grilled me like I was a murder suspect. In a short time, it was pure tedium. At one point, I wanted to tell this pompous ass off but I swallowed my bile and controlled my temper. I was hired at $300.00 for the season. The first of the two major lies that Fenster told me was that all ten of my campers were seven. Actually, only one kid was...six were six, two were five and they threw in a four-year old for good measure. The second lie was that Fenster and I would be co-counselors. During the first day he disappeared, to devote his energies to his division leader duties. That left me spending way too much time organizing every kids things, tying sneakers and in some cases dressing these babies. THE ONLY PICTURE I HAVE WITH THIS MANY OF THEM...HARD TO BELIEVE EVEN THE FOUR-YEAR OLD IS OVER FORTY NOW. One of the moms drove her kid up. I nicknamed this bugger Moose because he looked like he could have been former major league all-star Bill "Moose" Skowron, as a five-year old. His mother took me aside and handed me a bunch of rubber sheets. I was so backwards that it wasn't until she said, "He shouldn't have any liquids after dinner," that I caught on to this added brick in my wall of plights. MOOSE DIDN'T DISAPPOINT, HE PEED IN HIS BED THE FIRST NIGHT. I found out quickly that I was mentally ill-equipped to handle ten spoiled, whining, homesick puppies, alone. It was terrible to hear Moose cry when everyone else was getting their late night cookies and milk and he couldn't have a drink. Plus, I didn't like explaining why his bedding was different. At meal time it was worse because the four-year old (who's mother worked at the camp) refused to eat. Then he'd cry when the other kids teased him. Hell, without a break in the continuous annoyance, I wanted to rag on this tyke too.

This arrangement didn't make sense. The youngest kids in the camp needed the most attention yet every other age group had two counselors. Within three days I was so stressed that one night I went to the bus terminal and got the Greyhound schedule to New York City.

Danny's friend Ari (an Israeli citizen) was the division leader of the oldest kids. He suggested that before I give up, I should go up "the hill." The hill was where the business offices were and where I would meet and present my raise or quit ultimatum to Oz himself, Murray Brandt, (Palindrome's resident director and majority owner).

Brandt was intimidating but I stated a solid case. I told him when I needed help from his lying, golden-boy, hands-off, division leader, my "co-counselor" was nowhere to be seen. And although I loved kids and knew I could do a great job...without help, I wouldn't be properly serving the needs of the campers, Palindrome or myself.

Murray said, "What do you want?" I said, "I have double the responsibility than I was told. I want a fifty-dollar raise." Murray chomped on his stinky cigar and said, "Fifty? That's a lot of money. But you have plenty of moxie. I like that. Tell you what, we'll split the difference." I pulled the Greyhound schedule from my pocket and said, "There's a bus leaving for Manhattan at noon..." He cut me off and called me a wise-guy. Then he said, "Go back to work and I'll make the change."

Ari called me a moron. He said, "Schmuck, you don't tell somebody you're doing double work and settle for peanuts. They're short-staffed and got their back to the wall. If you would have asked for 500...trust me, you would have gotten every Shekel."

I was still stressed but I decided to make the best of a bad situation. I started my troop with daily shoe lace tying practice. Then I came up with creative ways to settle petty disputes and had the more savvy kids help dress the strugglers. WAY BEFORE THE MASON'S PLAGIARIZED THIS HANDSHAKE AND CALLED IT THEIR OWN, I INVENTED IT AND CALLED IT, "THE ARGUMENT ENDER."

I also developed the "Ace-Man" program. That meant that I anointed the current best kid with the honor and privilege of standing behind me, while the other kids followed in a straight line. Without yelling or being militaristic, I had my guys walking in an orderly fashion from one activity to another. THE PHENOMENA OF IMPRINTING FEATURES DUCKS OR GEESE "IMPRINTED" WITH THE INSTINCT OF FOLLOWING THEIR FIRST LEADER...THIS LEADER IS NOT LIMITED TO THEIR MOM.

The Ace-Man program was groundbreaking and was considered impressive by Murray and his weaselly under boss/brother Normie. I remember them smiling at me as they drove their golf cart while my group, in route from arts-n-crafts to the nature shack, crossed their path behind the soccer field. At the same time, Lennart, the soccer counselor and former member of the Swedish National Team was demonstrating his striking technique to some older boys. He drilled the ball a zillion miles an hour past the outside of post and it hit a fifteen year-old walking along side us, in the face.

