TRISKAIDEKAPHOBIA !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tetraphobia is the fear of the number four.  It might seem funny in our culture but the word for four in some Chinese dialects, sounds like their word for death.  Over time, the phenomena of associating unluckiness to the number became a superstition and spread into many other Asian countries.

Here's a tongue twister for you, hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia.  It is the fear of 666, aka, the sign of the beast, (devil).

IN THE 1976 MOVIE, "THE OMEN," THE SIGN OF THE BEAST, "666" WAS EMBEDDED INTO DAMIEN'S SCALP.

The next one is so good, paraskevidekatriaphobia that it has a synonym, friggatriskaidekaphobia.  They are both, the fear of Friday the thirteenth.

But today, in acknowledgment of it being Sunday, January 13, 2013, we are going to concern ourselves with just triskaidekaphobia...the fear of the number thirteen.

Some Christian traditionalists believe that the earliest "evidence" of thirteen being unlucky goes back to the Last Supper, when the disciple Judas (who betrayed Jesus) was the thirteenth to sit at the table.  Even though bible scholars can not find any mention of such a seating sequence in the holy book...the idea of the thirteenth guest to arrive (or anything relating to thirteen) has gained momentum down through the centuries as an unlucky number.

Last year, 2012 was an unlucky year.  The economy collapsed, there were more harsh natural disasters than usual and even predictions of the world ending had people jones-ing to start new.  But alas, the triskaidekaphobians look out onto the horizon of '13 and fear that our civilization is about to take an even worse hit...but not me.

The first time I heard about this unlucky thirteen superstition, I was seven years old, (1962).  My paternal grandmother took my sister and I, on an outing to Downtown Brooklyn that included seeing, "LAWRENCE OF ARABIA," in the Fox Theater, at 10 Flatbush Avenue.

THE  OPULENT 4088-SEAT FOX THEATER OPENED IN 1931.  DESPITE ITS POPULARITY AND LANDMARK CREDENTIALS, IT WAS TORN DOWN IN 1971.

Due to the length and adult subject matter of this epic film...I lost interest fast.  In the darkness of this palatial theater, my mind wandered.  The one thing that really caught my interest was the ornate, stained glass affect of the numbered exit signs.  Granny encouraged me to stop fidgeting but the allure of tracing the numerical order of the exits was intoxicating.  This joyride of curiosity came to a sudden halt when I found that after exit twelve...was exit fourteen.

I was twisting in my seat, turning around and even scanning the balcony but exit thirteen could not be found.  When Granny told me to be still I said, "But I can't find exit thirteen."  Other people were shushing me as Granny told me to be quiet and she'll explain it to me later.  When she did...even at my tender young age...I thought it was silly.  Fifteen years later, I met a man who not only thought fearing thirteen was stupid but thought the number was lucky.

It all started after New York City's two-day blackout began on July 13, 1977.  My dad lost his store in the looting and was out of work. I had just graduated Brooklyn College and was doing my best to do nothing when the ensuing family crisis, forced me into the ranks of the employed.

My friend's father headed a branch of the City University of New York (CUNY) accounting department. 

ESTABLISHED IN 1847, THE CITY UNIVERSITY SYSTEM IS COMPRISED OF 24 INSTITUTIONS THAT INCLUDE, 11 SENIOR COLLEGES AND 7 COMMUNITY COLLEGES.  WITH A CURRENT BUDGET OF 2.3 BILLION DOLLARS, MORE THAN 540,000 STUDENTS ARE PRESENTLY ENROLLED.

When my friend's dad learned about my family's travails, he juiced me into a fairly decent job analyzing encumbrances (purchases) made by the various CUNY schools.   In a huge open space that resembled a well-lit prison mess hall, together with a diverse conglomeration of twenty others, I made hundreds of weekly determinations for such things as; white rats for Queens College, cafeteria trays for Hunter College, turpentine for Medgar Evers College etc.

At work, I was embraced by the small contingent of people around my age.  They called themselves the "Do-Nothing-Squad," for obvious reason.  I was trained to use a simple keypunch but the newest technology was computers.  So to gain computer literacy (to fit in with the clique), I disguised a lot of my work time, to "observe" older members of the do-nothings playing games, on the new, hi-tech toy.

During one of our unapproved long lunches in Central Park, I made a romantic play at the hottest of the do-nothings, Gabrielle "Gabby" Gennett, (rhymes with Bennett).  She turned me down in a nice way and I was relegated to "friend" status.  It turned out okay because I soon found out that she was a tramp and no stranger to a wide variety of drugs. 

One Friday afternoon when we were especially doing nothing, I overheard Gabby tell the equally unmotivated office manager that from now on, she wants her last name to be pronounced Genn-NAY...so she can be at one with her French roots. Then, loud enough for the world to hear, she went into nauseating detail, describing the symptoms of her (yet another) yeast infection.  Whatever embers of a torch I might have still carried for her, were hence, forever extinguished.  And just in case that wasn't enough, later, minutes before we were going home, she encouraged me into the ladies room, to "toot Pam." 

PAM IS A CANOLA OIL BASED AEROSOL SPRAY THAT PREVENTS FOOD FROM STICKING TO POTS AND PANS.  IT WAS INTRODUCED IN 1961 AND ITS NAME IS AN ACRONYM FOR A "PRODUCT OF ARTHUR MEYERHOFF."

I was so out of touch that Gabby had to explain that she was going to get high off that stuff. According to her later description, you take the core from paper towels, dampen a sheet and insert it into the cylinder.  Then spray some Pam into the tube and from the opposite, you suck the gas into your mouth for a cheap, temporary, tingly rush, all over your body, (I'm guessing in the last thirty-five years, they changed to a less toxic chemical composition so their product doesn't liquidate every brain cell it comes in contact with). 

One afternoon at the end of the week Gabby said, "My father is picking me up, you want a ride into Brooklyn?" Anything was better than the subway so I said, "Okay."

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, her dad (Gabe) was friendly and even more of a motormouth than her.  I saw his suit jacket was on a hangar as he warmly greeted me in a shirt, tie and a Pittsburgh Pirate cap.  He soon made a Brooklyn joke that I was familiar with, "We live on East 13th Street, between M and N...that means I have to walk two blocks to P."  I laughed, "Me too, I live on 103rd between M and N."  He said, "I'll drop you off on Coney Island Avenue.  You can take the B6 bus right into Canarsie."

