PLEASE! DON'T PUT IN A ZIPPER.

Ten years ago, I whined to my friend LUCKYJT that I tweaked my back. He looked me in the eye, "I'm sure you'll be okay, but you should never complain about pain.  There's always someone who has it much worse."  LUCKYJT of course had just come back to work from a heart attack.



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I had hernia surgery in 2008 and again in 2013.  So I guess, I was overdue for a third.

MY "BEFORE" PICTURE IN HAWAII, (DECEMBER 2015), I DID MY BEST TO HIDE MY BELLY BUMP.  BUT THIS PROFILE MADE ME LOOK PREGNANT.

This past Tuesday, (Groundhog's Day), I had another hernia taken care of.  I am counting on the phrase, "the third time is the charm," to represent closure to this tedious topic.  But because of the hex from the 1993 movie, "GROUNDHOG DAY," I must admit that the thought of going under the knife, over and over till they get it right, had crossed my mind.

For to personal reasons, (laziness and cynicism wrapped in stupidity), I refused to address my latest bellyache. To prove how much of a stubborn knucklehead I am, when my employer dropped our medical insurance benefits, I didn't run out and take this last ditch advantage of my coverage.  With sour grapes I can say, I was misinformed...that under my circumstance, with the new Affordable Health Care Act, such a procedure would be of negligible cost.  That did NOT happen!

I'll skip other boring circumstances and forge ahead to this week's medical road trip to Rockville Maryland.

My memory of my 2008 and 2013 gut cuts, were easy and routine.  In both cases, I felt so strong afterwards that I was surprised that I wasn't permitted to drive. This time was different.

My new doctor, Alan Kravitz specializes in hernias and has performed countless procedures.  His bedside manner was confident and calming, (twice over the past few months, he personally returned my phone calls...which is something few doctors do).  Plus he has surrounded himself with office staffers, like Betsy and a kind, professional and thorough team, at the Montgomery Surgical Center.

BETSY WAS KIND ENOUGH TO HOOK US UP WITH A DISCOUNTED RATE AT A NEARBY MOTEL.  IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I WAS ABLE TO TRY THIS OLD GAG.

Later when I came out of the anesthesia, I was disoriented and in pain. While I was in recovery, the nursing staff reminded us to make a stop or two on our long drive back to New Jersey.  My wife Sue took the wheel and thrust us face-first into Washington DC rush hour traffic.  Somehow, the Gods of I-95 were with us and spared us the typical bumper-to-bumper nightmare that highway is famous for. Even as we jousted for space with new commuters in Baltimore, we kept up a decent pace.

At the staff's suggestion, in the car, I did toe exercises to reduce the risk of blood clots in my legs. We stopped in Delaware so I could walk around, (I was so slow that Tim Conway's "Old Man" character would have whizzed by me).

TIM CONWAY (1933-PRESENT) WAS KNOWN FOR CRACKING UP HIS FELLOW ACTORS ON THE, "CAROL BURNETT SHOW."  HERE AS HIS SLOW WALKING, OLD MAN, HE TESTS HARVEY KORMAN'S SELF-CONTROL.

That rest stop was tough.  Just navigating out of the car was difficult.  My mind wasn't clear, I was in pain and sleepy too.  But the sneakiest side-effect hit me on the way out, an acute sense of nausea. Even in my sorry state, I thought if I lost my (non-existent lunch) that stretching the stitches in my stomach would kill me.  To reduce that stress, I somehow remembered breathing techniques.  It worked and I subdued the pending catastrophe, (in the same regard, I'm so glad I didn't have a sneezy cold or cough).

We stopped again, at our Wal-Mart, (Mays Landing NJ).  Sue filled my percocet prescription and threw in some extra strength Motrin. She wanted me to wait in the car, but the doctor said I should walk around.  The meds took twenty minutes to process. At Tim Conway-speed, I did a lap around the store.

MY "AFTER" PICTURE.  WHILE WAITING IN WAL-MART, I FOUND A NEW PRODUCT THAT IS GUARANTEED TO GET ME BACK TO MY SWEET OLD SELF.

My hike exhausted me, so I sat on a bench near the entrance.  Then I couldn't get up because the seat was lower than the car's and the strain on my stomach muscles were pure agony.  Seconds after standing, I was forced to repel another round of nausea.

At home, I didn't take the pain meds right away.  Getting into bed took forever.  Then I got no sleep. In the morning, like a turtle struggling to get off his back, getting out of bed took forty minutes.

I was gripped by other side-effects.  The petty ones included: the general malaise caused by cabin fever, random body aches, the feeling that I smelled and general itchiness, especially around the bandages.

COVERING MY BANDAGES, I MUST WEAR AN ABDOMINAL BINDER 24/7 FOR TWO WEEKS, (OTHER THAN SHOWERS).  IT'S UNCOMFORTABLY TIGHT, AS YOU CAN SEE, MY SKIN HAS ALREADY TURNED BLUE.

The side-effect I hated the most was the soreness caused by the anesthesia tube in my throat.  I also had no appetite, so I was living off antacids to relieve my trapped gas and heart burn. To get some level of normalcy, I took a stool softener.  It worked too well!  A gazillion times that day, I would have knocked down any obstacles on my way to the promised land; including Tim Conway's Old Man.

The biggest thing that got me through the pain, discomfort and boredom of Wednesday and Thursday was the support of Sue, other family members and friends. I had been invited to a Super-Bowl party on Sunday (today) and as late as Thursday, I doubted I would go.

Luckily, Friday was a significant bounce back day.  Maybe it had to do with my first shower or that the anesthesia was 100% out of my system or that the healing had really begun, (perhaps all three...and for you realists, never under-estimate the value a solid bowel movement).

Friday was such a breakthrough that I went cold turkey from my pain management regimen of four times a day, down to one.

Yesterday, (Saturday), my improvement allowed me to do a slower and reduced-sized power walk. I got in and out of my little car with ease, (to reduce pain, up till then, I had been using Sue's SUV). By 2:PM, I had successfully weaned myself down no meds for 12+ hours.  AND, I got enough of an appetite to go refrigerator grazing.

This morning despite the 24 degree temperature, I did my walk again.  Additionally, my 12+ hours of no meds is now up to 36 hours, (I'd rather be in a little pain with no drugs...then in no pain with them).

There is no doubt I will be going to the Panthers versus Broncos Super Bowl party tonight!  GO BRONCOS! 

THE MAIN REASON I NEVER RISK MONEY ON SPORTS IS, I BET WITH MY HEART, NOT MY HEAD.  THAT'S WHY I WANT TO SEE PEYTON MANNING RIDE OFF INTO THE SUNSET, ON A GALLOPING THOROUGHBRED.  BESIDES, MY PUPPY ROXY SAID, "I DON'T ALWAYS BET UNDERDOGS BUT I ALWAYS BET AGAINST CATS!"

I'm going to take another week off to recuperate. I don't want to get too cocky, but if I keep improving, I might have to erect a statue of Dr. Alan Kravitz or at least write a testimonial letter to him. But I'll wait until a few months because this surgery was only necessary because the mesh covering my second hernia undid itself.  If I need another hernia repaired, to avoid the "GROUNDHOG DAY," hex, I'll have them install a friggin' zipper.



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Special thanks to MIKE123 and Alice for turning me onto Dr. Kravitz and HJ and his wife Margi who came out on a frosty Monday night in Rockville as they were still digging out of, thirty-one inches of snow.

IN THE EARLY STAGES OF THE JANUARY 30th BLIZZARD, HJ TOOK THIS SHOT. 

Feel good everybody, knowing that I feel good.  And, if LUCKYJT still reads, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," I hope he noticed that I never once whined about the pain!

Also, let's not forget the one major positive side-effect of my operation, I lost five pounds!  I doubt I'll keep it off, but I'll try, by NOT eating at tonight's party.  Yeah right, like that's gonna happen !

