STUART WEINER AND THE ENTERPRISING HOMELESS MAN

To help my son ward off exaggerators, I told him at a young age: I have complete faith in anything your mother says to me. However, I would have to draw the line if she told me that she was abducted by aliens. That my dear boy--is something I would have to see for myself !

I understand the third grade exaggerator mentality because I once pulled out my omnipresent stack of baseball cards and told Stuart Weiner that my father was a major league baseball player and he believed me.

Bespectacled Stuart (Stuie) Weiner and I met in kindergarten and became friends in third grade. The school districts changed and he went to another school until we were re-united in junior high. By then he was wearing thick glasses. We remained close through college and just prior to me moving to Las Vegas, he re-located to a suburb of San Francisco. While I lived in Nevada, I visited him up there three times and on a fourth occasion attended his wedding. Somewhere after 1981 we became estranged until the advent of personal computers. Around 2000, we exchanged some E-Mails and once again went our separate ways.

Stu as he now prefers to be called, is best know for his antics during eye-test day in third grade. Other than this episode, our teacher Miss Lauffer, didn't leave a profound educational mark on me. However, she was a petite brunette hottie who looked sharp in tight black skirts, (that's another story but thanks David Schatten for bringing it to my attention at the tender age of eight).

When Stuie was called to be tested, Miss Lauffer pointed to a bunch of letters on the eye-chart and he correctly identified them. She then told him to remove his glasses. This time around he couldn't answer. Instead of going lower on the chart, she pointed higher, to the bigger letters.

After pointing to the giant "E" at the top she said, "What letters CAN you see?"
He said, "Where?"
She said, "On the chart."
He said, "What chart?"
She said, "On the wall."
And he said, "What wall?"

Sometime during college days, Stuie and I went out to Atlantic Beach on Long Island to a bar called Porthole. Stuie's depth perception was so awful (even with his glasses) that he got into several accidents in his early years of driving. So, I always insisted on driving.

At Porthole, we had a few too many tequila sunrises (thanks for your influence RBOY). On the way out, Stu asks for my keys and tells me I'm too wasted to drive. I tell him that there was no way he was driving my dad's car--even if he was sober. At that point he made a lame statement about perception and difference between seeing and understanding.

I really had no idea what he was talking about and said, "I KNOW you can't see...and what could you possibly understand, you thought my father was Jake Gibbs."

That incident came to mind a few days ago when a player at work told me that a filthy homeless man positioned himself in one of my casino's restrooms and was handing paper towels to the men washing their hands...in the hope of getting a tip.

This particular men's room is off the beaten path and is usually only used when a show lets out or by poker players. Sometimes when my breaks are boring or if they are televising poker games, I venture over. But there is so much abuse of the NO SMOKING LAW in that hall--I don't go there much any more.

In my quest for truth, I braved the smokiness and marched through the plethora of whining poker players to that restroom. To my surprise a stinking yet enterprising man, in layered tatters was indeed dispensing paper towels. On the sink next to him was an opaque plastic cup that was about one third filled with change.

Like I said, "There are some things you have to see for yourself."

NEW FAST FOOD FOR ABSECON

In a new strip mall on the White Horse Pike, just west of Haddon Avenue in Absecon, two new side-by-side fast food places have opened up.

First, "Five Guys Burgers" as the name suggests, specializes in hamburgers. Their menu also includes fries, hot dogs and sodas but little else. Judging from our single experience yesterday, 5 Guys got extremely high grades from us. The burgers were tasty, the overly generous portion of fries were great and the service was friendly and efficient. Their gimmick is that the food is cooked to order so there was a 10 minute wait.

To occupy the customers, there are complementary ballpark peanuts on every table. This is important because the place is stark. The white tiled walls are covered with magazine reproductions of positive articles and lists of awards they have won, (i.e. #1 burger according to Washingtonian Magazine 2001-2007). The rest of the "decorations" are limited to piled sacks of potatoes and boxes of ballpark peanuts. Therefore 5 Guys' ambiance is generic to say the least.

Two cheeseburgers, one large fries and 2 sodas were $16.50.

