KING FLEA: MICK SAVITZ

This blog is based upon excerpts from my short story, "STANDING DEAD."

CHARLIEOPERA, my successful crime novel author friend, once confided in me that he liked eavesdropping on craps dealer conversations. I thought this was odd for such an interesting man to be thrilled by what is overwhelmingly tripe.

Actually, I was disappointed in him because those chats are usually banal blitherings that include: gossip, grousing about the job and comparing medical procedures  Even if he got lucky and heard what he were talking about yesterday...jokes about the health risks associated with casinos and the need to work in full body condoms and bullet-proof vests, I doubt Charlie would have been thrilled.. Even worse, when you consider the bigger picture, I'd guess that these are the same mundane topics that anyone who deals with the public might discuss...sorry Charlie.

Luckily for him, I do recall one gem in the rough. Therefore, this column is dedicated to Charlie because one of my 1980 craps game conversations, when molded properly and shined-up, does make interesting reading.

I had fourteen months craps dealing experience in Las Vegas dives when I got hired at the Stardust Casino. Vegas casinos are divided into two status groups: downtown and the strip. If we overlook the rare exceptions, the simplest way to put it is, downtown is the minor leagues and the strip is the majors. That is why it was quite an accomplishment for me, at twenty-four, to reach such a lofty position...without any connections. ON THE FABULOUS LAS VEGAS STRIP, THE STARDUST WAS OPEN FROM 1958-2006. I WAS SO YOUNG AND DUMB BACK THEN, (MARCH 1980 THROUGH JANUARY 1982), THAT BY MY SECOND DAY OFF, I COULDN'T WAIT TO GET BACK TO WORK.

Within ten days at the Stardust, I was put onto a regular crew. My joy was skewed because my three cohorts ostracized me. Until a newbies proves his worth, an unwritten code requires that they are given the cold-shoulder.

Established big-time dealers recognize that they have a good thing and are over-protective of preserving their job security. The irony is, what makes the job so good is that the Stardust craps dealers went, "table-for-table." That meant that instead of pooling their tokes, (tips), with every dealer in the club, they divided their daily proceeds among the four member crew. It sounds ideal but the bugaboo is, craps players are notorious for getting so involved in their own conquests that the service of the dealer is often overlooked. So, a player's generosity, usually must be prodded.

Table-for-table dealers who want to eat, provide subtle reminders to encourage players to tip. Less polished dealers lack finesse and openly ask, beg or make demands. Either way you look at it, each method is considered hustling. The Stardust (and all table-for-table casinos) have a zero tolerance policy towards hustling so the first offense usually leads to termination. These policies are supposedly upheld by the primary and secondary supervisors, (boxmen and floormen). One of their largest responsibilities is to prevent these solicitations. However, nearly all these men are, "on the take," and accept bribes called lay-offs, to look the other way or actively join in the hustling. HONOR AMONG THIEVES. GOING TABLE-FOR-TABLE IS A CONTINUOUS, HUSTLING FOR TIPS JENGA, SURVIVAL GAME. THEREFORE A CREW, ACTING IN CONCERT WITH THE SUPERVISORS, RISK THEIR LIVELIHOOD BY TIP-TOEING AROUND THE BOOBY-TRAP OF BAD TIMING, POOR CHOICE OF WORDS, ILL-ADVISED GESTURES OR ANY COMBINATION OF THE THREE.

Veteran dealers don't care how well a new face (like me), technically deals the game. Their first concern is, is the newcomer a management stooge? (A planted spy who gathers derogatory inside information for the sole purpose of legitimizing firings). More importantly, the vets want the rookie to prove his toke earning mettle and see an unconditional allegiance to the crew.

On my third day, we were standing dead. That means our table was open for business with no players. During this down time, I hoped to win my crew over but one dealer and the boxman were immersed in their Tuesday afternoon darts league strategies. And the other dealer was explaining to the floorman what made some blond cocktail waitress a whore.

I hated being excluded. But everything changed when Gabe, our third and last dealer, came back from his break. They nicknamed him Dracula because of his ghoulish appearance. He was bone skinny, had thinning, jet black hair, sullen deep-set, blackened eyes and an ashen complexion. Plus, he had a thick, blue vein that ran straight up from his right eyebrow to the arc of his receding hairline.

Dracula, a petty scam artist, flicked the cellophane from an after dinner mint onto the floor, tapped into the game and whined, "I just had a 'cold' hot roast beef sandwich. But it's okay because I discovered that I been wasting money by over-tipping Gregory, (the employee's waiter). You know I trained him to write me a check for an 18c doughnut, instead of my full dinner, right? (The staff paid half price on selected coffee shop items). Then just now, I looked at the actual check and realized how stupid I was to wait on line, to pay an unnumbered check. Duh, why pay that fruitcake to phony-up my bill? I say, let him write-up the full price...and I'll just pocket the whole friggin' thing and walk out."

The others seemed familiar with his rantings and politely pretended to listen until one of the dealers named Don said, "This'll save you a fortune compared to your last million dollar idea...re-using postage stamps."

Dracula ignored him and changed the subject, "There goes that big piece of shit, Mick Savitz." At first, I was amused that a man who personified walking death would call someone else names. Then I seized my opportunity and spoke up, "What makes him so bad?"

What a great question. Suddenly everyone was enthusiastic about telling me different Mick Savitz anecdotes. The boxman said, "Savitz is the king of fleas. He must be part Gypsy because he'll make wild claims on stray nickels (five dollar chips), and I never saw him bet less than a hundred." Jerry another dealer said, "He's no flea...he's an abomination. I've dealt craps for twenty-five years and he's the worst player I ever dealt to. No, wait, he's the worse person I ever met...period!" The floorman said, "Jerry is right, That low-life used to own a string of used car lots throughout the southwest. He'd hire young girls as secretaries for much more than they were worth....and, he didn't care whether they could even type..." I said, "Heh?" The floorman continued, "The girl would be on twenty-four hour call. You get my drift?" When I didn't answer he added, "The only clerical skill required was taking his dictation."

My eyes were wide open when Jerry added, "In the forties, he bought his way out of a murder rap in the Texas panhandle." To follow each info burst, my head spun like a turret. That's when the floorman said, "Kid! You're not interested in ancient history..." Dracula cut him off, "Yeah, we gotta put up with a lot of his shit a couple a times a week...and the cheapskate NEVER tips!" Jerry said, "That's right, I never saw ole Mick give up ten cents." "Forget that," the floorman interjected, "this is what you need to know now...that buzzard don't pay no vig!"

I would find out that Mick Savitz's bet of choice was laying odds against the four or ten. This wager requires a 5% commission payment on the potential winnings, (this vigorish is also called juice). But Savitz refused to pay.

I said, "That makes no sense..." Jerry interrupted, "That old goat has some hold on management. They are completely scared of him. And you should be too. He spits on dealers, starts fights...and never loses. Plus, the weasel curses old women and bullies anyone who gets in his way. So don't be a jackass and NEVER ask him for vig."

I said, "He's playing now? Which one is he?" Dracula craned his pasty neck to scan the craps pit and said, "Dickhead is playing the 'don't come' on table three and table one." I said, "You can't play on more than one table at a time..." In unison they all chimed in, "Yes HE can!"

When the six-foot-six mountain man came into clear view, I thought of John Wayne as a depraved seventy-year old. If not for a slight bit of paunchiness in Savitz's belly, this senior citizen was a physical specimen. He had defiance in his body language and a mean streak in the scowl on his scarred face. Even from the distance, when he looked my way, his evil eye was so intimidating that I diverted my gaze.