NOBODY NEEDS A CRASH LANDING AT THE AIR SHOW

In 1998, I was driving south on the Garden State Parkway with my son Andrew, (behind me in his car seat).  Suddenly, I experienced a patriotic eruption of goosebumps when out of the eastern sky, a Flying Wing elegantly coasted down, crossed in front of us and descended for an apparent landing in Egg Harbor Township, at 177th Fighter Wing, (a military installation, adjacent to Atlantic City Airport).

AN ENGINEERING MARVEL, THE NORTHROP B-2 SPIRIT, (aka STEALTH BOMBER OR FLYING WING), IS AN AMERICAN HEAVY STRATEGIC BOMBER, (WITH A TWO-MAN CREW), FEATURING LOW OBSERVABLE STEALTH TECHNOLOGY DESIGNED FOR PENETRATING DENSE ANTI-AIRCRAFT DEFENSES.  THE FIRST OF THE 21 MADE, (AT A COST OF $737 MILLION PER UNIT) WAS INTRODUCED INTO SERVICE IN 1997.

I knew this cutting edge boomerang was something incredible.  I shared my scant aeronautic knowledge with my incredibly bright four-year old but I'm certain he thought I was blithering because Andrew probably couldn't see it and even if he did see it, he just too young to appreciate the rare bird's grandeur.

I have never seen another Flying Wing but if I ever get the craving, I now know a likely place to see one, the Atlantic City Airshow.

EVERY AUGUST SINCE 2003, (ON A WEDNESDAY), ATLANTIC CITY HAS HOSTED THE AIRSHOW THAT BEARS ITS NAME.  SPECTATORS (75,000+) GATHER ALL ALONG THE SHORE FRONT AND BOARDWALK FOR THIS FREE EVENT.  THE FLYBYS AND DEMONSTRATIONS ARE DOMINATED BY MILITARY PRESENTATIONS OF THE AIR FORCE THUNDERBIRDS, NAVY BLUE ANGELS AND ARMY GOLDEN EAGLES.  SO THIS WOULD BE A GREAT OPPORTUNITY TO SEE A FLYING WING.

My father would have loved the air show.  Back in the 1970's and 1980's, he and my mom would take friends and family to the Air Show in Rhinebeck New York.

THE OLD RHINEBECK AERODROME (SINCE 1966),  IN RED HOOK NEW YORK, (TWO HOURS NORTH OF NYC),  IS A MUSEUM WITH EXAMPLES OF AIRWORTHY AIRCRAFT FROM THE PIONEERING DAYS, THE FIRST WORLD WAR AND THE GOLDEN AGE OF FLIGHT, PRIOR TO WWII.  (above) MY GRANDMOTHER TOOK  THE TRIP IN JULY 1972 TO SEE AERIAL STUNTS, STAGED DOG FIGHTS ETC.

I never joined my folks on their trips to Rhinebeck, (hey, I was a teenager with better things to do). But I do remember my first time up in an airplane?

MY FIRST FLIGHT WAS A FAMILY TOUR IN THE SKIES ABOVE HERSHEY PENNSYLVANIA (SEPTEMBER 1963).  

My father took home movies during our less-than-mile-high excursion. Nobody would ever compare dad's camera artistry with Fellini or Bergman.  But weeks later, after seeing those 8MM home movies, I realized (between the blurry monotony of the landscape below and immediate head-ache inducing shakiness of the images) that we defied death by being so high.

It's possible that those home movies encouraged me to avoid high places and hampered me from being inspired to fly.  I think it also dissuaded me from becoming a daredevil.

I was always uneasy looking down from high places and my self-preservation mode didn't allow me the luxury of going on roller-coasters till I was in college.  So scaling tall ladders to get to the second story of my house was and still is...completely out of the question.

I LEARNED A LOT OF LIFE LESSONS FROM CARTOONS.  ONE IN PARTICULAR WAS, IT'S A LOT FUNNIER TO SEE SOMEONE ELSE SUFFER A FALL FROM HIGH UP. LIKE BUGS BUNNY IN 1944's, "STAGE DOOR CARTOON," AS HE DUPED MORONIC ELMER FUDD (above)  INTO DIVING FROM A RIDICULOUSLY TALL TOWER...INTO AN ORDINARY GLASS OF WATER.  DUE TO MY SHORTCOMINGS RELATING TO HEIGHTS, THIS FEAT WAS HILARIOUS TO ME.  PLEASE NOTE - FUDD WAS A PROFESSIONAL (WHO DID HIS OWN STUNTS).  HE WAS OBVIOUSLY OKAY AFTERWARDS BECAUSE HE WAS RIGHT BACK OUT ON STAGE FOR THE NEXT SCENE.

Remember the old, "ED SULLIVAN SHOW?"  While I tolerated the musical acts, my two loves were the acrobats/specialty acts and the comedians.  I didn't need to see death defying mayhem, I found it thrilling to see the guy spinning thirty-seven dinner plates to the accompaniment of Khachaturian's "SABRE DANCE."

I HAD NO USE FOR SWORD SWALLOWERS AND I COULDN'T WATCH THE KNIFE THROWER PEG DAGGERS AT HIS LOVELY ASSISTANT.  OF COURSE MY FRIENDS WANTED TO SEE ALL THE PLATES BREAK,  BLOOD SPURTING FROM THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S GULLET AND THE POOR KNIFE THROWER'S ASSISTANT WITH A  BLADE STICKING OUT OF HER FOREHEAD.

A few weeks ago, all the memories I mentioned above rushed to mind when I ran into an old friend, (JP). During our conversation, JP (who's two year older than me), mentioned the finer details of taking a serious household fall.  He said, "It happened right after Thanksgiving.  And now ten months later, I'm finally 90%  pain free". In our chat, he described his accident in the style of old comedian (and veteran of the Ed Sullivan Show), Jackie Vernon.

JACKIE VERNON (1924-1987) WITH A GENTLE, LOW-KEY DELIVERY SPECIALIZED IN SELF-DEPRECATING HUMOR.  HE WAS FREQUENTLY REFERRED TO AS, "THE KING OF DEAD-PAN" AS HE'D SAY, "TO LOOK AT ME NOW, IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE I WAS ONCE CONSIDERED A DULL GUY."

JP croaked, "I'm too old to climb up on the roof," as he explained his accident while imitating one of Jackie Vernon's "vacation slide" routines.

BACK IN THE DAY, THE EPITOME OF BORING WAS TO SEE OTHER PEOPLE'S VACATION SLIDES.  ESPECIALLY WHEN YOUR UNCLE MORTY WOULD GO OFF ON A TEN-MINUTE TANGENT LIKE, THE POPULARITY OF DR. PEPPER DOWN SOUTH. SO MY FRIENDS WERE NEVER FORCED TO ENDURE OUR SHAKY AIRBORNE HERSHEY PENNSYLVANIA FOOTAGE.

Jackie Vernon's comic genius was proven as he used his drollness, to wrap jokes around his pantomiming the use of a non-existent slide projector. So JP had me laughing immediately when he pretended to press an invisible clicker and said, "Here I am in my garage."

(click)  "Here I am loading the Christmas lights into boxes."

(click)  "Here's my neighbor's cocker spaniel running through my yard."

(click)  "Here I am half way up that rickety old ladder."

(click)  "Here I am slipping on the dog crap I stepped in and falling off the ladder."

(click)  "Here's the EMS driver scraping the shit off my sneaker with his finger and saying, 'Oops, I thought it was pudding.'"

Last week on Wednesday August 26th, I was thinking of JP and his concussion, the collar bone he broke, his messed-up shoulder, elbow, fingers and other injuries as I removed the leaves from my gutters, (the lowest ones I can get to with a five-foot ladder).