While his daughter crashed he asked me about baseball.  When he heard I was a Mets fan he said, "Good because if you were a *Junkees fan, I'd have to throw you out of my car." 

*That was the first time I ever heard them called the Junkees and I have stolen that line a million times since.

He said, "When the Dodges left Brooklyn, I was heart broken."  Rather than correct his mispronunciation I just said, "My dad was pissed off when the Dod-GERZ went to L. A. too"  Mr. G. laughed, "I know they are the Dodgers...the name comes from being trolley car dodgers...but when I was a kid, I thought they were named after the car". 

DODGE BEGAN SELLING CARS IN 1915.  IN 1928, THEY BECAME A DIVISION OF CHRYSLER AND STILL ARE TODAY.  IN 1973, MY FIRST CAR (above) WAS MY DAD'S OLD, 1968 DODGE POLARA.

Gabby's father continued, "So I purposely say Dodges, even now.  Anyhoo, after dem bums moved out west, (dem bums is another nickname of the Brooklyn Dodgers),  all I was left with were the Junkees or nothing...so I took the nothing.  That is, until good luck shined down on me and I became a Pittsburgh Pirate fan."

Before I can get a word in Gabe continued, "It was October 13, 1960.  My wife had had a traumatic pregnancy with Gabby's kid sister and we were afraid that my wife, the baby or both wouldn't survive.  That morning and well into the afternoon, twelve other expectant fathers came in to that waiting room got their prize and left during the thirteen hours I sat and worried.  In the end, I was the only man left and the only thing that kept me distracted enough to keep me going was watching the seventh game of the World Series."

The 1960 World Series featured the heavily favored Goliaths from New York against the surprising David-like Pirates.  The teams split the first six games with the Yanks winning with three slaughters (16-3, 10-0 and 12-0) and the Pirates squeaking by with three tight victories, (6-4, 3-2 and 5-2).

The seventh game was an incredible affair complete with odd twists of fate, many lead changes and the unlikely Pirate 10-9 win, sealed by Bill Mazeroski's walk-off homer.

BILL MAZEROSKI'S HEROICS WAS THE FIRST WALK-OFF WORLD SERIES ENDER IN BASEBALL HISTORY.

Gabby's father said, "Seconds after the game, I was in such shock by the Junkees losing to that crappy team that I didn't realize that the smiling nurse was telling me that I had a little girl and that she and her mom were well.  I followed the nurse up to the maternity ward.  In the elevator, she pressed the fourteenth floor button.  I noticed that there wasn't a button for the thirteenth floor as I made her repeat herself about the condition of my family.  But she assured me that although my wife was sedated that she was fine and in no danger...and that the baby had a jaundice complexion because her lungs weren't fully developed, so she might require a few extra days in the hospital."

The proud papa gaped at his daughter through glass until another nurse guided him to a desk to complete her paperwork.  When Mr. G. was asked what the baby's name was, the date (October 13th) flashed through his mind, then the length of his wife's thirteen-hour labor, the number of men (thirteen) in the waiting room, the fact that the fourteenth floor was really the thirteenth and finally the amount of letters in Bill Mazeroski's name.  The nurse perceived him to be in a trance and said, "Sir, are you all right?"  He perplexed her by saying, "I wanted my first girl to be a boy so I named her after me...so I was going to let my wife name this baby...but under the circumstances, she not available..."  The nurse said, "So..."  Mr. Gennett smiled, "I want her whole name to have thirteen letters.  How can I spell Mazzy that it has six letters?"  The nurse shrugged, "M-A-Z-Z-I-E?"

We had just gotten off the Manhattan Bridge when I managed to tell Mr. G., "That's an amazing story."  He said, "I'm not afraid of a stupid number.  I love number thirteen. There's even a club called the "THIRTEEN CLUB" and they make fun of all superstitions."  

THE 13 CLUB (NOT THEIR LOGO ABOVE) WAS ORIGINATED IN THE 1880's TO DEBUNK SUPERSTITIONS, PRIMARILY THE UNLUCKINESS OF SERVING THIRTEEN PEOPLE AT THE SAME TABLE.  OVER TIME, FIVE AMERICAN PRESIDENTS BECAME HONORARY MEMBERS, CHESTER ARTHUR, GROVER CLEVELAND, BENJAMIN HARRISON, WILLIAM McKINLEY AND THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Gabby's dad continued, "I never joined the club but hell, I put my money where my mouth was.  The year after Mazzie was born, I moved us into a bigger house.  We narrowed our choices down to three that were about the same price...but I chose the one on the thirteen hundred block of East 13th Street."

A couple of weeks later at CUNY, my juice was fired.  He was replaced by the austere Bill Telford.  As a result of his presence, within days, our lazy office manager suddenly became strict.  She was busting tons of people in my department (mainly the do-nothings) for goofing off, coming late and eating at their desk. I paid it no mind until the rumors started swirling that thirteen people were getting axed. 

On a monstrous Monday morning, someone had just nicknamed Telford, "William Tell" when his new secretary tapped our unsuspecting office manager's shoulder while she played computer solitaire. Fifteen minutes later, she was dabbing tears from her eyes as she cleared out her belongings and was escorted out.

The morale of the staff was jittery as we pantomimed activity as each succeeding victim was led to their execution.  I made it until two-thirty.  Telford greeted me and after some understated pleasantries, he started to read my old employment application.  Aloud he said, "Ah, you're a Kingsman from good old Brooklyn College. I see here you were a Communications major."  I said, "Yes sir."  "Did you minor in accounting?"  "Um, uh...no.  I minored in Psychology."  "Oh Psychology, good, good.  Then how many accounting credits did you take?"  I was in no position to lie so I said, "None."  He said, "Okay. I see...and how many credits did you take in economics?"  I said, "None...in college."  His stern face had long lost any trace of graciousness when I added, "But in my sophomore year in high school, I took a requisite economics class...and got an 85."

I was falsely encouraged when William Tell didn't smite me by smashing his hatchet of doom into my back.  He told me to report to the secretary in his outer office.  It was she who told me I was unqualified for the job when I got my walking papers. 