This counselor in training (CIT) was named Stanley Borden Stanley and his family were heirs to the Stanley Tool Company. The impact knocked Stan down hard and there was a trickle of blood by his left eye. He got up gingerly and groaned, "I'm okay." Normie patted him on the rump and said, "Swell, go back and do whatever you were doing." Big brother Murray looked at the welt developing on the boy's cheek and interceded, "No. Stanley, you go straight to the infirmary right now and I'll catch up with you."

Yvette, the camp nurse was another foreigner. She was a beautiful and friendly Haitian woman in her early twenties. The rumor was she was quite naive. Some of the counselors went to see her with phantom ailments relating to their penis. While no one got any "action," it was apparent that these geniuses thought it was cool to at least expose them self to her.

When Stanley arrived, Yvette was not there. Instead, Mandee, the nurse in training (NIT) was. She was a testy, overweight and socially awkward ex-camper. She was doing the job for high school credit and did little more than dispense aspirin and tidy up.

Later, Stanley told us that Mandee was aloof and had a bad attitude. She never looked directly at him as she twirled her stringy, peroxide blond hair with her finger and sighed, "Wanna Snoopy band-aid?" He wanted to teach her a lesson and said, "Can't you see, I was hit in the face with a soccer ball?" As if it was a hundred pounds, she reluctantly picked up the medical flashlight and looked in his eyes. She said, "Kid, I hate to tell you, but your left eye isn't dilating." Stanley said, "Really?" He then popped out his prosthetic left eye and said, "That's funny, it was dilating this morning." Mandee screamed and ran out.

In the first week, I befriended J. D., one of the counselors for the eight-year olds. Our groups were in the same building, separated by a double layer of closets and shared the same bathroom.

The second time Moose peed his bed, I vented to J. D., "Its probably all psychological and the camp environment only brings him more shame. Like when we had the thunder and lightning, all the kids buddied up and slept together. But I couldn't let Moose in someone else's bed or someone else in his. The poor little bastard felt like a leper."

J. D. pointed out one of his boys, "See that kid, (Wanamaker), he has rubber sheets too. He peed his bed the first night but I've been waking him up before I go to sleep. So far, so good." I said, "Wow." "Actually," J. D. added, "you got it better than me. I got an eight-year old going on thirty-eight named Igor." I said, "Igor?" He said, "Yeah scary name, scary kid. Aside from teaching my guys the highest levels of advanced profanity, Igor's psychotic and tortures all the kids especially Wanamaker."

J. D. and I became close friends. One night in Monticello at Roark's Tavern, we drowned our sorrows in Utica Club beer while devising our own version of the, "Punt, Pass and Kick Contest." CREATED IN 1961, THE PP&K CONTEST IS A FOOTBALL SKILLS COMPETITION DESIGNED FOR KIDS 6-15. EACH NFL CITY HOLDS TRY-OUTS THAT MEASURE PUNTING, PASSING AND PLACE KICKING FOR BOTH DISTANCE AND ACCURACY. THE BEST MOVE ON TO REGIONAL CONTESTS. IN THE END, THE CONTESTANTS WOULD WEAR THE UNIFORM OF THEIR HOME TOWN TEAM AND COMPETE IN THE FINALS DURING HALFTIME OF AN NFL PLAYOFF GAME.

J. D. and I made two identical charts and labeled them P, P and S, (Piss, Puke and Shit). They were numbered along the side 1- 10, to alphabetically encode each camper. We awarded each participant one point for peeing, two for crapping their pants and three for vomiting. We then agreed to wake Moose and Wanamaker at midnight every night. The chart was hidden in our after hours clubhouse...the room next to the shower stalls where the luggage was stored.

One night in late July, we were back there waiting to wake up our pissers. That's when we discovered that the daily mail had been late and was left back there. J. D. spotted a C.A.R.E. package for Igor and said, "His folks send the best snacks." We broke into it and were gorging ourselves on Ding Dings when who out of twenty kids wakes up to use the bathroom but Igor. This eight-year old pariah and projected lifelong criminal was rubbing his eyes as he focused on his snack cake thieves and said, "What the f***. Those are my Ring Dings!"

J. D. was unflappable, "Yes, they are yours. But first, as you know, we have to check every parcel for illegal drugs. If everything is okay, we'll release this box to you in the morning." Igor had anger issues so we cringed when he lurched forward. He grabbed between us and pulled a "STRETCH ARMSTRONG" action figure out of his slashed open carton and said, "Don't worry, Stretch don't use no drugs."