I NEED YOU TO BOTH LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY LOOK BEYOND THIS GRATUITOUS  PHOTO FROM 2002 OF MY SON ANDREW. I NEED YOU TO FOCUS ON THE FLORIDA ROOM EXTENSION ON MY HOUSE, SPECIFICALLY THE HEIGHT OF THE GUTTERS.  BECAUSE LAST WEEK, I WAS TAKING LEAVES OUT OF THEM . 

Due to the narrowness of the gutters, I had to use my hand to grab out the wet, disgusting leaves and other debris.  I don't relish this filthy chore but after almost twenty years of practice, I'm secure in my abilities.  The big difference this year was JP's words of wisdom, "I'm too old to climb up on the roof."  So the whole time I was up there I kept repeating to myself, "I'm not gonna fall.  I'm not gonna fall."

The job itself is fast and easy.  Once you recall the best procedure and get into a rhythm, the whole shebang takes twenty minutes, (plus twenty more to wash the yuck off).  While up there, I never stopped chanting my 'I'm not gonna fall,' mantra as I finished the first side and advanced to other.  I was just about done with side two when I heard the unmistakable sizzling roar of three fighter jets, zipping across the skies above my neighborhood. Before I could connect their presence with the airshow (ten miles away), I forgot my Zen-like, "I'm not going to fall," pledge of positive karma.

Stupidly, I contorted my back, squinted into the sun to catch a patriotic glimpse and lost by balance.  Luckily there would be no cliffhanger that day.  Despite my split-second failure to be careful, I grabbed the gutter (after all these years I'm thrilled it supported my weight) and righted myself.

Trust me, even at the cost of missing out on seeing a Flying Wing...whether you're at the air show or not, nobody needs to see or be a part of a crash landing, (except maybe my friends from when I was ten).

AQUALUNG

A wise man once said, "If it wasn't for the crazy hours, the working conditions, customers, coworkers and management, a casino career wouldn't be so bad."  Believe me, I'm not bitter.  The truth is, the gaming industry has been good to me...but the job is NOT for everyone.

If we were to concentrate on one negative aspect of the job, I'd say that an actual germophobe could never work (or spend any time) in a casino.  That means, my friend GZIMBO is not clinically suffering from mysophobia because she does enjoy shows and other high-brow casino amenities as well as gambling.

MYSOPHOBIA IS THE PATHOLOGICAL OBSESSION WITH CLEANLINESS AND DEFEATING BACTERIA.  GZIMBO DOES NOT GO THROUGH LIFE WITH AN INDUSTRIAL-STRENGTH JUG OF DISINFECTANT IN HER BAG NOR DOES SHE TURN PUBLIC SINK FAUCETS WITH HER ELBOWS.  BUT I KNOW A PRIME EXAMPLE OF SOMEONE WHO WOULD NEVER DREAM OF SPENDING A NANOSECOND IN A CASINO.  SHE IS SO PARANOID OF GERMS THAT HER SON MUST STRIP DOWN HIS SCHOOL CLOTHES (SO SHE CAN WASH THEM), BEFORE HE, (aka BUBBLE-BOY),  IS ALLOWED IN THE HOUSE. 

For the last last thirty-six years plus, I have been exposed to the worst health habits you can imagine. The culprits cut across every socio-economic background, age doesn't matter and both genders are equally guilty...AND those are just my coworkers...the clientele is much WORSE.  

We are presently in the heart of cold and flu season.  My cohorts and I are commonly imperiled by something as simple as the ignorance of an uncovered sneeze (above).  So, it's easy to forget how we are sitting-ducks year-round because we have to "deal' with the exchange of every precious bodily fluid. I work side-by-side with many hardened alarmists who live an anti-septic lifestyle. Those knuckleheads are quick to point out that regardless how remote the threat of trendy contagions like, Ebola, measles and mumps might be, front line casino personnel are all susceptible.

EBOLA IS A RARE AND DEADLY DISEASE..  IN 2014, THIS VIRUS REACHED EPIDEMIC PROPORTION IN MULTIPLE WEST AFRICAN COUNTRIES. ALTHOUGH THE RISK FACTOR IN THE USA IS LOW, DIRECT CONTACT WITH A SUFFERER'S BLOOD OR OTHER BODILY FLUID CAN SPREAD THIS DREADED SICKNESS.

Some of the common disgusting health habits gamblers have displayed in front of me include; picking nose, biting nails, finger in eyes and the ever popular girlfriend squeezing her boyfriend's zits. Those hands touch the cash, the chips and the equipment.  Any casino dealer who doesn't rush to wash their hands on break...is nuts, (I am not a big believer in hand sanitizer but for those who swear by it, the "convenient" canisters are usually empty).

The gaming staff shouldn't be considered hypochondriacs because they feel the need for "protection." Even something that casino management can control, like a ban on smoking has never attained the universal approval it deserves because the bigwigs are afraid to lose profits, (and seeing how casinos are no longer paying for health insurance..a total ban on smoking is more vital than ever).

THE INTAKE OF SECOND HAND SMOKE, DIRECTLY FROM A CIGARETTE, CIGAR AND PIPE OR THE SMOKE EXHALED BY A SMOKER , HAS THE SAME CANCER CAUSING POTENTIAL FOR NON-SMOKERS AS SMOKERS.  IT WOULD SEEM OBVIOUS THAT IN TERMS OF PUBLIC HEALTH HOW ABSURD IT IS THAT CASINOS ARE THE ONLY BUILDINGS IN THE ENTIRE STATE OF NEW JERSEY WHERE SMOKING INSIDE IS *LEGAL.     *PLEASE DON'T BE MISLEAD BY THE LAUGHABLE,  UNENFORCEABLE LAW THAT PROHIBITS SMOKING ON 75% OF THE CASINO FLOOR .

So in the name of practicing "safe" casino dealing, the only intelligent solution would be, to include full body condoms as a part of every casino employee's uniform.

IN THE 1990's , I THOUGHT I WAS BEING ORIGINAL WHEN I JOKED ABOUT DEALING CASINO GAMES, IN FULL BODY CONDOMS.  SO I WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED AT HOW MANY PICTURES THERE ARE OF THEM ON THE INTERNET.

Casino patrons would be best served if they played in full body condoms too.  But that'll never happen. It's comical to me when a complaint is made by a player...about a fellow player's health habits. They fail to realize that we (casino workers) must suffer through the same sights and smells right along with them.  The big difference is, a dealer is glued to their table, while a nauseated customer is free to come and go. Strangely, whether it's due to superstition, selfishness, stupidity or laziness gamblers are not easily moved.

THE NOVEMBER 21, 1980 FIRE AT THE LAS VEGAS MGM GRAND IS WORST DISASTER IN NEVADA HISTORY, (THIRD MOST LETHAL HOTEL FIRE, EVER,  IN  THE USA).  85 PEOPLE DIED AND 650 CUSTOMERS, STAFF AND FIREFIGHTERS WERE INJURED.  THE TRAGEDY COULD HAVE BEEN LESSENED EXCEPT SOME GAMBLERS REFUSED TO GIVE UP THEIR "LUCKY" SEATS AS THE BLAZE QUICKLY SPREAD. 

I remember when I dealt craps at the Las Vegas Stardust Casino, we had a regular player (an insignificant flea) who smelled so disgusting...that a skunk on steroids would have been an improvement  He was a local construction worker who despite the heat of the desert, opted to gamble before freshening up at home.

YIKES! THIS STOCK PHOTO CAPTURES THE ESSENCE OF HOW OUR "FLEA" CAME TO THE CASINO.

This malodorous player,spoke broken English, in had a heavy Eastern European accent.  His lack of comprehension, especially when we spoke metaphorically, gave the staff a green light to hurl encoded barbs about his noxious stench. These childish insults went over his head while entertaining the neighboring players  We hoped the offended players might be inspired to gang-up on this pollution factory and run him out of town...or at least to another table...or educate him on how badly he smelled. But those morons were so fickle, no one ever challenged this great unwashed bastard.