On my way out, I saw Gabby in the mail room. She, the greatest of the do-nothings, said she was hiding because she desperately needed the job.  We gave each other a hug and exchanged phone numbers.  Then I took a sheet of computer paper and said, "Let me leave you with a souvenir."  I placed the blank paper on stack of manila envelopes and traced my hand with an exposed middle finger.  Then I scribbled, "UP YOURS WILLIAM TELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

A few days later, Gabby called me, "I survived William Tell's reign of terror but when you look at it...it's a dead end job.  So for a lot more money, I'm taking a job interview for a waitressing job at 'Good Time Charley's.'"  I wished her well. Then she added, "The real reason I called was to tell you that you permanently left your mark at work." I smiled, "Really?"  She said, "Really. You're a friggin' hero, a legend, a martyr..."  I said, "Me?"  She said, "Let me ask you, because my dad told you that he thought the number thirteen was lucky, did you purposely use thirteen exclamation points when you wrote, 'UP YOURS WILLIAM TELL !!!!!!!!!!!!!'"  I said, "No."  "Well, a couple of days after you left" she continued, "the manila envelope you leaned on had a bunch of handouts that Bill Telford was going to use when he chaired one of his new efficiency meetings.  Then he accidentally used a sheet that had carbon paper on top of it.  So when he loaded his on the overhead projector, everyone at the meeting saw your good-bye message and started to laugh."

Gabrielle Gennett (Genn-NAY) didn't know much but she had enough wisdom to recognize a dead end job when she saw it.  Had I gotten stuck working for CUNY...I can't possible see how my life would have been better.  So thank you William Tell. And thank you too Mr.  Gabriel Gennett (rhymes with Bennett) wherever you may be, for guiding me through the nonsense of triskaidekaphobia as I hope to lead my readers through a *lucky, peaceful and love-filled...2013.

* See that you're lucky already...you can now show off to your family and friends that I taught you a twenty-nine letter word...hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia !!!!!!!!!!!!!  And yes, the thirteen exclamation points were intentional.

WE SLICE 'EM, YOU EDAM...

THEDONALD is amazed by all the part-time jobs I had in my youth. Well Donnie-Boy, did I ever tell you about the time I was groomed to be a counterman at an appetizing store?

An appetizing store...if they still exist...was a delicatessen-like convenience store that specialized in Jewish delicacies, (lox, sable, white fish etc.), as well as international cheeses and cold cuts. In January 1974, SRUB33 juiced me into the one where he worked, BAYVIEW APPETIZING.

The store was six blocks from home, in a strip mall. My shift was three days a week from 7:AM until noon. Stupidly, I never asked what the rate of pay was so it was an unpleasant surprise at the end of the first week, to discover that I was getting $1.75/hour, (fifty cents under minimum wage). Even "off-the-books," $26.25 added-up to an unacceptable embarrassment. The primary reason I didn't squawk to the owner brothers, (Ernie and Bert) was that those unique hours fit perfectly into that semester's college schedule. Still, I never got over the fact that I was working for peanuts.

The narrow, long store had grocery items on the left wall, an extended deli counter on the right and refrigerated items like beer, soda, juice and dairy products in the rear. At first, I was restricted to stock-boy duties.

SRUB33's hours and mine never matched. So, I worked exclusively with stoic (and cheap) Ernie and Bert, as well as, full-timers Lenny and George. George, a former mailman was around sixty. He was a grandfather-like figure easing into retirement, (also working off the books). This short, gray-haired nurturing teacher, with a big, black, brush mustache was pleasant, supportive and pragmatic. Which meant he was boring. He was so out-of-it that even though he knew I was in college, he thought I should cherish this job, in case, I needed a secondary career to fall back on.

To reduce the boredom, I gravitated to forty-year old Lenny. Lenny was the prototype of an unambitious loser. He was twice divorced, always broke and made it seem like this was the best job he ever had. In an attempt to come off as cool or to try to relate to me, he bragged about "broads," gambling, smoking pot and drinking. More than anything, Lenny was lazy.

When big shipments that required lifting came in, he abandoned me and George. He'd drift out back and gravitate to a secluded spot behind the dumpster where he enjoyed many illicit cigarette breaks. Then when both brothers were out of the store, he was famous for sneaking into the adjacent pharmacy to call his bookie. His other big destination was the beauty salon, to hit-on his sometimes on, sometimes off girlfriend Frances, the gum cracking manicurist.

Lenny wore rose-tinted aviator glasses, to hide his tell-tale eyes. Through those darkened lenses, (to the delight of the senior citizen women customers), he had a steady flow of risque jokes and made bawdy suggestions as if he was trying to pick-up the old biddies. However, he showed the limitations of his humor by saying the same few catchphrases ad nauseam. Like every time someone ordered Edam cheese, he'd announce; NO! We slice 'em, you Edam.

Frances came into the store like clockwork at 9:00AM. That's when Ernie was doing the banking and Bert buried himself downstairs in paperwork. Despite acting in a professional manner, the sexual tension between Lenny and Frances was obvious when he (only) waited on her. Then whatever she bought, Lenny rang it up for sixty-nine cents, at the infrequently used, front cash register.

I caught on to Frances' special treatment right away but it took a while for me to realize that other times, Lenny used me, to distract George when the bosses weren't around. While Lenny sent me to stall the old man with nonsense questions about the ingredients in their chicken salad or how to operate the retractable awning, Lenny would vanish out back, presumably for a smoke.

My cigarette theory was proven wrong one time when the three of us were alone. George tucked the newspaper under his arm and announced he was going downstairs to the bathroom. He wasn't gone five seconds when Lenny told me to start at the front and dust the can goods.

Lenny disappeared into the walk-in refrigerator behind the dairy case. When I got the feather duster, I realized that I had cleaned the cans the day before. At the same time, I heard the familiar click of the refrigerator reopen and close again. The store was empty, so I figured I'd tell Lenny so he could assign me something else. He wasn't in the rear storeroom so I poked my head out back. I found him leaning over the dumpster and said, "Len..." Suddenly there was a loud bang from the heavy object he dropped into the big garbage can.

IN FEBRUARY 1960, THE DELIVERY ALLEY BEHIND THE APPETIZING STORE WAS IN PRISTINE CONDITION. (THE BACK DOOR IS NEAR THE FIRST OF THE THREE CARS ON THE LEFT).  BY 1974, THE WHOLE AREA WAS COVERED WITH DUMPSTERS, LITTER, FILTH AND VARMINTS THAT SCAVENGER THROUGH SUCH MESSES.  

Lenny thought I was spying on him. Angrily, he took me by the crook of the arm, led me back inside and scolded me about leaving the store unattended.