Later, he wandered towards my game. I shuddered at my post...hoping he wouldn't play. Then I thought I would crap my pants when he stopped in front of me and lit up a Chesterfield. The cigarette looked like a toothpick in his huge meat-hook hand as he took a long drag. Then as he strode to the table adjacent mine and intentionally blew the smoke into the face of a passerby.

Savitz took out an enormous wad of cash from his pocket. There were so many bills folded in half that this bank roll was a rounded, money wheel. Dracula saw me staring and whispered, "Those are all hundreds, kiddo. Betcha there's over five grand..." Jerry joked, "Gabe would know, he probably tested it out at home with fifty singles." "Dracula shrugged, "What if I did?"

The next night, a new boxman with a Southern accent came to our shift. Probably a hulk as a younger man, he was an unhealthy looking, sloppy fat, old man who immediately was disrespectful to dealers. One of our old-timer boxmen remembered him from the Shy Clown Casino in Sparks and said, "That prick was a bone-breaker when we opened. He's too old to mess people up now and he's not a table games guy so that means, he's probably a headhunter." THE SHY CLOWN CASINO OPENED IN THE TOWN NEXT TO RENO, IN 1974. ACCORDING TO THIS OLD-TIMER, TO MINIMIZE PAYROLL, THEY HIRED GOONS TO HANDLE PROBLEMATIC PLAYERS.

This curmudgeon made it obvious that he was a hatchet man. He just sat there with no real knowledge of what he was doing and croaked out unnecessary orders. His presence also meant that there would be no hustling especially when he told us, "No jibber-jabber with the players. If you test me, I'll take it all the way to the top...and you and your sorry ass will be out of a job."

A couple of wise-guy dealers from other crews thought he was bluffing...and were unemployed in a flash. This bastard created a hostile work environment and was nicknamed Cool-Breeze because he reminded us of a chain-gang boss.

The Stardust was unique to any casino I worked in because Ernie Trohlmann, the lead floorman (relief pit boss) conducted a five minute rah-rah speech outside the pit as a part of the daily muster call. During this time, the dealers would be reminded how great the joint was and were appraised of the entertainment updates, restaurant schedules, special promotions and any changes in casino policy.

Minutes before one of these meetings, Johnny Balmer the Stardust's senior-most dealer gathered us in secret huddle and suggested, "This horse's ass Cool-Breeze is costing us a ton. We gotta come up with something to jackpot him with. But until we do, I got a long shot plan...that even if it doesn't work, will still ruffle his feathers and Mick Savitz's at the same time."

Jerry from my crew nodded, "Yeah, I get it...don't tell Cool-Breeze that Savitz doesn't pay vig." Balmer said, "Right! Even if we don't get rid of him, it'll be fun to see the fur fly off of those to old farts."

That night, we were standing dead and Dracula said, "See in the paper, they robbed that little bank on Swenson? Those jerk-offs got less than two-hundred bucks. When they get caught, that's a federal rap whether they got two-hundred or two hundred-thousand. I say, why take a chance on winding up with chump change. You take an easy mark like Mick Savitz. He's strolling through here flashing at least five-grand all the time. Instead of risking hard time, just follow the fucker out to his car and jump him?"

Dracula's timing would have impressed even Kreskin. Towards the end of our shift, Savitz showed up. We were all watching him approach while he pulled a giant rubber band off his money wheel. Suddenly, a young Latino darted out from behind a row of slot machines, ran up behind Savitz and punched the old man in the back of the head. Savitz went down and he dropped his bankroll. It took the assailant a few seconds to scoop up the cash before running to the main entrance. Savitz was dazed but got up quickly and gave chase. When the thief pulled at the heavy glass front door, Savitz body slammed him and crushed the kid against it. The mugger's face became a punching bag. Then Savitz grabbed the Latino by the back of his shirt and crashed the victim's face against the door, twice.

From the distance, we could see the blood stained door as Savitz acrimoniously picked up his hundred dollar bills that were strewn all about. Savitz trudged to the craps pit and started playing as if nothing had happened.

Security hand-cuffed the would-be robber and ushered him into the back of the house for "rehabilitation," (which might have included falling down a flight or two of concrete steps, a broken leg or the ultimate deterrent, a one-way trip into the desert).

Savitz's self-defense tactics were fresh in my mind the next day when our crew was saddled with Cool-Breeze. In the back of my mind, I was hoping Dracula would make another prediction and put Savitz and Cool-Breeze together in a cock-fight.

For the first two hours, Cool-Breeze succeeded in making my crew miserable. Then the unlikely hero, Mick Savitz mystically appeared, squeezed next to me on my crowded table and rasped, "Two hundred, no ten!" I noticed Johnny Balmer give me the thumbs up signal. Then I saw everyone from the other nine craps tables sneaking peaks of anticipation my way.

That's when Cool-Breeze said the magic words, "Hey buddy, you owe me the five dollar vig." Savitz ignored him. So Cool-Breeze without consulting me or anyone else, set aside five dollars as a table marker and croaked, "I'll just mark the vig up for you." A table marker, like setting up a bar tab, was an accepted casino courtesy in Vegas.

Savitz got on an amazing winning streak. In a short time, a hundred vig dollars were marked up. Cool-Breeze said, "Hey fella, throw me a hundo so I can take this marker down." Cool-Breeze was getting antsy when he was ignored again.

Savitz never lost and kept raising his bets. Soon the commission on one bet was fifty dollars. Cool-Breeze's temper worsened when he was ignored after the marker ballooned to over two-hundred-fifty dollars. He finally gave in and looked for assistance from the floorman. But the floorman who usually watched from the little podium behind the game, remained glued to his other table behind us.

Savitz then counted out all his chips, peeled off a big bunch of hundred-dollar bills and called out, "Four thousand each, no four and ten!" Cool-Breeze counted out all the money and shouted to the invisible floorman, "Table max, no four and ten." He then said to Savitz, "How about it friend, y'all gonna take care of this three-hundred and sixty-five dollar marker?" Savitz again ignored him.

The game continued even when Cool-Breeze stood up to confront the debtor. The next dice roll produced no decision on the big bets. Savitz then shocked everyone by proving that he wasn't Superman and put on a pair of glasses. When he took out his wallet, Cool-Breeze must have thought he got the point of his threat across and sat down.

I finished paying my other bets and peered over at Savitz.  His far-sighted eyes strained as he stuck his nose into his bill-fold until he plucked a filthy, moth-eaten five-dollar bill out.  Savitz stared Cool-Breeze down and snarled, "Five-dollar any seven for the dealers."

Jerry's jaw dropped from the shock of seeing this historic event, Savitz's first-ever attempt at a gratuity. Simultaneously, the dice were in the air as Cool-Breeze sprang back up from his stool and pushed between me and the table.

Don the stickman called out, "Four easy, field roll four." Savitz lost one of his four thousand dollar bets, (the dealers lost too). When I removed his "no four" from the lay-out, Savitz cursed. At the same time, Cool-Breeze got in his face and screamed, "You payin' thissy here marker or what?" Savitz exploded, "Fuck you!" When Cool-Breeze's liver-spotted hand made a grab for Savitz, Savitz slammed his open palm into Cool-Breeze's flabby chest. The massive push knocked Cool-Breeze reeling backwards. He lost his balance, fell and toppled the podium on his way down.

For a few seconds, the game came to an awkward halt. Savitz shocked us back in action by barking, "Take down my no ten." Behind me, laying on the ground Cool-Breeze was dazed and groaning in pain as I handed off the bet.

Savitz looked down at him.  I was sure he was going to spit on the prick but instead announced, "Now you know why I never bet for the fuckin' dealers." Savitz, as if nothing had happened, stuffed his chips into his pockets and sauntered to the furthest craps table at the other side of the pit.