We nicknamed this undesirable  "Stinky." Eventually, he caught on and took offense but because he was fickle too, didn't do anything about it.  So we developed another idea to instigate an individual player to unwittingly help rid us of this plague.

First we identified an innocent gambler.  The most common set-up for our sting operation was to talk about the old Abbott and Costello TV show.  We'd pretend to be struggling to recall Joe Besser's character's name...until our mark, (or someone else in the crowd), blurted out, "Stinky."

*JOE BESSER (1907-1988) WAS A RECURRING CHARACTER IN THE FIRST (OF TWO) SEASONS ON THE, "ABBOTT AND COSTELLO SHOW."  (52 EPISODES, 1952-1954).  OSWALD, "STINKY" DAVIS (above center) WAS A BRATTY, LOUDMOUTHED CHILD DRESSED IN AN OVER-SIZED "LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY" OUTFIT, (WITH SHORTS AND A FLAT-TOP HAT WITH AN OVER HANGING BRIM). *THIS ROLE LED TO BESSER BECOMING THE SUCCESSOR TO SHEMP HOWARD, AS THE THIRD STOOGE IN 1956.

No one knows whatever happened to Stinky but it wasn't a spectacular black-op on our part.  Maybe he finally took a shower...and melted?

I was recently telling the Stinky story to JKL.  He sighed, "I'm glad I l got out of the business and left all that bullshit behind. That had to be the worst thing you ever had to suffer through."  I said, "No. I've gone through plenty but the most nauseating one of all...also took place at the Stardust."

In 1980, my impression of being a Las Vegas boxman (craps supervisor sitting between the dealers) was that it was an "old man job."  This was especially true at the Stardust because the veteran dealers (overwhelmingly 35-55), didn't need really need an overseer, (I was 24, so even though my ability was decent, my crew kept an eye on me).

Most of these old-time boxman liked to just sit there and chit-chat.  I liked the ones who bragged about their past, (the hot women they were with, being treated like a king in Havana, teaching Elvis to shoot dice, witnessing a murder at a Runyanesque speak-easy casino in New Orleans or being in on a big fix at the track).  It didn't matter that I didn't believe them, it was pure entertainment.

Seventy year-old boxman Tony Lane stood out because he didn't fit into the cool category.  He was introspective and could stare off into space for long periods of time. To me, his only purpose was to complain; these shoes, this chair, *that break-in dealer, my lunch, the friggin' government and so on.

*Technically, Tony venting about a break-in was him grousing about me. He didn't want to work any harder than he had too.  So with a newbie on his game (me), he had to pay attention and exaggerate his exhaustion when he had to make corrections.

One night, we were running on automatic pilot when an eighth player shoe-horned into the last spot on my end of the table.  The other gamblers winced, covered their mouth and nose, and stared down the grungiest low-life I ever saw.

This filthy, awful smelling bum (homeless man?), set down two, red, five-dollar chips.  Through a toothless mouth he garbled, "Gimme ten ones." I fixated on his badly faded white "Happy-Face" tee-shirt. It was now yellowish brown with thick streaks of black perspiration lines in his brownish underarms. This stained shirt was also covered in moth holes with bigger ones near his navel.  I might have had it bad but it baffled me how the folks next to him (rubbing up against him) didn't run away.

In my mind, I was calling our hero "Aqualung" as I prayed he'd lose every one dollar bet he in placed in the field.

IN MARCH 1971, "AQUALUNG" BECAME JETHRO TULL'S FOURTH STUDIO ALBUM. DUE TO ITS URBANIZATION OF NATURE AND DISTINCTION BETWEEN GOD AND RELIGION THEMES, IT IS NOW CONSIDERED ONE OF ROCK-N-ROLL'S MOST CEREBRAL RECORDINGS. 

I tried to avoid looking at Aqualung as the lyrics to the first stanza of the song raced through my mind:

Sitting on a park bench
Eyeing little girls with bad intent
Snot running down his nose
Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes
Hey, Aqualung
Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Hey, Aqualung
Feeling like a dead duck
Spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Oh, Aqualung

Still, I gawked.  I guess it's human nature, like rubbernecking as you pass a car wreck. So whenever he looked away, I got a better look at Aqualung, I concentrated on his matted-down, greasy, stringy, salt and pepper hair. I was expecting vermin to appear and crawl down his forehead, so I adjusted my spying to his unshaven face.  There, I found that his stubble couldn't hide several open sores. Far worse, his left cheek was dominated by a dime-sized, reddish, knobby protuberance.

No matter how my weakening stomach and common sense demanded, I kept stealing looks...and soon paid a dear price.  Maybe it's because everything is relative, but this poor unfortunate fellow was noticeably nervous about betting a dollar at a time.  That's when his nasty, grimy fingernail started involuntarily picking at that mole on his face.  In no time, this pustule engorged and inflamed to a purplish crimson.  A surge of bile leaped from my stomach and into my mouth even before that baby started oozing blood.

I whispered to Tony Lane, "Hey Tone, this weasel is bleeding all over the chips."  He looked over his bifocals and calmly said, "Kid, if you're really revolted, don't deal to him.  Hell, in five minutes, I can find a hundred guys in the street who'd pay me to take your spot." I quietly wished that I could have thanked Tony for his sensitivity.

It took Aqualung thirty minutes to lose all ten bucks. I was thrilled that he was broke and about to leave.  Instead, Aqualung put his infection festering fingers into his mouth.  He was digging hard into the roof , maybe for a trapped food particle between his teeth. I was picturing him poking an eye out from the inside when he got everyone's attention as he stopped, gagged for a couple of seconds and started coughing.  On his second try, Aqualung pulled something out of the farthest abyss of his pie-hole and tossed it on the craps table.  We all gasped as this wet, squished-up, greenish, dice-sized paper thingy laid in limbo.

The game came to an uncharacteristic halt. In that awkward moment, I figured out what this mysterious, saliva saturated foreign object was as it slowly unraveled.  Within seconds as spit strings snapped, this clump of phlegmy, mucus-laden paper blossomed, into a twenty-dollar bill.

I was in a semi-catatonic trance when Tony Lane like a judge banging his gavel, rapped his hand authoritatively on the table and blasted, "Giver here!"  I said, "I ain't touching that scummy thing." Tony was growling under his breath but I sensed that everyone else was on my side. So I seized the opportunity to add a touch of levity.  I grabbed two, one dollar chips and playfully knocked this putrid orb like a soccer player dribbling. Each alternate "kick" brought the spit-ball closer to Lane. Finally he lost his patience, grabbed the paddle (that plunges the paper money into the cash box) and brought the bill in front of him.

Suddenly, Tony wasn't so keen on risking contamination.  He gingerly pressed one edge of the bill down with a one-dollar chip and used the paddle to flatten the money, (for the benefit of the eye in the sky).  The old curmudgeon fought it off as best he could but he laughed as he pointed at Aqualung and said, "Give that gentleman twenty-dollars."

Lane and I were of the same mind when we both stuck our infected one-dollar chips into the back row of the chip bank.  The incident should have brought us closer together but it was never mentioned again.  Maybe in his forty-year career, he saw a lot worse?

Sometimes I tell mesmerized young gamblers at my table who think I have a cool job, "Stay in school, the casino industry isn't for everybody."  I doubt GZIMBO would last a day and JKL paid his dues and was thrilled to find another way to earn a living.  So luckily, my MGTP legions have me to tell you the inside stories that most people don't want to hear.  And as long as you're still listening, let's close with some classic buffer music, Jethro Tull's, "AQUALUNG," to ease you into the rest of your day...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0jMPI_pUec

Unless Tony Lane is 105 years-old, I hope up in boxman's heaven, he can do a google search of his name and relive this golden, yet disgusting nugget from my life and maybe his too.