It should be noted that I went to a "Rate 5 Guys Web-site" and almost all the comments were a mixture of good and bad with a heavier slant towards the negative.

If you never heard of the place, it was founded in 1986 by Janie and Jerry Murrell and their five sons (guys) in Arlington Virginia. Most popular in the Washington D.C.-Baltimore area, there were 205 locations along the east coast from Florida to Connecticut, as of October 2007. Plus, an additional 1000 more are either being built or are in the planning stage. The company CLAIMS ! that each store does a million dollars a day in revenue?

Next door is the Pretzel Factory.

It sounds oxymoronic that a STORE could actually survive selling only pretzels (and pretzels with little hot dogs inside).

I must say that I am prejudice because I never have found much allure in a pretzel. My few associations with them have been at or after a sporting event. They are usually hard, tasteless dough with salt on them. So I didn't even want to dignify THE PRETZEL FACTORY with my presence. Alas, I caved-in and went. To my surprise there was a line out the door to buy what I was certain would be crap!

While waiting, the enthusiastic chatter among the waitees made it sound like we were going to be eating a kingly feast.

I was almost swayed when a lady said, "I had them cater my party."

Another women said, "Oh, they are to die for when you get them warm from the oven."

Well at three for a dollar...I now wish I had my dollar back! My warm straight from the oven pretzel was just as tasteless as any other crappy pretzel I ever had...maybe less salty...but in this case, that's NOT meant as a compliment...at least that way it would taste like salt!

I understand that Philly people love their pretzels with mustard and/or other dunkable sauces but I know crap when I eat it and unlike 5 Guys, I doubt this place will be around for the long haul

HATS OFF TO MY DAD

Sorry to disappoint all you snow bunnies out there but here it is January 7th and its going to be 65 degrees in South Jersey today.

Of course, about a week ago, there was a bit of frost on my windshield. So I went into my "I must end my denial, face facts and admit its winter mentality." Its a Three-Step process.

The first step was to unearth my windshield scraper. It took about 20 minutes to find and couple more to get the spider webs off.

Step Two was locating the halite (rock salt). I was lucky because the rock salt was exactly where I left it last year. Except...that (from moisture?) it had fused to the wall of my garage. Freeing the bag from the wall was slowed because of the insurgence of bile in my mouth when I spotted the rodent feces, in, on and around the bag. (A few years ago the saga of Arnold Schwartzenmouse occurred in my garage...if you're good little readers, I'll save that spine-tingling story, which will be accompanied by a continuous musical loop of "When Johnny Comes March Home Again," for another time).

The last step was finding my Donegal Tweed Hat. This hat and the onset of winter makes me reminisce when I had the dealer school and a student known to all...simply as; McB.

McB was an Irish citizen working in the US. He enrolled as a craps student and at some point came to me to request time off to go back to Ireland. Everything was arranged and McB, to be social, offered to bring me back something from his trip. After I said no thanks, he insisted, so I asked him to bring back an Irish dollar bill.

When McB returned, he gave me the One Punt note, I still have it as part of Andrew's foreign currency collection. McB also surprised me with a Donegal Tweed hat. The shape of this hat is what I call a cab driver hat.

A DONEGAL TWEED HAT. THIS MODEL IS AN UNPAID, HIGH-TECH MANNEQUIN...THUS, IT ISN'T ME OR ANY MEMBER OF MY FAMILY

As some of you might have noticed, I'm a bald guy. It certainly is not a good thing but in reality, its not bad thing either. Therefore I have never found it necessary to go the Rogaine/minoxidil route, nor have I ever considered wigs, toupees or other cover-ups, like hats.

However, McB's hat intrigued me and I truly considered wearing it BUT it was the ugliest thing I ever saw. It didn't have a single pattern, the hat was cut into quarters with a different scheme in each one.

THIS IS A STILL UGLIER VERSION WITH EIGHT PATTERNS.

My father on the other hand, had a beautiful full head of hair. Ironically, he covered his tresses because he was ALSO a hat guy. He had so many; tams, berets, baseball caps, kepis, Greek sailor's caps, those hideous Russian/mailman hats...the ones that could snap the flaps over the top to expose your ears or underneath your chin to cover them. He also had various fishing hats, straw hats, cowboy hats, woolen pupke hats (with and without the pom-pom beanie on top), fedoras and derby's.