Three security guards were helping Cool-Breeze to his feet as the casino manager arrived on the scene. In whispers, the big boss comforted the wounded soldier.  He was leading him out of the pit when I heard Cool-Breeze squawk, "I'm getting too old for this shit." The plan actually worked, our pariah was never seen again.

An hour later, Savitz was walking fast and bumped into a young, six-foot-six cowboy. The sleeves of his Western shirt were cut-off to show the dude's python-like arms. Savitz snapped, "Out of my way ass hole." A button flew off Savitz's shirt when the cowboy grabbed him and laughed, "Who you calling an ass hole...ass hole?" On that miraculous day, Savitz squeaked, "Sorry," and slunk away.

Down through the years, I have told that story on many dead games. But I've never been satisfied with the whole "STANDING DEAD," short story. That is why none of you have ever read it. Maybe this blog will motivate me to clean it up and finally release it. I know Charlieopera would like it and you will too.

MIRACLE AT MANHATTAN BEACH

The names of the principals have been changed. Forty-plus years after the fact, I have so little firm information that out of respect for these wonderful people, I don't want any exaggeration, for the sake of entertainment, to be even slightly embarrassing to them or their family.

A recent conversation with a coworker (BB), revealed a surprise. This articulate former New Yorker and graduate of NYU, never saw a Broadway musical until he was fifty-five years old. He was equally surprised when I said, "I not only enjoy the theater but I also like show tunes." Show tunes. Yeah, I like show tunes and I'm proud of it. So much so that each Sunday on my drive into work, I look forward to a twenty minute dose on our local, South Jersey classical music radio station WWFM, (93.9FM). Hosts, Michael Kownacky and Ted Otten, call their show, "THE DRESS CIRCLE." The program features; best of Broadway recordings, historical facts and humorous banter. KOWNACKY (left) AND OTTEN (right). MGTP READER WTW, TURNED ME ON TO, "THE DRESS CIRCLE." RECENTLY, I RECOMMENDED THE SHOW TO BB. I WONDER IF HE CHECKED IT OUT...AND LIKED IT?

This past Sunday Kownacky and Otten played, "JOHNNY ONE NOTE." That song was from a 1937 Rodgers and Hart musical called, "BABES IN ARMS." I was familiar with the enjoyable tune and remember humming it as a kid. But I never knew the lyrics and it was hearing those words last week that sparked a chain reaction of long forgotten facts.

I WANTED TO POST THE 1937 YOUTUBE RECORDING OF THE SONG HERE BUT MY BLOG'S PROGRAM WOULDN'T ACCEPT THE LINK. IF YOU GO TO YOUTUBE, YOU'LL SEE SEVERAL VERSIONS OF THE PIECE INCLUDING PERFORMANCES BY SHIRLEY BASSEY AND BARBARA STREISAND.

In the mid-60's my dad had a juvenile furniture store in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn. Together with an uncle, my mom on weekends and two teenage part-timers, they sold cribs, baby carriages, toys etc. One of those part-timers was an up-and-coming boxer named Charley. My father liked Charley and related well to him because they were both musicians. They shared a passion for jazz and during down time, dad gave him saxophone lessons. On several occasions, until Charley enlisted in the army, dad included him in after work activities like meals and visits to the Turkish Bath houses in Coney Island. He in turn got my dad and uncle free tickets when he boxed in the Golden Gloves, (one year he was the heavyweight champion).

When I started working at dad's store, (eight years old), I was poorly whistling some song. My father looked at Charley and said, "Hey, it's Johnny One Note." They had a laugh at my expense. Then for almost fifty years, I never heard that Johnny One Note phrase again until the title of the song was mentioned on, "The Dress Circle." So last Sunday as I put the tune, the lyric and the long lost circumstances together, a flash-flood of other memories sprang up.

The rush started when I remembered the exact moment I last thought of Charley. It was three years ago while visiting my mom. That day, we needed to take a short excursion to Valley Stream. I had encountered awful traffic I on the Belt Parkway on my way in, so I thought it best to, "take the streets." This less than scenic route took us through the East New York section of Brooklyn. My mom felt nostalgic and suggested that as long as we were going so far out of the way that we swing by the house that my dad grew up in, on Van Sicklen Avenue. MY GRANDMOTHER LIVED IN THAT HOUSE UNTIL I WAS TWELVE. ON THE CORNER, THERE WAS AN "EL" TRAIN STATION. WHEN I WAS SIX, SHE BEGAN A CAMPAIGN OF IN DEPTH LECTURES ABOUT THE DANGERS OF CLIMBING THE ROOF OF THE EL'S STAIRWAY, TO BEAT THE 15c FARE. SHE WOULD NAME NAMES OF NEIGHBORHOOD KIDS WHO FELL OFF. TO EMPHASIZE THE SEVERITY OF THE RISK, GRANNY ALWAYS MANAGED TO SQUEEZE IN A KID NAMED PADDY, WHO LUCKILY SURVIVED HIS FALL BUT WAS HIT AND KILLED BY A *BUZZ. *(MY GRANDMOTHER HAD NO ACCENT AND SPOKE PERFECT ENGLISH BUT FOR SOME ODD REASON, THE WORD BUS ALWAYS CAME OUT BUZZ).

From dad's old house, mom and I traveled along Linden Boulevard, parallel to the Belt Parkway. Just before crossing out of Brooklyn into Queens, we passed Eldert Lane. Then in one mass impulse of recollection, each of the four buildings on those corners congered up some of my most obscure memories from 1965-1967.

On the right before Eldert Lane, there was an old high-rise apartment house within a huge, decaying complex. I remembered as an adolescent that an elderly, distant relative lived there. I was with my folks once when we took her home from a wedding. I guess using wheelchairs for people who could barely walk wasn't yet in vogue. Because, I recall dad helping her inch along until she got home.

On the next block, on the same side of the street was a department store called the, "TIMES SQUARE STORE, (TSS)." AN OFF-CHUTE OF SEEDMAN'S, TSS WAS A POPULAR DISCOUNT STORE IN NEW YORK CITY, LONG ISLAND AND PUERTO RICO. IN 1961, THE FIRST OF 18 TSS LOCATIONS OPENED IN LEVITTOWN. THE ENTIRE ENTITY BECAME DEFUNCT IN 1989.

When I was ten, my folks brought me to TSS to shop. I went to the restroom and a man with wavy, dull, red hair, black horned-rimmed glasses and an unzipped yellow windbreaker asked me, "Who are you with?" I said, "My dad is right outside." When he scurried away, I knew something was wrong. I was spooked but I never told my dad because he always said, "Don't talk to strangers." Later in life when I was less naive, I realized that I had side-stepped a terrible fate. This event left such a profound negative impression on me that I'm positive, even now, I could pick this weirdo and probable molester out of photo array.

Across the street, facing TSS, was Interboro Hospital. My father had an operation there that saved his pinkie toe from amputation. While he was recovering, my sister and I were relegated to waving to him from the parking lot because at a time when anyone, even doctors smoked anywhere they wanted in hospitals, pre-teens weren't permitted inside, to visit their ailing father.

On the fourth corner, diagonally across from TSS, there was a single apartment house. My dad's former worker Charley was an charter tenant in 1967, when he returned from serving in Vietnam.
I went there with my uncle to deliver beds for Charley. He came to the door wearing a dashiki. Inside, a scratchy Charlie "Bird" Parker record was playing as I noticed the walls were adorned with African art. He impressed my uncle by saying he was working for Emerson (a radio company) and was using his G.I. benefits to go to an electronics college. Charley was so cool, he even offered my uncle and me a Rheingold beer, (my uncle drank his and took mine home for later).