My shift was over at noon. Bound by curiosity, instead of getting in my car and heading to Brooklyn College, I circled the shopping center on foot. I wandered to the store's dumpster. These were pre-recycling days so I saw nothing but flattened corrugated boxes, metal cans, bottles, loose newspapers, tons of rotten lettuce, leaves, fish skeletons, empty egg cartons and other innocent garbage.

On the ground, I found a thick branch and used it to brush aside some of the trash. To my surprise, tucked in the corner where I saw Lenny leaning in was an entire six-pound salami and next to it, brown wrapping paper loosely covering a boxy item. I jumped up a little, set my belly on the edge of the dumpster and reached down. I tore the paper just enough to see that a case of Lowenbrau Beer was underneath.


A SIX-POUND HEBREW NATIONAL SALAMI "STICK" WAS LONGER THAN MY ARM.

When I was leaving the scene of the crime, I assumed that Lenny was coming back after closing, under the cloak of darkness, to retrieve these stolen items. That's when I heard the appetizing store's rear door creak open. I turned back from two doors down. Lenny was taking an L and M from behind his ear when we caught some awkward eye-contact, but I continued on my way.

My next shift was on a day I didn't have classes. In the first few minutes on duty, I avoided Lenny. He was telling a seventy-year old woman, "After I drain ALL the liquid from your quarter pound of coleslaw...wait, maybe I shouldn't finish that joke until you're eighteen." While the woman giggled, I told George that my car's starter was on the fritz. I said, "I'm dreading taking the city bus to the Brooklyn College Book Store to buy one little item for my tomorrow's assignment." Lenny overheard. He came over, smiled, jiggled his car keys and said, "Maybe I can help. Right, friends help friends."

When George left to wait on the next customer Lenny took off his glasses, leered at me and whispered, "You keep my little enterprise quiet and I'll let you use my car." I had no idea how big his "little" enterprise was but I was certain that I didn't like Ernie and Bert. I shrugged, "Okay." Lenny then added, "Just one thing, while you're out, I need you to fill up my car with gas."

These were the days of the 1973-1974 oil crisis. Due to political unrest in the Mid-East and through the genius of President Richard Nixon, some states experienced an artificial gasoline shortage. Long lines to the pumps were typical, stations ran out of fuel and odd and even rationing days were implemented for about six months.

At noon, Lenny finished wrapping up three kippers for a lady and gave me ten dollars for gas. He walked me to the door, handed me his keys and said, "You gotta warm my baby up for at least five minutes. And remember, she only starts in neutral." I said, "Okay." He added, "Also, this is important, I'm done at three but I'd feel better if you had my car back by two."

Lenny's eleven-year old clunker was a 1963 Ford Galaxie. It had a bashed in side panel with duct tape holding down a sharp, rusty edge. Inside reeked of marijuana, cigarettes and pickled herring and the floor was littered with Lowenbrau empties and Whopper wrappers from Burger King. I settled into the cracked vinyl seat and started the car. I let it warm-up for a few seconds. I was impatient and figured that it was nearly forty degrees so I took off.

At the first red light, the car began to shake. The sideways vibration was so intense that I thought the car would stall. Before I could shift into neutral and give it some gas...Lenny's lemon died. I was scared that I screwed something up but it started right back up.

Gas lines usually took an hour. Brooklyn College was twenty minutes in each direction and the actual purchase of my item would take a minute. I guessed that I had fifteen minutes to kill.

I drove to my friend Joe Vanilla's junkyard, (as you may recall, Joe Vanilla was proclaimed by my friends as the Patron Saint of Parking Spaces). He earned that honorarium at a time when we used to go to discos in Manhattan. Usually, we were forced to park so far away that a couple of times, we took a cab to the place...except when Joe Vanilla drove, (his hot pink El Dorado). With Mr. Cool at the wheel, it never failed, on the first pass, Joe always parked right out front.

I told Joe about my car's starter. He interrupted and offered me fifty bucks for Lenny's rattletrap. I said, "I borrowed it from a guy at work." Joe said, "Tell your friend that F.O.R.D. stands for: Fix Or Repair Daily or Found On Road Dead. He's leaking oil and driving on seriously bald tires." After some more laughs at Lenny's expense, Joe agreed to come by my house and see if he could fix my car. By the time we finished bullshitting, it was a quarter to one.

On Utica Avenue off Glenwood Road, I waited an hour at a Sinclair station for gas. There was no way I was going to make it back by two but at least I had the leeway of Lenny not needing his car till three.

I passed the Junction Bar on Flatbush Avenue at exactly 2:00PM. At the back of Brooklyn College's Gershwin Theater, I turned onto Campus Road. The narrow street, two blocks from my destination was gridlocked. It took five minutes just to get behind Boylan Hall where the (basement) book store was. Unfortunately I never took into account the school's reputation for parking difficulties and it was too late to pray to Joe Vanilla.

I TREATED BROOKLYN COLLEGE LIKE THIRTEENTH GRADE. ON THE QUADRANGLE (above) I HONED BY MY FRISBEE THROWING SKILLS TO MARKSMEN LEVEL. THE BUILDING HIDDEN BEHIND THE TREES (left) IS BOYLAN HALL, (WHERE THE BOOK STORE WAS). THE HIDDEN BUILDING (right) INGERSOLL HALL WAS WHERE MY SMELLY FRIEND MARY INTRODUCED ME TO MY WIFE SUE, (MARCH 1974).

They say that necessity is the mother of invention. So I got an epiphany in the form of creative parking. Just outside the book store, I left Lenny's car in an inclined spot, at a hydrant with the butt slightly blocking the delivery entrance. What could POSSIBLY go wrong in one minute.

I ran down the ramp, into the store, found the book, paid and ran out...no problem! When I got to Lenny's car, a delivery truck started up the ramp. I waved to the driver and stuck my index finger in the air to signify that I would be out of his way in a sec. I put the car in neutral and it started right up. I shifted the automatic transmission into reverse and tapped the accelerator. The car didn't move. I double-checked to see that I was indeed in reverse. Within seconds, frustration exploded through my body. I floored the gas petal. The revving engine roared but the car wouldn't move. Things got worse because I didn't make a precise parallel park and larger cars on Campus Road were struggling to pass.

Maybe it would happen to a lesser extent somewhere else, but in Brooklyn, I bet I set the Guinness World Record for being given the most middle fingers in ten minutes. Plus, I took the brunt of constant, angry horn honking. Luckily the windows were up, otherwise, I would have heard all the cursing too.