EDELBLUM MYSTERY THEATER; THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOE BUSINESS

Now what? I’ll never like it and I’ll never get used to it, but at my age, I shouldn’t be shocked when something suddenly hurts or stops working. So raise your hand if you want to hear about the mystery that recently terrorized my foot.

At work in 1999, in a lonely, distant alcove of our break room, my friend ABP huffed, “If you don’t take care of your feet, they can’t take care of you.” I nodded. Her tone changed to a groan, “I messed up by wearing stylish shoes my whole life.” She told me how in the 1970's, she hobnobbed through dozens of Philadelphia-areas discotheques in "fuck-me pumps." Then she lamented, “And now with this job, I’m paying the price twenty-five years later…my feet are killing me.” 

WOMEN HAVE HISTORICALLY SACRIFICIED FOOT COMFORT FOR STYLE.  THS POINT WAS JUSTIFIED THE OTHER DAY WHEN ANOTHER FEMALE FRIEND SAID THAT SHE BOUGHT BOOTS ONLINE.  THEY CAME ONE SIZE TOO BIG AND THE EYELIT COLOR WAS COPPER NOT GOLD.  STRANGELY, SHE SAID SHE WOULD HAVE AVOIDED THE HASSLE OF SHIPPING THEM BACK, IF THE EYELIT COLOR WAS RIGHT.

I said, “Sometimes my feet hurt too.” She took off a shoe, massaged her foot and said with a sigh of depression, “No. I have real problems and keep putting off surgery.” I said, “Sorry to hear that.” ABP said, “I have ugly feet with bunions and my gnarled toes are a million times worse.”

ABP was an especially good-looking woman. Even in her forties, if she put her mind to it, I'm certain she could make a decent living as a model. To boost her morale I said, “I’m sure nothing about you could be ugly.” She said, “You’re sweet. But if you saw my hammer toes and clawed toe…you’d barf.”

A HAMMER TOE (MIDDLE TOE) IS A DEFORMITY THAT PERMANENTLY BENDS THE TOE (RESEMBLING A HAMMER), AT A JOINT.  SIMILAR PROBLEMS INCLUDE, CLAW TOES AND MALLET TOES.

My hammer toe curiosity got the better of me. Besides, ABP opened the door with what sounded like an invitation. So I innocently said, “Okay, let’s see.” I guess the poor girl had been hit-on a gazillion times. She growled, “I’m not taking off my pantyhose in front of you!” I knew my friendship was devalued to “coworker” as she stood up and silently hobbled away.

Other than the obvious sexual lesson I learned, I found out the importance of taking care of your feet and legs, (especially in casinos where many of us spend the vast majority of our time on duty, standing up). In my particular case, the risk factors are heightened because for over fifteen years, I have been an avid power-walker.  Yes my calves (only) are so well-chiseled that Michelangelo’s, “Statue of David” is jealous.

I SUGGESTED POWER-WALKING TO BIG DAVE, BUT HE'S BEEN STUCK IN THE SAME RUT AND HASN'T MOVED FOR QUITE SOME TIME.

ABP’s words of warning have remained with me. So, I panic and stress over the new creaks, leaks and squeaks of old age that prey on my lower body. You never know, one of them might signal a debilitating problem that could prematurely end my livelihood or even cripple me.

A perfect example of a sudden new physical problem invading my body, occured two years ago.  That's when my son Andrew started university life. His school, The College of New Jersey (TCNJ) is near Trenton. At ninety-minutes away by car, he is close enough for visits and far enough that he (and we) feels like he’s away.

On one of my visits during his freshman year, about halfway up, I got a severe, knifing pain, in my right, upper-most thigh. It felt like a cramp, so I tried to flex, within the confines of the car, but I got no relief. Soon the radiating agony expanded down my leg, to the arch in my foot. I pulled over.

I used to get leg cramps when I played high school football, so I did some of our pre-game leg exercises. I got immediate relief. But forty-five minutes of driving later, the intense stabbing pain returned.

The same symptoms afflicted me on the way home…and still do whenever I drive longer than forty-five minutes. I told my doctor. She never heard of such a thing? She said, “If it only affects you on long car rides, you’re lucky…when you need to stretch…stretch.”

Damn, when it rains, it pours. Then, about a year ago, I developed another new, sharp pain, in my right heel. It felt like I had stepped on a rock in bare feet. I’d have good days then it would return. I waited until my twice-a-year check-up to see my doctor. She didn’t hesitate to make a diagnosis, “You have plantar fasciititis!” She recommended some home remedies that included stretching, icing it down and massage. I got a degree of relief, continued power-walking and never missed a day at work.

Incredibly, soon my other foot acted-up. On the outside edge of my left foot, I thought I had a painful wart. It was at an odd angle, so I never actually saw it. A month of wart removal treatment didn’t help. I bought bigger shoes, wore thicker socks and started wearing gel-pads. I felt better but not good. At their worst, both feet were killing me simultaneously.

One of my customers saw the anguish in my face and sympathized for me. During a lull, I told her my situation. She said that she used to be a bank teller and that she got relief by getting clogs that nurses wear.

Four months ago, (April 2014), on my most painful day, I gave in to the torture of my feet and went to a medical supply store. The clerk said their shoes were sold through mail-order only. I didn’t want to wait. She suggested Allen’s Shoes.

The salesman at Allen’s thought I had plantar fasciititis in my right foot and speculated that I had tendonitis in my left foot. He tried to sway me off the clogs. As per my customer’s advice, I tried them on anyway. They were butt-ugly, felt weird to walk in and didn’t make my feet feel any different…plus were twice as expensive as any shoes I ever bought.

I tried on a pair of New Balance shoes. In three strides, it was like a friggin’ miracle. If it had been a cloudy day, the sun would have burst through the overcast to the tune of heavenly harp music. My acute pain (in both feet) turned off like a light switch. I walked through every corner of the store expecting the relapse…that never happened.

Luckily, these shoes don’t have that Frankenstein orthopedic look and immediately felt like ordinary shoes, (yes they were more expensive than the clogs but in exchange for greater support, one can’t have everything…can one)?

I stopped complaining about the cost by the third day. Mainly because after work, I take my shoes off at the front door and throw them in the dark garage, (years ago, I tracked automotive grease from the casino parking lot through our living room…and never heard the end of it from my wife Sue). Of course now Sue gives me a hard time for bitching about the price of my princely shoes and then throwing them willy-nilly like they were shit and upsetting the pristine orderliness of our storage facility).

My new shoes are so good that when I was on vacation, I was reminded how important they were. Five days into my time off, I’d get achy tendonitis twinges. The return of these subtle ouchies meant the problem still exists but once back to work, my great footwear make life livable.

Unfortunately, getting older means, if you manage to defeat some stray physical obstacle, there’s always another to carry the torch of trouble, misery and hurt to another part of your body. That’s why I was so pissed-off coming in to work this past Wednesday (August 13th).

The walk from the employee parking lot to the break room is two city blocks. From the second I got out of my car, I had an intense pain in my left pinkie toe. At first, I imagined that my sock was bunched up…but a blister couldn’t go from “zero-to-sixty,” in mere seconds. Like the stubborn schmuck that I can be, I decided to keep walking (limping).

I dwelled on negativity and I convinced myself that something like a hammer-toe could spring-up from out of nowhere. It was disgusting how I pictured my wee digit being dark purple, swollen and with pus oozing from under the toenail. I was remembering that ABP said that the convalescence from her surgery would have her off her feet for months. That’s when I was thinking that amputation might be necessary if I wanted to avoid time lost from my job.