We were on our way out when Charley asked me, "Are you teaching Floyd the ropes?" Charley was referring to his younger brother who took his place at dad's store. I idolized Floyd. He was closer in age to me and more easy-going than his brother. A giant, Floyd was 6 foot 3 and a Golden Gloves champion too.
Floyd went on to become a professional boxer and was a contemporary of George Foreman. Foreman remained an amateur in order to participate in the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City. Floyd, due to economic hardship, turned pro on November 10, 1967, after being that year's champion of the Pan-American Games. Immediately, Floyd seemed destined for super-stardom. SPORT MAGAZINE even ran a lengthy article about him in which he indirectly thanked my dad.

In this period, Floyd gave me two pairs of his old boxing gloves which I always cherished. Much more importantly, he saved me twice. Once I was accosted on the street near my father's store and he came out of nowhere to scare-off the two street-toughs. The other time was a chance meeting at Manhattan Beach.

A month before that meeting, towards the end of ninth grade, a fat, former run-away with a scary, scarred eye named Dean Cheatam, called the beauty of a girl at school to my attention. (Cheatam was the shamed, last player when the heavily favored Juvie class lost to the Nerd class in the sixth grade dodge ball tournament). See my February 28, 2011 blog, "DODGE BALL, A METAPHOR FOR THIS CRAZY LIFE."

This delicate flower would be the first girl I ever asked out...and she accepted. That summer we got together at her house five times. Her obese dad was intimidating because when she and I hung out in the yard, he'd stare me down, out the back window.

Her good-looking mom was more liberal. On one occasion, she let me take her precious cargo on three buses to Manhattan Beach. These were times before wearing cover-ups was popular. So my date, wearing only a tiny bikini was continuously ogled the whole trip.

It was great to finally be one-on-one with her at the beach. I was on cloud-nine until we went to the concession stand for lunch. After she downed a second hot-dog, she wanted another bag of fries for the walk back to the blanket. Then every few minutes, she asked me to go back and get her pop corn or a soda or candy.

At first, rather than disappoint her tapeworm, I was a dutiful errand boy. Then it turned into a tolerable annoyance. Towards the end, the gold-digger had put my skimpy bankroll into severe jeopardy. If I followed through with my latest food delivery, it would "eat" into my untouchable car fare home.
In a quandary, I stood outside the concession stand and alternated between staring at the price of Italian ices and at my last meager handful of coins. I didn't realize it at the time but this was the miracle year of 1969. That summer, astronauts would land on the moon, Woodstock would become synonymous with peace and the lowly Mets would win the World Series. Hell, even the true events of the movie, "AWAKENINGS," happened that year.

I needed divine intervention, quick. Then as if by wizardry, a powerful hand slapped my shoulder from behind. It was Floyd. It's one thing to know a celebrity but it's far more cool when they know you...and lend you five bucks.

I'll never forget my gush of pride when I saw the look on Floyd's face when I introduced my hottie to him. Before we left, that pride was washed away when I was left nearly empty-handed all over again by a soft pretzel, some chips, another soda and a visit to the souvenir stand.

Back home, I realized what it felt like to be broke AND in debt. When I considered how much of an allowance I got, I had no choice but to cut my expensive Venus loose.

Unfortunately, Floyd did not achieve the greatness of George Foreman. His lightning bolt to success only lasted a little longer than my first relationship, (a mere twelve fights). During his first loss, Floyd's knee locked-up during a bout with Chuck "The Bayonne Bleeder" Wepner... and was butchered. He continued to box and kept winning but his mobility was minimized. Whether his recovery was hindered by a physical or mental problem, we'll never know. The bottom line was, he never regained his true form. On October 31, 1969, he lost for the second time and never fought again. Far worse, my family never saw or heard from Floyd again.

To research this column, I googled Floyd's name and found nothing personal...only individual fight information and statistics.

The last time I saw the girl was when I was driving a cab to pay for dealer school in 1978. On a lark, I went out of my way to go past her house. I never expected to see her but she was indeed out front walking a tiny foo-foo dog. She was more stunning than ever in a bare midriff blouse, hot pants and stiletto heels. I was embarrassed to have her see me driving a taxi. To duck her, I looked the other way. To further my innocence, I began whistling, poorly. I now wonder if the tune I chose was, "Johnny One Note?"

PAYIN' THE COST OF BEING YOUR OWN BOSS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BETTER DEAD THAN IN THE RED...THE JOY OF CAPITALISM

This blog centers on two New York horse racing tracks, Aqueduct in Ozone Park, Queens and Roosevelt in Long Island's Nassau County. Oddly, despite the race track settings, this column does not concern itself with gambling...in the traditional sense.NICKNAMED THE BIG A, AQUEDUCT IS A FLAT, THOROUGHBRED HORSE RACING VENUE THAT OPENED IN 1894. NOW, IT'S CLOSE TO BEING SHUT-DOWN AND CONVERTED INTO A RACINO. I HAVE NEVER SET FOOT INSIDE BUT I HAVE SPENT AN ETERNITY IN ITS PARKING LOT.

In the 1970's, way before personal computers and EBAY, flea marketing was at the height of its popularity. Aqueduct and Roosevelt Raceway used their huge parking lots to house these grand bazaars, making them leaders in New York's flea market industry. While attending Brooklyn College, I became friends with MBF, who on Sundays, sold ferns at Aqueduct.

In college, I lived at home and worked just hard enough to avoid sponging off my folks. But MBF was a go-getter who was already engaged. To entertain his girl in the manner in which she was accustomed, while also building a nest-egg, he worked two other jobs; nights at a tuxedo rental store and regularly for his dad.

On several occasions, I hung out for a few hours and had plenty of laughs at MBF's flea market booth. Then to rationalize being there so often, it seemed natural for me to become a seller too. I found someone in Canarsie who consigned digital watches. I made nearly no money but at least I had no overhead because MBF let me squeeze into a corner of his spot, gratis.

Digital watches were hot items but mine were chintzy, (my big ticket item retailed for only eleven bucks). Plus, all my merchandise featured blank, black faces. To activate the simplest thing like the time, you needed to be a contortionist or ask for help, to push all three buttons at once. These babies were ridiculously inferior because direct sunlight made them go haywire. There was no greater buzz-killer on a bright morning than being on the verge of closing a sale and the watch reading; forty-eight o'clock!

In the spring of 1975, MBF offered to take me into his "fern world" as a partner. That was the week before Aqueduct's flea market management team announced a three-dollar space rental increase. The woman across from us peddled hand-made centerpieces and other crafts. When she was handed the rent increase notice, she became irate. She blabbed her dissatisfaction to the other neighbors and then bombarded us. When she calmed down she said, "We've been getting stepped on for a long time. So at six o'clock tonight, there's going to be a secret meeting at Ryan's Bar on Rockaway Boulevard. We're going to organize a vendor association. Those money grubbers want to slash our throats. Now they want three dollars more, then five next month and ten more next year. We're at their mercy...what's next our blood, our first born..."

MBF interrupted, "The flier said this is the first increase in four years." She said, "Who's side are you on?" When he didn't speak she added. "There's gonna be a major rebellion. You better pick who's side your on, pronto. 'Cause, we'd rather tear this whole f***ing place down than give into extortion." I said, "Lady, it's only three..." "Kid, what are you crazy? Have you no principles? You're screwing around here just trying to pick up a little mad money...for us adults, this is our bread and butter. Hell, if we destroy this place and wind-up with nothing---even if we go to jail! It'll be worth it to see the muckity mucks get theirs." She raged away and greeted the next vendor by ranting, "Aqueduct flea marketers of the world unite!" We followed her progress and had a good laugh at her expense as most of the other vendors shooed her away.