Lenny was going to kill me. I decided to tell him that I was late because I had to wait two-hours for gas. That's when I saw the pissed-off truck driver coming up from the bookstore turning as red as a beet. At the same time, I heard the shrill wail of a fire engine's screech alarm. I turned around and saw five vehicles back, a fireman jump off his super-pumper and squeeze through the traffic towards me. I was in a panic, I didn't know what else to do. In desperation, I turned the car off and restarted it...still nothing. Then I made sure all the doors were locked as the truck driver got out and strode to my door. Together with several other passersby, they were so close that their faces were almost touching the window while, MFing me.

I was relieved when the fireman cut through the crowd and took control. I could see his name tag read McKINLEY, as he calmly motioned me to roll down the window. When I did he said, "What seems to be the problem?" I was so nervous that I stammered, "W-w-we slice 'em, you Edam." He said, "Heh?" I then went into a whole story about borrowing the car, the gas shortage and ... He cut me off and said, "Buddy, what's wrong with your car?" I said, "It's not my car..." "Forget that," he snapped. "Is the transmission locked?" I demonstrated that the transmission was moving free and clear and said, "I put it in gear but it won't go." McKinley said, "You're kinda parked on a hill...did you use the emergency brake?" I scoffed, "No," as looked down. I'm not sure if I was happy or sad when I moaned, "Oops, it IS on."

I BET FIRE-FIGHTER McKINLEY NEVER EXPECTED TO SAVE A LIFE THAT WAY. EVEN WITHOUT A REAL EMERGENCY THOSE VIGILANTE KNUCKLEHEADS WERE READY TO HANG ME, BURN ME AT THE STAKE AND TURN ME INTO A NEWT.

Somehow despite losing 99% of my dignity and surviving the homicidal mob, I brought Lenny's car back at ten to three...no questions asked.

The odd thing was...if I would have taken the city bus, I would have escaped all the drama and would been home ninety minutes earlier.

Even stranger, at the end of that week, Bert fired me. He said that they were re-hiring a kid who worked there for two years because he was already a seasoned counter man. I guess Lenny thought I was going to turn him in so he put the kibosh on me first. I feel strongly about that assumption because SRUB33 told me that my replacement never worked there before.

The true irony in all this was...I NEVER opened that book.

I'LL SHOOT YOU RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES IF YOU DON'T LIKE KFC.

Through the miracle of the Internet, I recently tracked down a former best friend. Our cyberspace revival meeting took a disappointing turn when he made it clear that he wasn't interested in reminiscing or communicating in any way. Afterwards, I remembered that he had some personal problems in the mid-70's, so I didn't pry. That means, we'll have to stroll down Memory Lane without STEVENC.

According to his screen name, he now prefers to be called Duke. But to me, he'll always be "STEVENC," or for a short time as, "CAP'N CRUNCH." He'll be STEVENC because in elementary school, teachers differentiated us by adding our last initial to our first name. When we got older and played hockey, his nickname sarcastically changed to Cap'n Crunch because he was a husky, six foot-three...pussy-cat.

THE INSPIRATION FOR STEVENC 'S NICKNAME CAME FROM GILLES "CAP'N CRUNCH" MAROTTE. IN THE TWILIGHT OF HIS CAREER, MAROTTE PLAYED THREE MEDIOCRE SEASONS WITH THE NHL's NEW YORK RANGERS. BY THAT TIME, THE ELEMENT OF HIS GAME THAT HAD REALLY DETERIORATED WAS HIS TOUGHNESS.DOUG "DUNG" JARRETT ALSO PLAYED WITH THE RANGERS. IN HIS BRIEF STAY IN NEW YORK, HE PLAYED MISERABLY. I PREFERRED CALLING STEVENC, "DUNG" AFTER JARRETT BUT THE "CRUNCH" MONIKER STUCK BECAUSE IT FLOWED BETTER WITH THIS LAST NAME.

Beginning in fourth grade, I went to STEVENC's house after school on most Fridays. It was the only weekday that I didn't have Hebrew school so I became a once a week fixture. Most of the time, we'd play sports games like, "STRAT-O-MATIC," or "CHALLENGE THE YANKEES." But our go-to activity was the hockey game that used metal rods to move the skaters.

AFTER 45 YEARS OF TWEAKING, THESE GAMES ARE BASICALLY THE SAME .

In STEVENC's foyer, before we went upstairs, I'd set my binder on the bookcase next to the steps and drape my coat over the banister. One time his behemoth dad came home and read MY report card...and thought it was STEVENC's. It said things like, "Steven talks too much and distracts other students," "Steven needs work on fractions," "Steven's assignments are frequently incomplete," and I saved best for last, "I'm not Steven's grandmother, I don't have to listen to his bad jokes!"

*Mr. C's cannonading baritone voice rattled the foundation and sent a cascade of plaster showers down from the rafters as he summoned his son. In no time, STEVENC was getting the crap kicked out of him until he finally squeaked, "That's STEVEN 'E's' report card.!"

*PLEASE NOTE - When MY parents read that same report card, they were thrilled by my improvement.

In the Cap'n Crunch-era, STEVENC took on many odd jobs. One morning he answered a cryptic newspaper ad and was hired over the phone to be "an assistant private investigator." Without any private-eye training or meeting a company representative or knowing the business's location, he was immediately given his first assignment. The case involved driving to East Flatbush and staking-out the home of a shapely blond. Nothing happened all afternoon and into the early evening. In that time, he logged hourly reports and was prepared to phone-in any movements.

Just after dark, she finally came out. He was entranced by the bounce in her ponytail as he followed her on foot to the corner grocery. She bought a pack of Virginia Slims and an Almond Joy candy bar, before returning home. At midnight, a Marathon cab pulled-up and honked.  She came out wearing a short red skirt and a low cut purple cardigan. She got in. The rookie detective followed the taxi to the other side of Brooklyn. At a dilapidated apartment house in Red Hook, she got out.

STEVENC found a pay phone on the opposite corner and called in. Then he waited. Three hours later, a local car service stopped in front. A man appeared from a darkened alley and approached the taxi. He gave the driver some money. When the cab drove away, the man leaned against the building, hidden in a shadowy alcove. Seconds later, the object of the investigation came out the door. Her skirt was creased and her hair was a disorderly frazzle. She was fastening a button on her sweater when the man came up from behind and accosted her. He knocked her down, beat her and left the poor girl in a pool of blood.