Maybe it was the twenty-seven Ring Dings I ate the previous night or my overall exhaustion catching up with me. Because the next day, I woke with a sour stomach, a pounding head and body aches. Then the blare of the morning announcements included that our morning swim in the lake was postponed till after lunch because the temperature was below 70.

I told my unit that it was cold outside and jokingly told them to wear two pairs of underwear. After breakfast with my belly churning, I led my single-file legion to the lake for fishing. Together with the swimming counselor, Bubbles from the Bahamas, we helped my boys put live worms on their hook. The process was exasperating my queasiness, so I was thrilled I wouldn't have to repeat the procedure ten times.

Bubbles was in her mid-thirties and her tan looked dynamite against her skimpy, yellow string bikini. Our mutual baiting mission got off to a great start until Peter the Scottish tennis coach came by to hit on her. They wandered to the end of the wharf and left me to do the rest.

In a short time, the sway of the dock made my condition unbearable. I was getting the cold sweats and the harsh glare of the sun off the glass-like lake made me feel dizzy. To clear my head, I looked away. That's when I noticed Peter's hand firmly on Bubbles hip as he whispered in her ear. From the marina, further down the shoreline, it must have looked like they were necking because Patrick the English canoe instructor was charging towards them.

Patrick had bought Bubbles drinks at Rourk's but he never got anywhere with her. Still, he felt he had some sort of a stake in her. He and Peter exchanged harsh words that insulted their specific U. K. ancestries. When Peter called Patrick a "tosser," they started pushing each other. Suddenly, from behind me, Moose let out primal scream. I went to him and saw his fish hook imbedded in his palm. It was easy to pull out but he was bleeding like a hemophiliac. I picked him up, called to Bubbles to watch my group and ran him over to the nurse's hut.

On my way, I had no way of knowing that twenty-one year old Ari was a lady's man. Considering how ugly he was, it had to be his gift of gab and ability to present himself as important that had him wowing a gorgeous yet under-developed sixteen year-old CIT named Tobi. In addition to many perfunctory romantic liaisons, Ari eventually deflowered her in a hidden corner of a nearby rock quarry.

SOME PEOPLE THOUGHT ARI LOOKED LIKE ART GARFUNKEL BECAUSE OF HIS CRAZY, BOZO-LIKE BLOND HAIR. BUT BASED PURELY ON LOOKS, HE RESEMBLED CHARACTER ACTOR VINCENT SCHIAVELLI WHO IS BEST KNOWN AS PATIENT FREDRICKSON IN, "ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST."

Through Danny, I not only found this all out but that Ari set his sights on the far more voluptuous Nurse Yvette. But when he tried his luck at the nurse's station, Yvette wasn't in. When confronted with oafish Mandee he stared at her over sized breasts and stuttered, "T-t-this is embarrassing, I-I-I'm experiencing some discomfort." Mandee barked, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, your penis burns when you pee, too?" "No, no of course not," he said. "I think I was stung by a bee." "And I'm guessing you were stung on the penis?" "No ma'am," Ari chirped, "on the scrotum." "And I suppose you want me to take a look at it?" He gulped, "Uh huh." Mandee said, "Drop your shorts." She caressed his sac, scooted in close and said, "I don't see..." He interrupted and made a carnal suggestion.FOR A WEEK, MANDEE AND ARI MADE A GREAT COUPLE. WHEN SHE GOT TIRED OF THE ROCK QUARRY, THEY CRISS-CROSSED SULLIVAN COUNTY LOOKING FOR MOTELS WITH HOURLY RATES IN HIS BEAT-UP, MAROON, 1971 OPEL KADET.

When I showed up with Moose at the infirmary, Nurse Yvette swabbed disinfectant into his wound and applied a gauze bandage. Then she alarmingly looked at me and put her hand on my forehead. In seconds, I had a thermometer in my mouth. I was told I was running a contagious fever and must stay over a night or two until I'm well.

After dinner J. D. came by to drop-off get-well trinkets from both bunks and tell me his Phillip got on the PP&S scoreboard by crapping his pants during kickball. He then said, "By the way. This is crazy but when they re-scheduled your boys for an afternoon swim, I noticed they were all wearing two pairs of underwear?" Innocently, I shrugged.

Nurse Yvette had her own tiny cottage on the hill behind the offices. But Mandee slept in a room at the nurse's station. In retrospect, I'm guessing that her experience with Ari helped her sexual awareness blossom. Because at 2:00AM, by the light of a red night-light, after I returned from a trip to the bathroom, she came out of her room.