The next day, I returned all the watches. Then to adjust to the rent increase, MBF and I decided to diversify. We added a wider range of house plants as well as women's tops and sweaters. Primarily we "shopped" on the Lower East Side of Manhattan at clothes factories and wholesalers. Together we had a blast running all over New York City as if we were wealthy businessmen. Within a short time, we thumbed our entrepreneurial noses at that Karl Marx-like centerpiece lady and proved the joy of capitalism by spiking our average profit to over $70.00 a week...each.

KARL MARX (1818-1883), WANTED TO TEAR DOWN THE UPPER AND MIDDLE CLASS WHEN HE DEVELOPED THE SOCIO-POLITICAL THEORY OF MARXISM.

Late one Sunday after I packed up, the fellow from the adjacent booth, (Mr. Soxx), took me aside. He warned me about the dark side of flea marketing. He said selling at Aqueduct (an outdoor flea market) was a gamble. He said, "You never want to risk your livelihood on the uncertainty of the weather." I still had all my money tied up in our little venture and this guy was scaring the crap out of me. I wanted to give up immediately but later MBF assured me that Mr. Soxx was a jerk, who, "for the good of everyone," wanted to horn in on half our territory for free or take over our spot if we quit. MBF added, "Don't listen to him. He'll pee on your foot and tell you it's raining. If he senses weakness, he'll keep badgering you with bullshit. I think his favorite slogan is; a lie told often enough becomes the truth."

VLADIMIR LENIN (1870-1924), ESTABLISHED THE FIRST SOCIALIST STATE AND CREATED THE SOVIET COMMUNIST PARTY. LIKE LENIN, MR. SOXX THOUGHT ALL FLEA MARKET VENDORS WERE EQUAL...BUT SOME...LIKE HIM...WERE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS.

Mr. Soxx's most salient point was that when Christmastime comes, the weather can save a bad year or ruin a great one. That's when he put the bug in my ear to try the flea market at Roosevelt Raceway. Mr. Soxx emphasized that Roosevelt's flea market was both indoor and outdoor. And the only way to qualify for a cushy indoor booth was to go on a waiting list of outdoor vendors.

One night in October, I got a call from MBF. He told me to borrow my dad's Volare station wagon and meet him at his tuxedo job. When I got there, he and the owner led me upstairs. For as far as the eye could see there were racks of plastic covered tuxedo jackets. In the furthest corner, next to the emergency exit was a claustrophobic, 4x8 walk-in closet. In it, shirt boxes were piled on shelves to the ceiling...with tons more littering the floor. My partner said, "My boss wants to free-up this space and get rid of these out-of-style tuxedo shirts." The boss interjected, "These are the top-of-line. Look at the designer names, Givenchy, Lion of Troy, After Six, Johnny Carson, Pierre Cardon..."

I opened a random box with a $22.99 price tag. The shirt was a frilly, fluorescent lime green. "Whoa," I said, "I need friggin' sunglasses! This is the ugliest thing I ever saw." I was thinking; I can see why nobody ever bought this shit, but said, "Who'd want it?" The boss got defensive, "Hey that's a Lion of Troy. Yeah it's kinda loud but they aren't all like that." He started opening other boxes and said, "See, most of them completely conservative." I said, "Okay, out of curiosity...how much?" The boss said, "Three bills takes them all." I said, "Three hundred?" MBF snapped, "There's four-hundred forty-four of them. I did the math, they'll be less than seventy cents each." I didn't see the upside and repeated, "Who's gonna buy even one?" There was no answer until the boss said, "Musicians. I bet you get four or five dollars a pop." I said, "At five each, we wouldn't see a dime until we sold sixty..."MBF said, "Mr. Belding, how about giving us a break?" The owner said, "Two-fifty." I said, "We'd be crazy to pay one-fifty!" The boss said, "Then don't buy 'em. I got a Chinese guy in Dyker Heights willing to pay two and quarter." MBF said, "Wow, two and cue." I said, "I don't know." The three of us were locked in a temporary stalemate until the boss spat, "Don't be petty. I'm tryin' to help you and this is a fantastic opportunity. But I'll tell you what. Pay two and quarter cash, take them right now and I'll sweeten the pot and throw in fifty bow-ties."

A few days later at Aqueduct, we put the shirts out for five dollars. I was pleasantly surprised that they created such a buzz. In addition to selling twenty of them, a couple of people asked for our phone number. We were so fired up that the following week, we raised the price to seven and the frenzy continued.

We still hadn't sold a single bow-tie. Even at fifty-cents, they were hideous. Most were maroon, crushed velvet and the rest were black with a putrid floral pattern. That's when we got the idea to sell the shirts for nine and throw in a free bow-tie if someone bought more than one.

Christmas was a month away and in an effort to maximize profits, we split up. MBF stayed at Aqueduct and I took an outdoor spot at Roosevelt, (I found out that there was a three-year wait for an indoor spot, thanks for your candor Mr. Soxx). The work was a lot less fun alone but our two-headed monster idea worked like a charm. By mid-December, we had less than a hundred tuxedo shirts. We were only left with the worst dregs and quadruple-X sizes. Still, at a slower pace, mostly musicians kept buying them up.

My alarm went off at 6:15AM, on the Sunday before Christmas. I could hear the wind howling and to my chagrin, when I peeked under my window shade, a steady hale was pelting the street. Reluctantly, I met the most important day of the business year head on. On my way to Long Island, I hoped the weather would break but it was more miserable out there.

The section of the Roosevelt parking lot where the outdoor flea market was supposed to be...was an empty, slushy, white glaze, reminiscent of mother Russia's frozen tundra. I had no choice so I placed my faith in divine intervention. I waited an hour in my car for the storm to clear but it didn't. The only activity I saw was tons of empty handed people going inside and tons coming out with their hands full of purchases. I decided to go in.

Inside it was comfortable, dry and crowded. Christmas music was pumped in and the bustling buyers were all smiles or looked as if they were on a positive mission. I kept scouting and found out that every booth was occupied. One vendor at the far wall expanded his booth along the blank space that led outside to the seller's parking area. When I retraced my steps, I discovered on the opposite end, an older woman selling leather goods didn't make use of the similar extra space along her wall. That's when I got my epiphany...after all, at the point of desperation, it took more courage to retreat into nothingness than step forward and give success a try.

I offered the handbag queen ten dollars to borrow her parking pass that would allow me to bring my car right outside the door. She was suspicious and wanted to know why. I said, "So I can set up my stuff along the wall and salvage Christmas." She said, "Make it twenty-five and you got a deal. But if there's a problem, I don't know you." I said, "Okay." She said, "Where's my twenty-five."

This would become one of the highlights of my entire life! Immediately, I was going great guns. Last minute holiday shoppers are the best...they buy ANYTHING! In less than two hours, I sold nearly all my houseplants and had double my usual all-day sales. But everything came to a screeching halt when I got approached by a security guard. He said, "You can't block the exit, it's a fire hazard." I said, "Okay." I ignored him and kept selling. Twenty minutes later he came back and told me to squeeze back into my legal booth. That's when the handbag lady told him, "He ain't with me. He tried to keep me quiet with a ten dollar bribe but I said no. He weaseled his way in anyway. I told him three times he can't stay there but he wouldn't listen. You should lock him up."