My friend hustled to the phone and dialed up this boss. There was no answer. He panicked when people came out to help the victim, so he left. STEVENC tried calling several more times that night but there was no answer. The next day, there was no answer again. On the following day, a phone company message came on saying that the number was disconnected.

Throughout college, STEVENC hooked me up with several jobs too. The three biggest ones were; delivering for a liquor store, valet parking at a catering hall and a food server in a bingo hall.

The bingo hall, (Crescent Bingo), was located near the Queens border, in the City Line section of Brooklyn. On a Sunday morning when my car was in the shop, my dad drove me there for my first day. When we passed Franklin K. Lane High School, I knew we were lost.

LANE HAD THE REPUTATION FOR BEING THE TOUGHEST SCHOOL IN THE CITY. TO ADD TO ITS NEGATIVE MYSTIQUE, IT WAS PERCHED ON A HILL AND LOOKED LIKE A PRISON. PLUS, AROUND BACK, IT WAS ADJACENT TO A CEMETERY. I GOOGLED THEIR FAMOUS ATTENDEES AND THE ONLY ONE I EVER HEARD OF WAS JOHN "THE TEFLON DON" GOTTI...AND HE WAS A DROP-OUT.

We found our way through the rough neighborhood and arrived on time. Against my better judgement, dad came in with me. In the cheerful public area, we were greeted by the perky manager/chef. This obese giant named Ambrose was bald and a little older than me. After a brief discussion about my job description, he assured my dad that his nineteen year-old would be safe and vowed to drive me home. When dad left, I was led into the storage room behind the concession stand.

I saw why they required newbies to work Sundays as my jaw dropped. Safe? I was surrounded by death...I never saw anything so disgusting...it was like being beamed-down into Nagasaki after the atomic blast. To my dismay, management "drops" a bug-bomb there every Saturday night. In the aftermath, every surface seemed spray painted with dead cockroaches.  I was low-man on the Crescent Bingo totem pole so I cursed STEVENC in my mind as Ambrose handed a broom and a snow shovel and was told to clean them up.

In a perfect storm that combined a rush of bile and an intense wave of nausea, I barely avoided losing my breakfast. I guess its human nature to mature quickly when there is a paycheck involved because I didn't get sick even when I noticed food cartons gnawed through by mice, various sized rodent droppings and rat traps that were big enough to snap my forearm.

Ambrose turned out to be a great ally. He once confided in me...in tears..."I'm number five." I said, "Heh?" When he stopped sobbing he whimpered, "My Aggie, (his hyper-skinny wife), loves me fifth best." I said, "No..." He interrupted and cried, "She loves her mother, father, our daughter Jilly and Arbuckle better than me." It was comical to watch this mountain man be so emotional. I did a good job to mask a snicker before making the mistake of asking, "Who's Arbuckle?" "Arbuckle is her parent's dog...now I ask you, what kind of friggin' name is that for a Chihuahua?"

STEVENC had warned me about a fellow waiter named Curtis. He was Crescent Bingo's resident nemesis. Curtis...who hated being called Curtis...was the owner's cocky, nerdy nephew. I was never a fighter but if I could have figured out how to deck this four-eyed weasel without losing my job, (about $25.00 clear, for four hours, twice a week), I would have. To make matters worse, I decided to not repair my car. So until I bought a new one, Curtis was my ride.

Being a waiter in a bingo hall meant, I walked up and down the aisles during the games and solicited refreshments. We were paid a meager wage and relied on tips. One of the biggest tippers, was a regular named Hortie. This beauty was thirty-ish, sloppy fat and had a goiter. Her unique look was accented by wearing the same hot-pink, "Get out of my way...I'm going to bingo," tee-shirt during every session. And to complete the picture through a chipped tooth smile, she flirted with Ambrose every chance she got.

A GOITER IS AN ENLARGEMENT OF THE THYROID GLAND THAT RESULTS IN A SWOLLEN NECK. IT IS GENERALLY CAUSED BY AN IODINE DEFICIENCY.

Hortie's favorite snack at Crescent Bingo was a sliced knish with a cut-up hot dog inside, topped with melted cheese. She wanted Ambrose to come up with a catchy name for this concoction and list it as "Hortie's Favorite," on the menu placard.

When Ambrose was on the outs with Aggie, he decided to pursue Hortie. He took this adulterous opportunity seriously but lacked the imagination or the cleverness to pull it off without looking like he was hard-up. He envisioned an after-hours rendezvous with Hortie.  He thought he could lure her into the storage room by confidentially telling her the name he came up with for Hortie's Favorite.  The situation became more complicated because he wanted a clear conscious and needed her to make the first move.  In the mean time, he presented his problem to Curtis and I.  While filling our orders, he asked us to come up with a cool name for her favorite dish.

I was passing a squeezable, plastic mustard container between my hands while I waited for a hot dog. While I struggled for a solution suddenly Curtis spouted, "CHEESE-NISH-DOG!" I said, "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard." That's when I got the idea to call it, "a KFC," (Knish, Frankfurter and Cheese).
IN 1930, KFC WAS FOUNDED BY HARLAN "COLONEL" SANDERS IN NORTH CORBIN KENTUCKY. THE FIRST FRANCHISE WAS OPENED IN SOUTH SALT LAKE CITY UTAH, IN 1952.

Curtis had a geeky, milquetoast personality outside work. But inside, he wasn't used to being challenged. His aunt owned the place so he strutted around like an unaccountable, invincible rooster. He didn't like my response to his suggestion and like a true moron he loudly whined, "No! Your idea is stupid because people will think we sell fried chicken." His volume distracted some of the closer bingo players. So I whispered, "Curtis, you're a dick." I'm not sure what got him so pissed-off...being called Curtis or a dick! But he displayed his anger by taking my customer's hot dog out of the bun. He held it by the end, wagged it in my face and yelled, "This is YOUR dick!"

I was skeeved that he touched my customer's food. I grabbed the mustard squeezer, aimed it at his face and demanded, "Drop it Curtis! Or else." Instead of dropping it, he dropped the F-Bomb. I fired my weapon. Like the mark of Zorro, the downward, yellow, zig-zag streak started at his forehead, ran across his glasses and down to his chin. He wiped his face and tried to smear it on me. When I backed away, Ambrose came around and pushed him to the wash room.