Mandee was wearing a short red satin nightie, (in that light everything looked red but I really think it was red anyway). She stood next to my cot and cooed, "Are you okay?" I said, "Yeah." She put her hand on my forehead and said, "Your fever is down." She then said, "Are you still feeling the body aches." At the same time that I said, "No," she reached under the sheet. Mandee stroked my stomach. She continued lower, fondled my abdomen down to the pubic line and said, "I know how to speed-up your recovery." I stirred, pulled her hand out and said, "Really, I'm fine." She turned away and righted the waste paper basket next to my bed. Her fully exposed bare bottom was inches from my face when she said, "Are you sure I can't do ANYTHING for you." I said, "No thanks." Before she entered the hall to return to her room she said, "If you change your mind and want some TLC, I'll leave my door unlocked."

In the morning, I begged Nurse Yvette and she released me at noon. In the rare privacy of our empty bunk, I decided to take a shower. Along the way, I noticed that someone had vomited in the sink. If this was some budding Einstein's idea of a prank...it was effective because my scant glance gave me a spontaneous electrical impulse of nausea that nearly triggered a relapse.

THE CAMP LITERALLY OFFERED NO COUNSELOR ALONE TIME OR PERKS. THE ONE THING I DID TAKE ADVANTAGE OF WAS,VENTRILOQUIST LESSONS.

Since the sink disaster happened on J. D.'s watch, I decided to ignore it. But when I came out of the shower, I noticed Stretch Armstrong hung in effigy above that sink. On closer scruntiny, I saw that it wasn't vomit. Instead that knucklehead Igor had spilled a little box of Rice Krispies in the sink and the water he added had mostly drained away.

The rest of the summer went smoothly. I think I may have helped cure Moose of his enuresis as he did not have a single accident in August. This paved the way for Wanamaker to win our PP&S contest by a large margin because he was peeing the bed three times a week. J. D. and I agreed that Igor's constant taunting was a contributing factor to his unwanted victory.

No one could get through to Igor. This was proven in the last week of camp when Murray and Normie made the mighty gesture of driving their golf cart and personally delivering the nightly milk and cookies. Coincidentally, Fenster the ultimate ass-kisser, who was missing in action for the entire summer made sure he was present for this big event.

Murray and Normie were going in descending order so J. D.'s bunk was served before us. While the Brandt brothers were handing me the tray, Igor burst out of his bunk naked. He splatter spit his chocolate milk out towards Fenster and screamed, "This f***ing shit is warm." It was extra funny because Fenster had backed away from handling the soggy milk tray to avoid soiling his Izod, periwinkle cardigan. But I could see that Igor had succeeded in dotting his sleeve with plenty of brown spots.

Normie, the epitome of the underling, yelled back at Igor, "You're on report, young man!" Fenster saw the stains on his arm and gasped, "You're parents are going to..." Murray rolled his eyes and wryly said to Fenster, "Shut up! And when you finish shutting up...why don't you run back to the kitchen, quick as a bunny, and get Igor a fresh chocolate milk." The elder Brandt then turned to Normie and shook his head, "Please, let's not forget that my man Igor here has a brother and sister that are staunchy respected campers here too?"

Before they left, Normie took me aside. He was having trouble lighting a cigar. When he finally gave up, he asked about the year-end plaque that I was required to make. In honor of the following year's bi-centennial, it was supposed to include all the campers names, typify the spirit of the bunk and include a patriotic theme. Normie then said, "I don't understand the slogan you used."

I had commissioned a couple of aspiring artists to paint a picture of a toilet with an American revolutionary-era lantern over it. The lettering included our group number, Fenster's name above mine and all the kids names. To cap off the masterpiece, this catchphrase cascaded in a red, white and blue banner across the top, "Two if by land and one if by sea." Normie gave me a queer look when I said, "That slogan? Isn't that what Paul Revere said?"

During the last dinner at camp, they announced the award winners. Palindrome was so cheap that the winners simply stood up, acknowledged the applause and sat back down. This was especially iritating to me when I was announced as the Counselor of the Year.

One night the following January, I got a call from Danny. He and Ari were going to the Brandt brothers father's funeral. I only tagged along because we were going to shoot pool afterwards. They picked me up in Ari's Opel and I squashed myself into the infantestimal back seat.

At the mortuary, I was minding my own business just waiting to leave when Normie Brandt approached me. He whispered in my ear, "Coming here tonight virtually guarantees you a spot back at Palindrome for next year."