The guard said, "Buddy, you gotta go." I said, "It's Christmas. C'mon, give me another half hour." He said, "I'm gonna do my rounds one more time. When I come back, I'm bringing my supervisor. If you don't want trouble, don't be here." I wanted to spit on the handbag lady when the old crone called out, "If you're gonna hang him, I'll sell you the belt."

JOSEF STALIN (1878-1953), WAS A SELF-SERVING RUSSIAN PRIME MINISTER/DICTATOR. DURING THE TYRANT'S REGIME, HE BASTARDIZED THE MARXIST MANIFESTO TO SUCH AN EXTENT THAT HE EXECUTED THOUSANDS OF RIVALS AND STARVED COUNTLESS PEASANTS IN ORDER TO LINE HIS OWN POCKETS.

That night I called MBF. He told me that because of the weather, he slept in. He was flabbergasted when I told him what I accomplished. He said I should keep ALL the profit. I said no. We started arguing and our partnership came to an abrupt halt. I guess you can say; sometimes the good we do...doesn't do us any good.

I was an usher at his wedding that June. Once he was married, it seemed natural for us to drift apart. Six months later I moved to Las Vegas. Today, thirty-two years later only through the cyberspace miracle of personal computers and Facebook has our long-distance friendship been re-ignited.

GET BENGT !

No matter where you are, what you're doing or what you see...you're still missing something else.

I never got sick, lost, hurt or robbed during my 1976 cross-country trip. That isn't to say I didn't make any mistakes. When you're backpacking, you meet tons of travelers doing the same thing you are. So it's common to compare experiences. When you compare places you both have visited it's almost impossible to NOT find out you missed out on something. For instance, I remember telling someone how I liked walking over a bridge into Juarez Mexico when I got to El Paso Texas. They felt short changed because they went the other way to the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico...which made me jealous.

This phenomena happened to me just after the halfway point of my trip, Vancouver British Columbia. I had fallen in love with this great contemporary city on Canada's Pacific coast and even fantasized about relocating there. But I needed to begin working my way back to New York and get ready for my senior year at Brooklyn College.

I hitchhiked east along the Trans Canadian Highway (Highway 1), into the Canadian Rockies. I got a decent ride and was dropped off outside the town of Kamloops B. C. I was waiting for my next hitch in front of a filling station when another backpacker was dropped off. This blond, bearded fellow was going my way. He observed the proper hitchhiker protocol by positioning himself well behind me.

Several minutes later, he came up behind me. He cautiously tapped my shoulder and said in a strange, heavy accent, "Look at this." I followed him back where he was standing and he pointed to the alley along side the gas station. There was nothing to see until he said, "Look. In forest." I could see a rustling of the foliage and an outline of something humongous. To my surprise, a moose took a step forward. At first, I only saw its huge head and antler rack, (when you see this Goliath in the wild, you understand how they earned their name). Then Bullwinkle took another step forward and stood, majestic and proud three-quarters of the way out of the woods. By the time I readied my camera, this inspiring Kodak moment was lost.

I got acquainted with this man and learned he was the same age as me (21), from Denmark and named Bengt, (the "g" is silent). We were headed to the same places and decided to travel together.

We caught a ride and crossed into Alberta. Our first major stop was Jasper National Park.

KNOWN FOR ITS GLACIERS, THIS STOCK PHOTO, IS ONE OF JASPER'S BIGGEST ICE FIELDS.

In the same neighborhood, Lake Louise was next on our itinerary. Unbelievably like heaven on earth, this stunning lakeside hamlet is surrounded by huge snow capped Mount Whyte, Mount Niblick and Mount Temple. (STOCK PHOTO), IN 1976, LAKE LOUISE HAD A YEAR-ROUND POPULATION OF UNDER A THOUSAND. IT'S SUBARCTIC CLIMATE IN SUMMER, PROVIDED US WITH A FROSTY MORNING AND A COOL, CRISP AFTERNOON...BUT SNOW CAN OCCUR IN ANY MONTH.

Still in Alberta, the last stop together with Bengt was Banff.
(STOCK PHOTO) WHILE IN BANFF, I DECLARED IT THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACE I EVER SAW...I STILL FEEL THAT WAY, EVEN AFTER BEING IN ATCO NEW JERSEY.

Established in 1885, Banff is Canada's oldest national park. Today, it attracts over five million visitors a year. The town put in a bid to host the 1964 winter Olympics but came in second to Grenoble France.
BANFF IN EARLY AUGUST. I FROZE BECAUSE JEANS, A SWEATSHIRT AND A LIGHT JACKET WAS ALL I HAD.

The highlight of my time there was the gondola ride up to Sulphur Mountain.
THE EIGHT-MINUTE RIDE TO SULPHUR MOUNTAIN'S SUMMIT BOASTS A VIEW OF SIX MOUNTAIN RANGES.

Bengt had spent time in the Swiss Alps but said, "The last few days were more spectacular." He was probably referring to the Canadian Rockies but he might have meant hanging with me.
I TAKE FEW LANDSCAPE PICTURES BUT FROM HIGH ATOP BANFF, I MADE SEVERAL EXCEPTIONS.

At the top of the mountain there was a heated Alpine chateau that served as a visitor center. We ran outside to snap photos but it was too cold to stay out for long. On the other side of the lodge there was an observation deck. We saw people buying nuts from a gumball machine to feed a mountain goat.
STUPIDLY, I TOOK THIS PICTURE OF BENGT WITH MY CAMERA. THAT MEANS THAT THE ONE HE TOOK OF ME FEEDING THIS BUGGER WENT BACK TO COPENHAGEN. THIRTY-FIVE YEARS LATER, I WONDER IF HE CHERISHES THE MEMORY THE WAY I DO.

Bengt and I were really getting along. He was a perfect, easy-going companion. Back on the ground we did a walking tour of Banff. I remember thinking I had a friend for life.
THIS IS THE SAME RIVER IN THE LANDSCAPE SHOT I TOOK FROM SULPHUR'S PEAK.

When we had enough of Banff, Bengt told me wanted to backtrack to a town called Vernon British Columbia. I said, "Why do you want to go backward?" Apparently, before he and I met, there was a waitress, yaddy, yadda and he wanted to ask her out. When I balked, he said she had a friend. I didn't want to go and he became pushy. We soon exchanged harsh words and I ended my argument by saying, "Get bent!" I can still picture the perplexed look on his face.

This might have been a mistake but soon, I compounded the error. Not because I didn't gamble on the sight-unseen long shot of the waitress' friend, (who may have not even existed) but that I decided to continue trekking east.

My first stop on my own was Calgary. Calgary stood on the dividing line between the end of the Rockies and the beginning of the Canadian prairie. I still don't know why but I persevered east...ouch, yawn, tedium to the max !

In retrospect, I should have pushed my pioneer spirit north to Alaska. To this day, I regret missing what looks like my once in a lifetime opportunity. But I could have at least gone south to Yellowstone...but I didn't do that either. The result was, my easterly adventures for the next 750 miles, in the God forsaken lands above North Dakota, were few and far between. Thus, the only monotony breaker to the endless fields of wheat were the remote outposts of; Medicine Hat Alberta, Swift Current, Moose Jaw and Regina Saskatchewan and Winnipeg Manitoba.
THE KEY TO THIS STOCK PHOTO IS THE VAST EMPTINESS OF THE CANADIAN PRAIRIE IN THE BACKGROUND.

Medicine Hat's one highlight...and it wasn't much, was Hotel Healey. During the one afternoon I was there, at the height of exhaustion, I got the idea to go into an old-fashioned hotel downtown and ask if I could take a nap on the floor of one of their rooms. The front desk lady recognized my plight and was so kind. She gave me a key, insisted I sleep on the bed, take a shower, use the towels, the TV etc. I still slept on the floor and didn't use anything. Props to her in absentia because while researching this blog, I couldn't find any Hotel Healey information on the Internet.