Curtis had a jaundiced look on his face during the quiet ride home.

The next day, I told STEVENC what happened and he said, "When you call for your next schedule, don't mention anything. Don't worry, they know he's a schmuck." I never called...and they never called me.

I would have loved to rehash these old stories with STEVENC and see how the last 35 years have treated him. But alas, he wasn't interested. Maybe he's still sore after all these years about being called, "Dung." It could have been worse, I could have likened his hockey abilities after another crappy Ranger, Carol Vadnais.
THE NAME CAROL WOULD HAVE FIT NICELY WITH STEVENC's LAST NAME. BUT MR. VADNAIS PLAYED WELL ENOUGH IN NEW YORK TO BE VOTED #52 ON THE RANGERS ALL-TIME TOP 100 PLAYERS POLL...EVEN IF IN 1973, HE WAS DETAINED BY POLICE FOR RESEMBLING A BANK ROBBERY SUSPECT.

The bottom line is, I'm still curious about the origin of STEVENC's current screen name, "Duke." I may not understand it but I respect his privacy.

I can only wonder what changed him back in the 70's and why we went separate ways, three years before I moved to Vegas. If I had to guess, I'd say author, Dr. Wayne Dyer.STEVENC WAS HEAVILY INFLUENCED BY DYER'S SELF-HELP BOOK, "PULLING YOUR OWN STRINGS."

I never read it but it seemed that STEVENC's interpretation was; as an adult, you are responsible for your actions so you can do whatever you want. The result was, the Cap'n took that advice to the extreme and got crunched by some bad decisions. He stubbornly clung to them...even when the normalcy of his life was slipping away...and he probably never recovered.

SODA, SODA EVERYWHERE BUT NOT A DROP TO DRINK

Boy, yesterday was the wrong day to stain my deck. The heat was brutal at 9:00AM. Towards the end of my five-hour mission...in the words of Matthew Broderick from the 1988 movie, "BILOXI BLUES," it was; Africa hot.

Don't forget, I lived in Las Vegas for 5 years so I know what 116 degrees feels like...but I never labored in it. Laboring in yesterday's 90 was awful...but once, a long time ago, I toiled in worse conditions.

In the late 70's, my friend GRAMPS got hooked into a great part-time job by his "connected," Italian immigrant neighbor Gaetano, (Gae). Working side-by-side with Gae, Gramps was paid top-dollar at an off-brand soda distributorship in Manhattan. It was a cherry job for Gae because he used to get kick-backs from other immigrants to be replacements when his crew was short. When none of Gae's people were available, he'd let Gramps use his friends. Under those circumstances, I worked with them three times, (without paying a kick-back). The first time was the most memorable.

Right on schedule, with Gramps riding shot-gun, Gae's dark purple Buick Regal pulled up in front of my parent's house at 4:30AM. Like a zombie, I shuffled through the stifling, thick, hot and humid summer night. They were wide awake and laughing. I had never met Gae, so I rubbed the sand out of my eyes, gave him a hearty handshake and expressed my appreciation.. After a colossal yawn, I went into "just shoot me mode," and I curled up in the back seat.

In a heavy accent Gae said, "If any one's gonna sleep in my car, it gonna be me." I sat up. A few blocks later, at a strip mall near the entrance to the Belt Parkway,we pulled into Mister Donut. Gramps said, "The first benefit of working with me is, get anything you want." Gramps turned to Gae and said, "Another benefit of working with me is, I'm not a cheap bastard. Trust me, when I drive and its this f**king hot, I turn on the AC."

Outside Canarsie's only 24-hour eatery, (and paradise for vagrants), I downed my first chocolate French cruller. The heat was so intense that before getting back in the car, I regretted getting coffee. At the same time, Gramps kept-up the verbal abuse until Gae, cursing in a combination of Italian and English broke-down and turned on the air-conditioner.

It was still dark as we flew on the empty highway. My hands were a sticky mess from melted chocolate. I was licking my fingers clean as we got to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, (in ten minutes...if I hadn't experienced this world record, I would never have believed it)..

In the city, Gae timed every light.  We were on West End Avenue in no time. By the docks, under the West Side Highway at Twenty-Eighth Street, Gae honked his horn at three prostitutes. They all waved and the bleach blond wearing a skimpy tennis outfit picked up the front of her skirt...thus proving she wasn't a natural blond.

I was still grinning from the side-show as Gae turned right onto a street of identical, Civil War-era, white-washed, three-story warehouses. Halfway up the street on the left, two seedy looking guys were loitering in front of E and R Beverage Wholesalers. Gramps rolled down the window and handed a key to the taller man. In broken English the big guy cried, "We shouldn't work today, it's hotter than a steam room in Palermo." As Gae ranted at him in Italian, Gramps roared, "Shut-up and open the gate."

The man entered through the office door and disappeared. Gramps proclaimed, "Open sesame." Seconds later, the stillness was broken by the loud, chain-driven steel barrier rising. This metallic clackity clack stirred a greasy rat the size of a cat.  In an impulse of uncertainty, the behemoth rodent ran back in forth before scampering to the freedom beneath our car.  The start of the new work seemed to be signaled as it disappeared into a blackened alley. The entertainment at E and R seemed to never end.

The warehouse was a never ending series of piled soda cases. Gae was the leader and got to work immediately.  He lustily loaded full pallets with a fork-lift and drove them to a staging area up front. At a much slower pace, six other men followed his example and processed orders for hot dog vendors, bodegas, vending machine moguls etc.

Under Gramps' tutelage, I continuously carried and loaded individual cases onto pallets. He positioned me in front of an oscillating industrial fan. But it had little effect. The heat was so staggering that I was soon covered in sweat.

The sun was barely up as the place became a beehive of activity.  Customers came to pick-up their orders as we never stopped gathered and setting-up others. After three hours the owners showed up. In their early forties, the bachelor Cozzafava brothers looked like twins. They were both sloppy fat and had their thinning black hair slicked straight back.  The bosses each wore white tee-shirts with an over-sized Italian horn charm dangling from the neck, (one of their shirts had the large letters F-B-I on it, but I couldn't read the caption. The other brother had an Italian flag on his).

Even though these men were named Ed and Ron, Gae and Gramps called them Nunzio and Guido Vaselino behind their back.