I headed for the union men’s room. Inside, I sat on a bench so I’d get a good look at the malevolence growing out of my little toe. I took off my wonderful New Balance shoe and carefully set my cherished hero down. I peeled off my unbunched-up sock and was shocked to find my beautiful foot…and suddenly pain-free pinkie...in perfect condition. I shook out my sock…nothing! My golden-boy shoe was next. And aha, I heard something rattling around. I sensed it couldn’t be a pebble because it seemed too light but it had to be somewhat sizeable to get wedged in and cause me such aggravation.

Oh how I felt like an idiot when I discovered a single M and M-sized dog food nugget in my shoe.

I FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY THAT DOG FOOD SHAPED LIKE M AND M's DON'T MELT IN YOUR HAND, MOUTH OR SHOE!

I tried to think back and pictured throwing my shoes in the garage and toppling the forty-pound bag of dog food. One piece found its way into the shoe and like a perfect storm of circumstances, the one nugget got lodged well enough in, to crush my cute and defenseless little toe.  Yay me, another edition of "Edelblum Mystery Theater" has been solved.

Yes it’s true, I gained another little victory…but life is usually reduced to the temporary joy of little victories. It sucks to think about it but we never know when the ugly head of catastrophe is lurking around tomorrow’s corner. I say, what separates the well-adjusted people of world from those who get caught-up, is how we play the bad poker cards of life, we are dealt.  Just remember, there's no business like shoe business...and as Ethel Merman used to say; let's go on with the show.

ETHEL MERMAN (1908-1984) STARRED ON STAGE, MOVIES AND TV.  SHE WAS KNOWN FOR HER BELTING, MEZZO-SOPRANO SINGING VOICE.  THE SONG I ASSOCIATE HER WITH, FROM THE BROADWAY SMASH, "ANNIE GET YOUR GUN," IS, "THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS."  CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO HEAR HER SING IT.

http://search.mywebsearch.com/mywebsearch/redirect.jhtml?action=pick&qs=&pr=GG&searchfor=utube+ethel+merman+no+business+like+show+business&cb=CD&pg=GGmain&p2=%5ECD%5Exdm003%5ES04317%5Eus&n=77fc41c7&qid=e7bd1c087d2e46f29b0e704297c05df9&ss=sub&pn=1&st=bar&ptb=D6B92608-79BD-4909-92A0-160CFD832118&tpr=&si=CKuH4unForUCFQPd4AodLCEADg&redirect=mPWsrdz9heamc8iHEhldEcgdjfjqpMajKYmz288FhTJUUyoGKBtyODnwVgQA9jB9asSRd7HNQ6vo28AS7ocSwQ%3D%3D&ord=2&ct=AR&

So to side-step many of life's miseries, always keep your head, be prepared to bluff and check for dog food in your shoes.

MY NEW REALITY; SAYING GOOD-BYE TO MIDDLE-AGE

Like the Sword of Damocles, the ugly specter of turning sixty dangles over my head. Over the next nine months, I have to find a way to cope with my next (undesirable) milestone of life because to many, this watermark symbolizes the dilapidated, gray, second to last gate that ushers in old age, (the last gate of course…is pearly).

IN THE 1812 PAINTING (above) BY RICHARD WESTFALL, A GREEK, MORAL ANECTDOTE, "THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES," IS REPRESENTED.  IT REFERS TO THE IMMINENT AND EVER-PRESENT PERIL FACED BY THOSE IN POWER, (OR IN MY CASE, I NEVER KNOW WHEN OLD AGE WILL BEFALL ME).

In 1968, on a handful of occasions, I babysat for the couple next door, (the husband was the cheapest man on the face of the earth…but that’s another story). One time while getting paid, (never more than two bucks), Mr. Miser gravely griped, “I just found out I got arthritis.”

I was thirteen and sophisticated enough to know arthritis was a health problem but because I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, I thought it was a death sentence. So a few days later when I saw him throw his golf clubs and tennis racquets into the back seat of his "beater" convertible, I thought it was odd. Then shockingly, he leapt over the closed door into the driver seat. That’s when I knew he was a lying sack of shit!

Down through the years, I learned the complexities of life. Perhaps the clearest of all my lessons is that the world is infrequently black or white. Certain issues, especially regarding aging and health are layered, and come in far more than fifty shades of gray.

In 1995, I was diagnosed with my own painful arthritis. I was bright enough to correctly assume that it wasn’t life threatening. My doctor directed me to use an over-the-counter remedy. Over the next twenty years, other than a rare flare-up, my problem was been 97% held in check.

GLUCOSAMINE AND CHONDROITIN ARE NATURAL SUBSTANCES FOUND IN AND AROUND CARTILAGE CELLS. IT IS SOLD AS A SUPPLEMENT FOR ARTHRITIS SUFFERERS BECAUSE IT AIDS IN CARTILAGE RETAINING NECESSARY WATER.

Now forty-six years later, even though my thrifty neighbor never gave me a tip, I’ll give him one. If you’re stricken with arthritis, and willing to spring for about fifty dollars a year, Chondroitin and Glucosamine is well worth it.

There is something mystical about hitting forty. We gradually start having new health issues. Each passing year, the number of episodes grows as well as their severity. There’s a gazillion reasons why we shouldn’t complain about our health, but the number one reason is, it doesn’t take long before we bitch to someone who is in far worse shape.

My first surgical procedure was kidney stones about ten years ago. The doctors knew the stone was obstructed but to run up the bill, it was better for them heavily medicate me and wait two days for it to miraculously dislodge itself, (which we all now know…it didn’t).

While it’s true this was my first over-nighter in a hospital since birth, I honestly don’t think I ever went into to panic mode. But apparently I said something to my terminally ill (cancer) roommate that suggested I needed emotional counseling. Despite his plight, this man was so pleasant, confident and reassuring. So the last thing I wanted to do was upset this brave soul…in ANY way.

I woke up feeling nauseous at 3:00AM on my second night, (as instructed I called for the night nurse). There was no response. I rested quietly over the next ten minutes hoping my putrid impulse would subside. It didn’t, so I pressed the signal button...and a minute later, I hit the buzzer again.

During those queasy moments, I rationalized that the floor nurse must have been helping someone else. I braced for the impending emergency. I dreaded the thought of disturbing my kindly roomie so I looked to see what was involved in disconnecting the multitude of feeder tubes and sensors that were attached to me. When my sickness suddenly spiked higher, I imagined the nurse downstairs, in the cafeteria with her face buried in a pint of butter pecan ice cream or hiding in the utility closet, having phone sex. Like a madman, I repeatedly and obnoxiously started wearing out the signal button.

Seconds before the arrival of my “V-Moment,” I realized that I had run out of options. I ripped off all my tubes, jumped out of bed and puked all over the wall…as blood from my arm splattered everywhere. What a great release/relief it was for me…until I heard my roommate’s commentary on the smell and length of the clean-up crew’s stay. Incidentally, embarrassment was added to my awful experience when my saintly roommate, the following morning, sincerely was concerned about my health.

You’d think that nightmare would make me more careful about what I said, (and to who). But seven ago while at work, (dealing craps in a casino), I felt a little pop in my lower back. The radiating twinge of pain varied in intensity as I struggled to find a comfortable position. I was experienced with this recurring problem but this time, no matter what I did, the different levels of agony wouldn’t subside.

LJT, (my supervisor) saw my situation and probably thought I needed to pee. He asked, “You okay?” I whined, “I tweaked my friggin’ back and it’s killing me.” LJT said, “You know I had a heart attack. I almost died. You don’t even know what pain is!” He had someone temporarily replace me. I took extra strength aspirins did some stretching and was much better. Later, I apologized to LJT. He said, “And make sure you never complain about back pain to any woman who gave birth either!”