The further east I went, the land became flatter and more boring. In Swift Current, the only blotches on the rural horizon were distant grain silos. At least, the cute little town of Moose Jaw was a slight upgrade. They actually had a hill on the outskirts of town which served as a museum. I was short on time so I passed on it. My big excitement there was strolling down the main drag and passing someone in a tee-shirt with an animated moose head with a prominent jaw. The caption simply read; "MOOSE JAW SASKATCHEWAN."

My quest became, buying one just like it. I walked into dozens of tee-shirt shops, souvenir stands and novelty stores...and came up empty. No one ever heard of such a thing. However, one proprietor conceited that it was a good idea. Maybe in the same vein as Forrest Gump, I made him a fortune?
After yawning through the megalopolis of Regina, my last stop on my journey to nowhere was the city of Winnipeg Manitoba. Their claim to fame was the fastest one-hour temperature drop, (30 above to 30 below). While there, I met a South African backpacker of Pakistani decent who called himself Daddie. There was no way I was calling him that so I dubbed him Eddie.

On a terribly humid, ninety degree day, Eddie and I walked through the business district. On nearly every corner, a folding table was set-up to sell $10.00 lottery tickets. The grand prize was a million dollars. I had never heard of lotteries so I was fascinated by the concept, (by today's standards their manual system was out of the Stone Age because each sequential ticket was stored like index cards in a shoebox).

Eddie was tempted to buy one but he said he'd rather spend the same money to see Olivia Newton-John in concert. Then he talked me into joining him. It's funny because that night, the Winnipeg Arena was a sauna. It was so antiquated (it opened in 1955), and set-up for cold weather that there was no air-conditioning or ice makers for the hot sodas.
THE HEAT WAS SO STIFLING DURING THE CONCERT THAT ALL I RECALL WAS WARM PEPSI AND MISS JOHN DEMONSTRATING THE AUSTRALIAN ABORIGINAL WIND INSTRUMENT, THE DIDGERIDOO.

While searching for a rest room to splash cold water on my face, I found on the main concourse, one small corner of the venue dedicated to the hockey team, the Winnipeg Jets.
THE ARENA, LOCATED AT 1430 MAROONS ROAD, WAS THE HOME OF THE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE'S WINNIPEG JETS. BEFORE THEY JOINED THE NHL, THE JETS (1972-1979), WERE STILL IN THE RIVAL WORLD HOCKEY ASSOCIATION (WHA). IN 1996, THE FRANCHISE MOVED AND BECAME THE PHOENIX COYOTES. THE BUILDING WAS DEMOLISHED IN 2004.
The ex-wife of one of my readers proved why Winnipeg is the ideal place to live. She said when she lived there...and her son was young, he walked home from school in 49 degrees below zero, (not including the wind chill factor). He kept his house key on a lanyard, attached to his parka's zipper. A gust of wind caused the key to flip up into his face. It then attached itself to his cheek.I PITCHED MY TENT IN WINNIPEG'S MOST SCENIC PUBLIC PARK, A.K.A. THE CAPITAL OF DULLSVILLE. WITH THIS HIGH LEVEL OF ENTERTAINMENT UNDER MY BELT, I HAD ENOUGH OF THE GREAT WHITE NORTH AND WENT BACK DOWN TO THE GOOD OLD U.S. OF A.

If I had that mistake to do over, but I had to do both the Canadian Rockies and the prairie or neither...despite missing Alaska and Yellowstone, I would still do them both. Besides, if I went to Yellowstone, I probably would have crossed the American Great Plains and I'm positive going through Nebraska or Kansas wouldn't have been a laugh-fest either.

The bottom line is, no matter what we do...we'll never do it all. We can only put ourselves out there and keep filling our cup...even after it hath runneth over.

As for Bengt. Maybe his mission in life was to decipher what I meant by, "Get bent!" Now that the computer age is upon us, hopefully he'll finally rest assured when he discovers the Urban Dictionary...assuming of course that it's translated into Danish.

TALKIN' BASEBALL WITH MY DAD, UNCLE REDGREEN AND THE DUKE

Last Monday would have been my dad's 83rd birthday. He's gone 16 years but I still celebrate his day, even if its only in my own mind. Sometimes when I reflect on his greatness, I concentrate on his artistic talent which included being a musician. It's great that these creative sensitivities have been passed on to me...and translated into my writing. But I feel an even better rush when I consider that the bulk of those talent genes skipped a generation with a fuller dose abounding in my son Andrew.THE BOND BETWEEN MY FATHER AND ANDREW WAS IMMEDIATE. THEY WOUND UP SHARING SO MANY COMMON PASSIONS THAT IT'S UNFORTUNATE FOR BOTH OF THEM THAT DAD NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO MENTOR HIM.

One of dad's passions that he passed on to me was the appreciation of baseball. That's why I used to joke that 1955 had to be his favorite year because, I was born in May and his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers won their only world championship, (in Brooklyn), in October. Of course we all know that I went on to make my dad proud with my complete and utter...total wonderfulness. But the Dodgers disappointed dad so badly after the 1957 season, that he turned his back on them...and all of baseball too. Because that was when the Dodger franchise moved to Los Angeles.

In the ten year period before their move out west, many Dodger players lived year round in Brooklyn and became an integral part of the community. They were so loved that 50+ years later, schools, streets, highways, and bridges bear the names of; Carl Erskine, Gil Hodges, Jackie Robinson etc. Plus, the player's colorful nicknames like; Harold "Pee Wee" Reese, Roy "Campy" Campanella, Carl "Skoonj" Furillo and Edwin "Duke" Snider, made their fans feel personally connected...like friends.

While baseball died for dad when his "boys of summer" left town, my uncle Al took a completely different approach. My Uncle Al Green, (my father's, mother's, sister's husband) lived in Brooklyn and together with my Aunt Ann, owned a candy store in Harlem. They were close to 60 and looking for something new to do before retirement. So when the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles, Al their quintessential fan, moved with them.

Uncle Al was a hyper, gregarious and friendly man. He was quick with a joke or a wisecrack and everyone loved him. So it was apropos that in L.A., he got a job in a traveling carnival as a product spieler. He mostly sold home remedies, knives or other kitchen slice-n-dice gadgets. His outfit worked all over California in the winter and did a summer circuit that started in Nevada, crossed into Arizona, went as far east as Nebraska, continued to the pacific northwest and back down to Southern California.

Once every few years, he and Aunt Ann would work a partial summer. They would leave the carnival in Omaha and head east, to visit New York. My strongest memory of him was when I was eight in 1963.

Part of my Uncle Al's uniqueness was that he was a carrot top. So a lot of people called him Red. Even when he wasn't making people laugh, he stood out in crowds because of his bright hair.

My folks made him out to be a legend but because he and Aunt Ann never had children, he couldn't relate to kids. So I'm sure he was a funny guy but I guess his humor was too adult for my sister and I. Still he was generous and had a tradition of bringing old-time silver dollars from Las Vegas, (he called them cowboy money), and gave us a few each trip.

CURIOUSLY, NOT ONLY WAS MY UNCLE A FANATICAL DODGER FAN BUT HE RESEMBLED THEIR MANAGER, WALTER ALSTON. AND SEEING HOW I HAVE NO PHOTOS OF MY UNCLE, THIS'LL HAVE TO DO.