At ten, I was on the verge of heat prostration when Gramps came by. I was flipping my tee-shirt over my head to mop my brow as he said, "We're getting drinks from across the street." I was dying of thirst but couldn't decide what I wanted. I said, "What are you getting?" Gramps said, "A Sprite." I said, "With all this soda laying around..." He stopped me and said, "These geniuses don't have ice." I said, "Oh." And ordered a chocolate milk.

Later, Gae was having an argument in Italian with one of the workers. The brother in the FBI shirt, (I now saw it read; Full Blooded Italian), angrily rushed out of the office and yelled at them, "Jesus f**king Christ!  You're in f**king America now!  Speak f**king English!" Within his own tapestry of profanity Gae responded, "This mook's been here eight months, and just loaded ten cases of diet ginger ale for Malzone." The brother went off on the worker and ended with, "Whatsa matta Enzo, you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground? I don't need to hear my smallest goddamned account complain ...capisce? Try thinking every now and then...that old fart only orders regular!" Gae started laughing. The brother snarled, "Don't laugh, you f**king peasant, two years ago the only English you knew was; square or round?" Gae was still smirking when he added, "You mullion, you're so f**king stupid, you don't even know that your name means fag in English."

The other brother came out of the office.  He was putting a hideous, fluorescent lime-green, short-sleeve dress shirt over his flag shirt. He handed a plain light blue one to his brother and winked at Gae, "Mind the store, we're going for a long business lunch."

It wasn't even eleven and the Blimpo brothers were gone. A minute after they left, everyone stopped what they were doing when Gae screamed out, "Chinese fire drill!" Gae ran to the phone as the other workers, as if their lives depended on it, started furiously loading soda cases onto dollies. They had a hundred cases curbside in five minutes. I said to Gramps, "Whats going on?" He smiled, "Those pigs clear sixty grand each and don't have a care in the world. They're such schmucks, they're clueless and have no idea of their own inventory. Well, we know other guys who are willing to take our extra shit off our hands...and here they are."

A dented late-model, beige station wagon with the fake wooden sides screeched to a stop out front. The driver came in and secretly handed Gae a wad of cash. All our workers hurriedly loaded the whole shebang in two minutes. Gramps smiled, "Keep this quiet and I'll buy you lunch."

I said, "Wow, that's crazy." Gramps said, "They'll never miss it. We do it a couple of times a month when they have a two-hour business lunch. Which means, they eat and drink for an hour and fifty minutes and do whatever they do with hookers, for the other ten minutes."

We had our lunch at noon. After, we loaded a beat-up, un-air-conditioned, unmarked, white Ford Econo-Van. Gae, Gramps and I were going to make deliveries. On that model truck, the middle seat was on top of the motor. Being the lowest on the E and R totem pole, I got to sit on the hot-seat. I was on the verge of fainting when we passed a bank on Ninth Avenue. It's digital clock said 1:PM, 104 degrees...I thought I was going to die.

THAT 104 IS THE HIGHEST I EVER REMEMBER EXPERIENCING IN NEW YORK.

Our first delivery was on a tiny, one way, cobblestone street. At the far end of the narrow block, I saw a hot dog wagon hitched to a twelve year-old Rambler Ambassador. We got out and loaded the cases onto hand trucks. I was peeling my pants off my butt as Gae banged on a seemingly vacant storefront's door. The windows were covered by yellowed newspapers and the door was disguised to look like it was boarded up. The rusty mailbox had a small plastic label that read: B. MALZONE.

I heard several dead-bolt being unlocked before the door swung open to reveal Malzone. The curmudgeon ushered us in with a flurry of Italian obscenities. Apparently the heat was getting to Gae too. In the unlit room, surrounded by soda cans, boxes of frankfurter buns, napkins and industrial-sized condiment jars, he got in the cranky old-timers face with a salvo of his own.

In marginal English Malzone said, "Okay, okay. But hurry up.  And keep your dirty Sicilian fingers off my stuff.  Then get outta here!" Gae said, "Batty, why are you always such an ass-hole. You never say please or thanks. We come when it's freezing...or like a furnace...and you just piss on us. All the other hot dogs guys give us a little something at Christmas or offer us a drink on a hot day..." "Hey," Malzone interrupted, "I told you a million times, my name is Batista or Mr. Malzone. And if you wanna drink?" He picked a stray can of orange soda off the gravelly floor and said, "Have any can of your own piss-water...just lay off my Coke and Seven-Up."

Gae told him, "Shove it up your ass, Batty" He cursed him in Italian and slammed the door as we left. Malzone stuck his head out and got the last word, "I'm the customer, you're a worker...that means you're justa piece of shit. I'll tell Cozzafava and he'll fire your sorry asses."

We finished our deliveries and dropped the van off. On the way home, Gae blasted his air-conditioner but continued to dwell on being insulted by Malzone. At Varrick Street he made a sudden left. Gramps said, "Where are you going?"  Gae said, "Shut-up."  Halofway to the next corner Gramps yelled, "I get it! There's Malzone." Gae pulled up at a fire hydrant. He pulled out a twenty dollar bill and said, "Follow my lead."

SABRETTE FRANKFURTERS, A.K.A., DIRTY WATER HOT DOGS ARE A NEW YORK STAPLE. A THOUSAND VENDORS CAN BE FOUND EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR.

Malzone was weary of us. Gae waved the money in his face and said, "Mr. Malzone, we had a hard day, it's hotter than hell and I think we should apologize. Let me have two with the works and a Coke." Malzone lightened-up, served him and said, "Next." Gramps said, "Two with mustard and sauerkraut, and a Seven-Up." He turned to me and said, "How about you kid?" I wasn't hungry. Two hours earlier, I had a roast beef sandwich and fries for lunch.  But I followed along and said, "One with mustard, stewed onions and a Coke."

The miserly fossil grinned while muttering figures as he totaled our bill. Finally he said, "To show I like all you pisans, I'll give you a little discount..." Gae cut him off, put the twenty back in his pocket and said, "Keep your f**king discount and f**k you!"

Malzone knew he was getting stiffed before we got back in the car.  Still he wove a tapestry of Italian profanity before whining, "You scumbags had to take my Coke and 7-Up too."

What a great day. Even though it was a scorcher, I'm glad I wasn't too young to appreciate the concept of, "standing up to the man."

Staining my deck in death-defying heat was another story. Here it is two days later and my back is still killing me. My sunburn still smarts and my hands are so swollen, cramped, blistered and crippled-up that typing this column is tough...and there's nothing funny or memorable about that.