It should be noted that he didn't have a deer stalker hat but I didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that he coveted my brother-in-law's .

He also didn't have a stove-pipe hat, fez, tuque, pithe helmet, Mexican sombrero, top hat, Panama hat, bowler or a cab driver hat.

So I bring him McB's cab driver hat and offer it to him. Well, he knows all about the great Donegal Tweed hat tradition and immediately treasures it. Dad wore it for abut ten years until he passed-away in 1995.

At that point, I took back the hat. I still won't wear it in public. But if you want to see me wearing it, come around my house, the next snowy morning because, its my official snow shoveling hat.

It might sound crazy but it has kept dad's smell...and that adds to the comfort it gives me, even if its only a few times a year. Of course if this global warming keeps up, my little ritual could end too.

THERE'S NO BETTER WAY TO START 2008

The new year is upon us and in my never ending quest to share the unimportant with you, I give you JANUS !

Janus is the Roman god of beginnings and ends, as well as doors, gates and doorways. Images of the Janus head consists of two faces looking in opposite directions. Janus symbolizes change or transition.

BUST OF JANUS.

Janus can also represent time itself with one face looking forward into the future and the other seeing the past. Ergo, the month January gets its name from Janus, (as the first month, he can see the upcoming year as well as the events of the previous one).

Because of his link as the keeper of doors etc, the word janitor also comes from Janus.

Additionally, Janus was worshipped at the beginning of harvest and planting season, plus, marriages, births and other beginnings. He also acted as an intermediary between; barbarity and civilization, rural and urban concerns and clashes of the young and old.

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It is not my intention to make fun of the Afghani people or anyone else. This particular nugget of information is not a joke, it was published in last week's computer news.

Apparently there was a recent Afghan holiday in which giving to the under privileged is encouraged. A man was driving his car and saw somebody selling a camel. He bought the camel, had it slaughtered and brought it to an impoverished part of his town.

THIS IS A STOCK PHOTO OF A CAMEL...NOT THE CAMEL IN QUESTION

His good deed fed many hungry people. His good deed also killed 23 of them and sickened many more. Later, it was discovered that this was a diseased camel, suffering from anthrax. Those who partook in the holiday feast, experienced severe symptoms and those who succumbed, died within a few hours.

I guess the moral of the story is: never eat camel meat that was gotten from the trunk of a guy's car!

P. S. I think the same moral should also include shrimp.

POBRECITO !

POBRECITO (POE-BRAY-CEE-TOE) is the Spanish word for; poor little boy. Its literal meaning is obvious but figuratively it can also be used to either forthrightly or sarcastically to describe a male of any age who is down on his luck.

Ever since Friday December 14th, I have forthrightly been calling my son Andrew pobrecito because he had braces put on his teeth.

Personally, I didn't think his already perfect smile needed to be further enhanced but alas, even I must occasionally answer, and concede to higher levels of wisdom and authority.

In addition to the constant discomfort and/or pain of foreign objects in your mouth, the new "wearer" of braces is inundated with new do's and don'ts of orthodontic care. Therefore in a combination of earnest doctorly advice and propaganda, the impatient patient is told to brush not three times a day, not four times but FIVE times.

Here we are on day-four and my pobrecito is still experiencing the challenge of eating. Another obstacle for him is flossing. It's a difficult technique to master because the braces are in the way.

Additionally, to diminish the effects of uncomfortable edges, the braces wearer is supplied with a waxy substance...which in this case might actually be wax...which can be balled-up and applied directly to a rough spot to reduce the discomfort. Unfortunately, he has had an extremely hard time administering it. Although his mother and I are willing to go in there and do it for him--the logistics of the situation mandates that Andrew does this for himself.

The braces are expected to be "in" from six to nine months. The silver lining to Andrew's gray cloud is that its estimated that most patients get used to the reformation of their mouth and the new maintenance routine in two weeks.

Hopefully, Andrew's adjustment period will be short and that all my updates will be positive.