My fondest memory of Uncle Al happened on June 14, 1963. Grandma Bessie, my sister and I, piled in his car with Aunt Ann for a barnstorming excursion that crisscrossed Brooklyn. We visited Uncle Al's old friends, family and neighbors. It seemed everywhere we went, everybody got excited and said, "Redgreen was is here!" While everyone else laughed at his jokes, my sister and I thought it was hilarious that because of his hair and last name, that he was called Redgreen...as if it was one word.

We stopped at an Esso station on Bedford Avenue off Empire Boulevard. A grisly old man with an eye-patch and cane hobbled out of the office. He greeted Uncle Al with a hearty handshake before turning around and yelling into the garage, "Redgreen is here!"

The two-old timers gabbed about the old days and pointed up the street as they recalled their great memories of the Dodger's home ballpark, Ebbets Field.

EBBETS FIELD WAS THE DODGERS' HOME FROM 1913 UNTIL 1957. LOCATED IN FLATBUSH AT 55 SULLIVAN PLACE, IT WAS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF SEVERAL OTHER LANDMARKS; THE BOTANICAL GARDENS, PROSPECT PARK, THE MAIN BRANCH OF THE BROOKLYN PUBLIC LIBRARY, THE BROOKLYN MUSEUM AND GRAND ARMY PLAZA.

On a couple of occasions, Uncle Al's eye-patch buddy stopped passersby and introduced my uncle as Redgreen, the second greatest Brooklyn Dodger fan (to him). During their reminiscence both men dwelt on their favorite player Duke Snider. Suddenly, Uncle Al brought me into the conversation. It was one of the few times he directly interacted with me. Uncle Al told me that Snider was now playing with the Mets. I was dismissed from the conversation when I said, "I never heard of Snider and what is a Met?"

The New York Mets were an expansion team born the year before. That first season, the 1962 Mets established high-water marks for losing and were dubbed the worst team in baseball history, (49 years later, no other team has been able to match their incredible 120-loss level of futility).

The '62 Mets were built on shaky ground because the ownership wanted to make an immediate profit. They targeted the legions of fans who stopped following the game after the Dodgers left. To spike interest in the new team, their two-prong marketing strategy started with bringing in high-profile faces like manager Casey Stengel. Secondly, the signed many ex-Brooklyn Dodger players. Their idea failed because Stengel was a sarcastic, 70-year old fossil on the verge of senility who earned his winning reputation leading perennial Yankee powerhouses. And the former Dodgers they signed were merely marginal players or stars at the end of their careers. The result was the Mets became a goof. Lovable losers if you liked them or the laughing stock of baseball if you didn't.
CASEY "THE OLD PERFESSOR" STENGEL (1890-1975). HE WAS 72 AND LOOKED 100 DURING THE METS FIRST SEASON. HE LOOKED AND ACTED A LOT WORSE IN 1965 WHEN HE FINALLY RETIRED. DURING HIS TENURE, HE BECAME THE DARLING OF THE PRESS CORPS BY COMBINING HIS CAUSTIC WIT WHILE BASTARDIZING ENGLISH WITH WHAT WAS CALLED, "STENGELESE." MY FAVORITE OF THOSE COMMENTS WAS, "CAN'T NOBODY HERE PLAY THIS GAME?"

Mets management did not learn from their mistake. The next year, more has-beens were brought in. The most notable was Uncle Al's favorite player Duke Snider, to play center field.
HALL-OF-FAMERS DUKE SNIDER, (left) MICKEY MANTLE (center) AND WILLIE MAYS (right) ALL WERE IN THE PRIME OF THEIR CAREER DURING THE BROOKLYN DODGERS HEYDAY. AND LIKE POLITICS OR RELIGION, NO BARBER SHOP ARGUMENT EVER SETTLED WHO WAS THE BEST CENTER FIELDER.

CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO HEAR AND SEE THE "TALKIN' BASEBALL," VIDEO BY TERRY CASHMAN, (1981). IT PAID HOMAGE TO BASEBALL'S GOLDEN AGE AND FEATURED THE MEMORABLE CHORUS OF, "WILLIE, MICKEY AND THE DUKE," WHICH ALSO SERVED AS AN ALTERNATE TITLE.

http://mivid.net/video/2305/Willie-Mickey-and-the-Duke-Talkin-Baseball

On paper, it seemed that Duke Snider had an attachment to Brooklyn. Like magic, Snider's career immediately went downhill after the Dodgers landed in Los Angeles. By the time the Mets acquired him in 1963, "The Duke of Flatbush" at 36, was slowed by injuries and ravaged by advanced age. Yet the Mets expected him to play the demanding position, center field which he hadn't done on a regular basis for five years.
IN 1963, THE METS IMPROVED BY 11 WINS. BUT THEY WERE DULL. THEIR OFFENSIVE OFFENSE WAS SO ANEMIC THAT THEY ONLY MANAGED A PALTRY .219 TEAM BATTING AVERAGE. DESPITE SNIDER'S WANING ABILITIES, HE WAS STILL THE TEAM'S 3rd BEST WEAPON. SNIDER WAS SO ENCOURAGED BY HIS "SUCCESS" THAT HE PLAYED ONE MORE YEAR (1964)...WITH FAR LESS POSITIVE RESULTS AS A SAN FRANCISCO GIANT.

When our tour of Brooklyn was over, Uncle Al took us back to Grandma's house. My folks and Grandpa Willie Edelblum were already there. The adults were laughing in the kitchen while my sister and I watched television in the living room. Uncle Al wandered in, looked at the screen, saw a bunch of monkeys trashing a supermarket and asked, "Watcha watchin'?" I yawned, "THE HATHAWAYS." He crowed, "That's garbage! Put on channel-nine. The Mets are playing and you might get to see that man I was telling you about, Duke Snider." I half-heartedly turned the dial...and it was kismet! Duke Snider was striding to the plate. It became kismet-squared when he hit a home run. And then it was kismet on steroids because the announcers went crazy as a surreal, pulsating TV special effect...that I had never seen...flashed before my eyes.

This monumental blast in Cincinnati's Crosley Field was Snider's 400th career home run. Even the other Mets charged out of the dugout to congratulate him. It was at that precise second, I experienced an epiphany and became a Mets fan for life. Within a short time, my father noticed my youthful enthusiasm. Together with me, the Mets brought dad back to the sport he loved. And I'll always cherish those one-on-one baseball moments I had with him.

Sometimes I feel blessed by my unconditional allegiance to the Mets but mostly I feel cursed... but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Now you know who's to blame for my bum steer down the proverbial Primrose Path.

Uncle Al's next trip was in 1968. I don't have any specific memory of him that time. Instead, I remember my dad's reaction when Aunt Ann told him she was quite ill. She died later that year. Uncle Al resigned from our side of the family and we never saw him again. Through channels, my folks got occasional updates about him. For one thing, we found out that Al remained a big Dodger fan.
LOS ANGELES WOULD BE VERY GOOD TO MY UNCLE REDGREEN AS HE WAS REWARDED WITH A WHOLE NEW GENERATION OF DODGER WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS, (1959, 1963, 1965 and 1981).

We also heard that Uncle Al continued working with the carnival. To his credit, he was so spry that he shacked-up with another female employee named Dixie, (with our entire family's blessing). Also, during the off-season, they rented a bungalow downtown.

Incredibly, Al was 85 in 1985 and still working as a barker. One afternoon, Dixie came back from shopping with a neighbor and found Uncle Al shot to death. He apparently refused to give in to an intruder and paid the ultimate price...an unsolved murder.

Duke Snider, the last of the great Brooklyn Dodgers died last week. Once heaven finishes processing him, I'm counting on Uncle Al being funny enough to get on Duke's good side. Then I hope they let my dad hang-out with them and talk baseball.