I never learn from my mistakes. Five years ago, I felt like there was a burning hole in my stomach. These acute symptoms were incapacitating for a couple of hours.  Then they’d mysteriously vanish…only to reappear and tear through my innards in similar way, three weeks later. Like a schmuck, I waited months for my routine check up…it was a hernia.

GENERALLY, A HERNIA IS A PROTRUSION OF AN ORGAN (A BIT OF INTESTINE) THROUGH A HOLE IN THE ABDOMINAL WALL, (NO THE DIAGRAM ABOVE IS NOT ME).

I survived the operation and put it behind me. Well guess what? Last year, the symptoms returned. Lucky me, I had a new hernia. No you don’t get a reduced rate as a repeat customer so I was doubly pissed off in September 2013, when I had to go through the nonsense again.

There’s nothing really funny (or unusual) about two hernias within five years. So when March 2014 rolled around and the symptoms re-re-reappeared, I was triply frustrated. My distress was further heightened because the doctor does not guarantee his work and another procedure would be a completely separate fee, (so much for frequent flier discounts).

Two week ago while at Camp Zimbo, I held my left arm above my head and twisted my hand to the right and said, “It hurts when I do this.” He smacked me in the head and said, “Then DON’T do that!”  That might sound like an old vaudeville routine but what it meant was JZimbo didn't want to hear about petty maladies.

JZimbo is eleven days older than me so unfortunately for both of us, the rigors of middle-age health issues always come up. That’s when he mentioned that he might have a hernia. I never told him I had two hernia operations and need a third so I pretended to NOT be an expert. I let him vent. I didn’t want to fall in the trap of complaining about my trivialities when I fully knew that he had been victimized by a laundry list of decapitating injuries (including a fractured ankle and a knee replacement…plus unsuccessful eye surgery). So after he talked his way down from his potential dilemma, (on his own), I felt good knowing I didn’t play, “can you top this” with someone who really has been punished by life’s little cruelties. My temporary victory didn’t last long.

When I got home, I came to a conclusion about my third hernia. But if you know and love me, you know…once a schmuck, always a schmuck!  Due to my (unappreciated) experience, I now know how to minimize my hernia pain. So, in protest of getting “put up on the lift” again, I have decided to “gut” it out and (for now) live with it.

Hernias are unfortunately common. One of my friends (BBF) is experiencing the joy of his for almost two years. In the beginning, I recommended getting it taken care of. But after what I went through, I can understand anyone's reluctance to go under the knife.  So, I’m in no position to tell him he’s wrong.

Recently while on duty at work, my latest hernia was ravaging my belly. Under the circumstances, the best I could do to minimize the hurt was holding my stomach. DOM, (my supervisor) asked, “I had the stuffed peppers upstairs too and my guts are ready to explode?” A smile covered my grimace as I groaned, “Nah, I would never eat that in our cafeteria. I got a friggin’ hernia.” He said, “Shit, don’t complain to me, I’ve had three hernias.” I said, “Me too, this is my third.” He said, “I got one five years ago and had the surgery. Then last year another one popped opened.” I said, “So you got it taken care of?” He said, “Hell no!” I said, “But you said three.” DOM said, “Yeah, now I got another one that makes three.  I'll wait till they invent a hernia zipper...that way when get my tenth, they can go in and out much easier.” My smile evaporated into a look of concern as I said, “You must be dyin’ inside?” He said, “What are you a wuss? Besides, with insurance being the way it is, I’d be dyin’ worse if I paid for every little ache.”

I said, “BBF has been putting his hernia off for a long time.” DOM said, “You know he was demoted to part-time. He’s not having the surgery because he has shitty insurance, he's not having it done because he has, NO insurance.”

Remember the line in old cowboy movies; there’s always someone else faster on the draw. Well when it comes to complaining about your health, be aware that few people want to hear about it and almost everyone else is or knows someone, who is suffering worse than you.

Age is relative. I truly feel it’s just a number and that you’re as old as you feel. Day to day, I overwhelmingly feel like a king and a kid at heart, (the remaining times, I feel like a specific kid, King Tut…and he’s been dead and...usually...buried for 3300+ years).

So, I accept the challenge of my looming, new reality. I feel if you don’t find a path you can handle, the stressful harshness of an advanced age bracket will eat you alive and cause problems you never imagined.

Through my sixties, I pledge to be dignified and stay the same bundle of joy that you’ve always loved and admired.

And as for my neighbor from 1968, I’m sure his arthritis never stopped him…of course he was only about thirty-five back then, (but he complained as if he was sixty). Still, something tells me, (even though I haven’t seen him since 1984), that he’s still alive and kicking today. I make that assumption because I just saw a life insurance commercial with Alex Trebek.  That ad claimed, the average cost of a funeral was $8,000.00…and my thrifty neighbor would never cough-up that kind of cash.

THE WORLD WAS A BETTER PLACE WITH MY DAD IN IT !

Throughout March 1995, my dad was unusually nervous. He had been entitled to a substantial tax break for senior citizens but failed to apply before the deadline. His accountant, (Shifty of Ozone Park), family members and friends assured him that it a tedious paperwork process…but still doable.

The big day was the morning of March 29th. Together with my supportive mother as his co-pilot (mom didn’t drive), the dynamic duo blasted off for Downtown Brooklyn, (the furthest point away from Canarsie but still in Brooklyn).

EARLY 1940's, EVEN THOUGH TEENAGE DAD, (HE PREFERRED TO BE CALLED "HY"), WAS THRILLED TO GET OUT OF THE CITY FOR THAT WEEKEND, (above), HE WAS ALWAYS OPTIMISTIC AND WENT THROUGH LIFE WITH A SMILE ON HIS FACE.

My easy-going father got little sleep the night before and was especially tense that morning. Even though he was armed with a manila folder full of completed government forms, bank statements, check stubs, old tax returns, a Xerox copy of his Honorable Discharge from the army, notarized letters confirming his character, aerial photos of our house plus a happy face pin in his lapel…dad went through a pack of Kents (cigarettes) between 7:00AM and 10:00AM.

DAD WASN'T SUPERSTITIOUS BUT ON THAT DAY, IN ADDITION TO WEARING THE HAPPY FACE BUTTON, HE ALSO STASHED A RABBIT'S FOOT AND A PLASTIC THREE-LEAF CLOVER IN HIS POCKET. 

The accountant, Shifty of Ozone Park was adamant about dad getting to the tax office when they open, to avoid long lines. So getting stuck in the consistently awful Belt Parkway traffic shouldn’t have been a surprise. Dad was already running forty-five minutes behind schedule as he exited the highway, (between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges). To minimize his panic, he accepted the first parking space, (three blocks from the target, Cadman Plaza) and stuffed a shit load of dimes into the meter.

Dad never stopped puffing on cigarettes as he hurried mom along. At one point his anxiety skyrocketed when a canceled check slipped out of his folder, became wind blown and caused mom to chase it down.

Like the Keystone Kops, my parents accidentally wandered into the building next to their destination. Dad was befuddled.

DAD LIKED TO REMIND ME THAT IN THE SILENT MOVIE-ERA, THE KEYSTONE KOPS WERE THE EPITOME OF BUMBLING CHAOS.

My father infrequently used profanity but when the wall directory’s office number didn’t match-up with his, dad’s dormant fluency in obscenities echoed through the concourse. Luckily a stray passerby understood my father’s frustration, set him straight and sent them outside to the adjoining building.

My folks were physically and mentally exhausted when the elevator doors on the fourth floor opened. Down the long, murky and depressing corridor, dad was feeling beaten-down by the negativity of his circumstance. He cursed at the prospect of a long line only to be disqualified by a technicality. At a dead-end, they found the opaque glass door of their quest.

Inside was surprisingly bright and cheerful. My parents noticed two things immediately, the NO SMOKING sign and that up ahead only one of the four clerk stations, (resembling old-fashioned bank tellers… behind bars), was manned..