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Of course what good would pobrecito be if it was only used forthrightly. I think it's infinitely more fun when used sarcastically and I know the best target, moi, (That's French for "me," you silly goose).

In order to call myself pobrecito, I'll start with a joke...These two casino supervisors are walking down the street when one says, "Look, a dead bird." And the other one looks up into the sky and says," Where?"

Why do we make fun casino supervisors and other higher life forms? Psychological experts claim that making fun of other people reveals a flaw...an insecurity...in us. By fulfilling a need to put someone or some group down, we feel artificially better about ourselves.

If this is true, and I'm not proud of it, I must be extremely insecure. As many of you know, I have had feud with my hillbilly next door neighbor for ten years...

But today, I am not here to vent over THAT next door neighbor...because as most of us know, next door neighbors usually travel in pairs. Today, I am after my other next door neighbor and the group I am about to insult are...renters. If any of my readers who are renters are getting squeamish and appreciate political correctness, you are excused from reading the rest of this column.

First, if I was renting a house on a street like mine, I honestly don't know how much (if any) effort I would put in to routine front yard maintenance. So that is NOT the issue here. The issue is, his landlord brings a service in to mow the lawn four times each summer...if that's an exaggeration, I'll up the total to five times but NO higher!

Then twice, maybe three other times during the rest of the year, this same service comes by and cleans up the property...more specifically rakes up the leaves.

This has been an odd year because we had a prolonged Indian summer. In most Autumns, the falling leaves would be gradual and proportionally cleaned up, this year they remained on the trees longer and we are now all drowning in them.

Each year here in Galloway, the city works department advertises monthly leave pick-up dates. Residents pile up their leaves on the street and a truck with a gigantic vacuum, comes by and sucks them up. While waiting for the big day, extraordinary amounts of leaves pile up everywhere.  Many of us, just to see the street tidier, count-down the days as if the vacuum truck's appearance was a holiday.

Well, last month the day before the big event, my renter "friend" has a behemoth pile of leaves just like the rest of us. And for no other reason than mere sport, this numb-nuts plows through his pile in his Mercedes SUV sending a gazillion leaves flying everywhere.

I call myself pobrecito because there's no way I'm going to approach this moron over the difference between his minutia and my eternal search for humanity and common sense. But the next day, our hero really out did himself by parking on top of his still massive leaf pile so that the vacuum truck had no choice but to pass it by...thus leaving the leaves for another month. 

I will now close with a caustic "renter" joke:

So this renter was swimming the English Channel from France to England. And half way across he got tired and swam back to France.

COBBY LIVES ! EVEL KNIEVEL DIES !

Even if you never read my book, I am pleased to announce that Cobby lives.

English-born Webster "Cobby" Wolfe is a handicapped casino hustler in my novel, "IF IT AIN'T NAILED DOWN." Due to the nature of his physical deformity, his role in the casino heist is limited to being a look-out. However, the Cobby character is based on a real person.

Unhealthy looking, scruffy and filthy, this man that I will continue to call Cobby was an apparent victim of the drug thalidomide. Thalidomide was prescribed to pregnant women in Europe from 1956-1962 to reduce the affect of morning sickness. Unfortunately, it wasn't tested properly and approximately 10,000 children were born with severe birth defect...mainly undeveloped limbs. In Cobby's case, he has two baby hands that look like flippers growing from his shoulders.

In developing his character, I couldn't help but realize what kind of nightmare it must be to be in his predicament. Added to his troubles, Cobby was a lone wolf, (thus his last name). It seemed obvious to me that without a lot of help, it would be hard for him to survive. So when I hadn't seen the real Cobby for quite some time, I assumed he was dead.

Well, last week after about five years of not seeing him pan-handling in the casino, Cobby crossed in front of my car on Pacific Avenue. I was both happy and relieved to see him. Plus, I was glad that I treated him sympathetically in my book.

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On the other hand, I expected Evel Knievel to live to a hundred and eleven...but he didn't. Robert Craig Knievel died last week at the age of 69.

I never gravitated to his motorcycle feats of daring-do. But throughout his celebrity run, I knew who he was and what he did. He made a nice buck and certainly had an enormous following. So I don't mean to diminish him or his accomplishments, BUT !

After his death I watched a montage of his career highlights and low lights. Mixed in was a commentary that chronicled his gazillion broken bones and the lifetime of pain he endured.

Seeing it only solidified my indifference in him. I'm sorry, I don't get it. When I saw him successfully fly over a row of buses... it looked so easy that I couldn't get excited for the risk he was taking. Then when he crashed--all I could think was: SCHMUCK !

Yes I do realize that he is the father of today's XTREME sports...which I do appreciate...and still, I can't get past the word schmuck.

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In keeping with the death theme; the rabbit has died, or should I say the urban legend surrounding the rabbit has died.

"DICKIE ROBERTS" was another crumby David Spade movie from 2003. In it, there was a sequence where the hated next door neighbor's pure white rabbit was killed by his family dog. To  liability, he bought an identical rabbit and secretly returned it to its pen.

When the neighbors got home, they were aghast to find out that their dead and buried rabbit had risen from the grave. Further, their only explanation for it was; Satan's folly. Therefore with the devil at their doorstep, they moved away.

About ten years ago, this story, almost word for word, was told to me in first-hand by a friend. When I told her about Dickie Roberts, she told me that it DIDN'T happen to her...that she had heard about it from someone else. Nevertheless, another urban legend can be permanently buried.

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Lastly, and most importantly, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," lives! It lives so well that on December 9th, I celebrated my web-page's first anniversary. I couldn't have done it without your readership, constructive criticism and support. Thank you all so much and my goal for 2008 will be to entertain you with even higher levels of glibness, BUT... with only half the calories.

BLIND STABS in the DARK

On sports radio, one of the commentators has a segment called, "BLIND STABS IN THE DARK." It is at that time that he reveals his pro football picks of the week. Apparently, he is so bad at predicting the outcomes, he gave the segment its apt name.

Personally, I couldn't give a rat's behind about any body's opinion on sports betting but what drew my interest was, the theme music.

A rush of warm nostalgic goodness flooded my body when I heard it but I couldn't identify the tune. When one of your nicknames is "Instant Recall Edelblum" it becomes a mission to remember it or at worst, find out.

Luckily the commentator did identify the "Blind Stabs in the Dark" song as, the theme from the 1964-1965 cartoon "THE FAMOUS ADVENTURES OF MR. MAGOO."

First and most importantly, down through the years, I have done computer searches for old cartoons that my son Andrew was never exposed to. So it was surprising to me that Magoo was never included and that to this day, Andrew has still never seen it.

Mr. "Quincy" Magoo originated from UPA Animation Studios in 1949 with Jim Backus (Thurston Howell III, from GILLIGAN'S ISLAND as the voice). In case you are very young or have lived in a cave for the last sixty years, the gimmick with this character was...whether it was forgetfulness or vanity...Magoo was a kind and wealthy old man needed to wear his glasses...but never did.

The original cartoons were shown in theaters. In them, Magoo was depicted in literary classics like "ROBIN HOOD," "DON QUIXOTE' or "GUNGA DIN." I don't remember seeing any of those, however I enjoyed him in the TV special from 1962, as Scrooge, in "Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol."

There was such a demand for more Magoo that they made the Saturday morning cartoon series that I already mentioned...which I loved. Unfortunately, the producers were forced to work quickly and on a skinny budget. Therefore the series lacked the quality of the previous work and didn't make it past two seasons.

I am guessing that Magoo has never made it on CARTOON NETWORK, NICKELODEON or the TV LAND CHANNEL because in these politically correct times...perhaps the sight impaired majority of us might, somehow find Magoo's nearsighted frolics as offensive. He also had an Chinese houseboy (Charley) who projected every Asian stereotype known to man. It sparked enough of a controversy that Cholley (as he called himself) was dropped in Mr. Magloo's second season.

For you trivia nuts, Magoo was a graduate of Rutgers. he frequently wore a full-length beaver coat to the football games, although he never actually made it there. He had two scheming nephews named Waldo and Prezley and a cat named Bowser...who he thought it was dog.

If you like, go to Wikipedia for more blind stabs in the dark about Magoo.

And let's not forget his famous closing words, "Oh Magoo, you've done it again !