Dad's eyes were still getting used to the light as mom reminded him to crush-out his fresh cigarette. That's when dad noticed that only one man was on line.  He led mom around the long, ever-winding serpentine rope that was designed to accommodate huge crowds. Dad said, “This still might take a while.” He suggested that mom sit on one of the hard, shiny, wooden benches that rimmed the perimeter of the waiting room. She smiled, patted his forearm and said, “No thanks.”

Mom and dad were next! They dropped anchor and marked their territory with glowing, yet guarded grins. Seconds later, their lot in life improved again as the man being served thanked the clerk and strode away with a look of satisfaction.

My folks sheepishly advanced to the window. Dad explained his purpose and the representative squawked, “Have you completed the amendment form?” Dad handed the single sheet over. The clerk’s bespectacled eyes scanned the page. Then rudely without explanation, he walked away with it, as dad defensively blithered the other items he brought to bolster his case. Dad’s distrusting eye followed this man through the bustle of other county office workers until he disappeared into a distant cubicle.

The clerk was out of sight for a minute but it must have have felt like an eternity for my father.  A victim of his addicton, dad reflexively reached for the comfort of a Kent but mom waggled her denying index finger at him. In a huff, my pop returned the pack to his pocket as another couple ambled in, behind my folks. 

The pressure of waiting got to my poor dad.  He was so tortured that he couldn't stand still as he muttered more harsh language. Mom nudged him in the ribs to remind him that he wasn't alone so he continued his verbal lashings in Yiddish.

The representative reappeared. Dad was impatient as the clerk stopped once along the way to greet a coworker. When the rep returned to his window, he had several papers. Then like a jackhammer, the clerk slammed a rubber stamp a gazillion times all over the papers…before handing back dad’s original. The representative barked out the instructions on how to file the amendment and shouted out, “Next!” My dad said, “Wait! That’s it?” The rep said, “That’s it.  No problem.  You're good to go.” Dad’s face lit up like a Christmas tree as he thanked the clerk and turned towards mom.

Dad was giddy the whole three blocks back to the car. He joked about wasting so many dimes in the meter and said, “I suddenly feel like a wealthy man, how about brunch?” Mom nodded as dad continued, “Remember that restaurant we liked on Pineapple Street near the St. George Hotel? I wonder if it’s still there.” Mom said, “Good idea,” as a coughing fit came over my dad. He gurgled unintelligible words, grabbed at his chest and collapsed. Later, mom found out that he was dead before he hit the pavement.

Now nineteen years later, I’m still haunted by who to feel worse for. Think about it, dad was killed by a painful, massive (first time) heart attack and my shocked mother witnessed the carnage, was helpless to save him and was all alone to deal with it.

My father was a loving man. He was also kind, sensitive, generous and artistic. He always wanted to be funny but failed miserably at it. Indirectly, he got his wish because it was funny to hear him butcher jokes.

RODNEY DANGERFIELD, (1921-2004), ONCE SAID, "I HAVE NO LUCK WITH MONEY...IF  I INVESTED IN CEMETERIES, PEOPLE WOULD STOP DYING." MY FATHER ADMIRED RODNEY AND SECRETLY MIGHT HAVE DREAMED OF DOING STAND-UP HIMSELF. HE GOT PLENTY OF MATERIAL FROM ONE OF HIS NEIGHBORING SHOPKEEPERS AND MY COUSIN SONNY BUT DAD MANAGED TO BOTCH EVERY GAG.

Mom was affected the most by the loss of dad. But the blossoming bond between he and my son Andrew (who had just turned one) was sadly never fully realized. It is safe to say, nobody outside of the mortuary business profited from my father dying so young, (67).

AT ANDREW'S BRIS, THE RABBI (a.k.a. "THE MOHEL"...pronounced MOIL), GAVE MY FATHER THE HONOR OF HOLDING MY BOY DURING THE CIRCUMCISION.  DAD WAS FAMOUS FOR BEING SQUEAMISH AND DECLINED.  WHEN THE RABBI SHOWED MY FATHER A MEDIEVAL-LOOKING CONTRAPTION THAT THE BABY WOULD OTHERWISE BE RESTRAINED IN...DAD OVERCAME HIS DISCOMFORT.  HE DID A GREAT JOB AND SOLIDIFIED HIS BOND WITH ANDREW.

Dad was a small businessman. Despite being a slender man, his long dependency on tobacco, coupled with a sedentary lifestyle contributed to the heart disease that prematurely ended his life. When dad passed, I looked deep inside myself. While I was certain the smoking habit was the leading cause of his demise…I had to come to grips that I was heavyset and also led an inactive lifestyle.

It would be almost two years before I put two and two together.

SPECIFICALLY ON OCTOBER 26, 1996 (above), OUR WAITER AT DENNY'S SUGGESTED AN EXCURSION TO BIRCH GROVE PARK, IN NORTHFELD, (NEW JERSEY).

My lifestyle epiphany occurred a few communities away, in that park. By accident, my boy and I discovered hilly, picturesque trails in woods that outlined a series of canals. Andrew dubbed this wonderland, “The Jungle.” He likened the jungle to the “Hundred Acre Wood,” from Winnie the Pooh.  Over the next few years, we made regular visits there, (somewhere in the house is a crude map I drew that identified points of interest that Andrew and I named along the trail).

OUR RENDITION OF THE JUNGLE WAS INSPIRED BY A MORE DETAILED MAP OF "THE HUNDRED ACRE WOOD," FROM ONE OF ANDREW'S, "WINNIE THE POOH" BOOKS.

At first, my boy was still in diapers when I realized that I couldn’t keep up with him as he toddled, at full speed, down such steep places as the, “Great Up-Down” and the “Virtual Vertical.” The alarm sounding in my brain demanded that I had to get into better shape, to protect my son in the present and assure myself that I’d be around to see his future. That’s when I initially got involved in the Atkins Diet. I used it to successfully lose enough weight…to give me the false impression that I’d be okay.

BY THE TIME ANDREW WAS THREE, HE WAS SUCH A PRO ON THIS FANTASTY OBSTACLE COURSE, THAT EVEN THE "GREAT UP-DOWN," (above) WAS BARELY A CHALLENGE.

In February 1999, I was driving through the next town (Absecon). I saw Doug, a coworker about my age, (and chunky like me), power-walking. When I asked him about it, he said that running (to lose weight) caused more harm than good. But in power-walking three times a week for an hour, he got better results without causing sports related injuries.

Doug lost a ton of weight. He looked so healthy and I wanted to congratulate him but he transferred to another shift. Soon there after, he got laid off. I never saw him again.

In honor of my father and inspired by Doug, on March 29th of that year, I started power-walking. So today is not only the 19th anniversary of my father’s death, it is also the 15th anniversary of me power-walking.

Ironically, about five years ago, I learned that Doug died, (apparently he had multiple health issues but I never found out the exact cause of death). Nevertheless, I doggedly stuck to my walking routine. Even this winter, as crazy cold, windy and snowy as it was, I never got too far behind in my schedule that I couldn’t correct in a week or so.

The bottom line is, diet and exercise is not enough. It might be hard to believe but I work hard to maintain my good looks. That's right, the sexy hunk of burning love you see comes at a price. Therefore, I make well-visits to my doctor twice a year and expose myself to all the age-appropriate preventative tests. Additionally, I adhere to her medicinal regimen that addresses (among other things), my high blood pressure, borderline cholesterol issues and I take a daily baby aspirin for my heart.

I doubt my dad was that careful. But like him, I’m sure the world is a better place with me in it than without.

(FEBRUARY 27,1928-MARCH 29, 1995), SHORTLY BEFORE HIS DEATH, DAD DIDN'T LOOK LIKE HE WAS GOING ANYWHERE. 

Please…everyone…find the time to take care of yourselves because the world is a better place with you in it too.