THE DEATH OF THE DEATH CARD !

Stop! Sift out the white noise and listen. If you concentrate, you'll be able to hear the theme song of, "PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE," fading out. It's volume is getting drowned-out by the whining drone of distant bagpipes. Unfortunately, the carefree days of my monthly poker games are over and all that's left are ashes and the Royal Scotsmen playing somber funeral dirges.

DURING THE CANDLE LIGHTING CEREMONY AT MY SON ANDREW'S BAR MITZVAH, MY POKER BUDDIES WERE USHERED UP ON STAGE TO THE THEME OF, "PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE."

Today, with heads hung low, we are gathered here to pay our respects and to say something nice about my deceased poker game. It's hard to believe, but now that my cherished night out with the boys is gone...it seems that I will never play in a regularly scheduled game again.

You see, I started playing poker when I were ten years old. That introduction featuring wild, one eyed-jacks was completely harmless. But as fourth graders, my pal HJ and our other friends, felt that as gamblers, we were cool renegades, breaking the law.

The older brother of one of the kids on my street and his toady were the organizers. These games set the stage for those jokers to advantage of us younger kids, for years. But in this case, they weren't squeezing us for much because the stakes were incredibly low...even for pre-adolescents.

We used red, white and blue poker chips in these games. Whoever finished with the smallest chip stack had to forfeit one Strat-O-Matic baseball card to the biggest winner.

A BOARD GAME, "STRAT" PRODUCED INDIVIDUAL PLAYER CARDS FOR EACH MAJOR LEAGUER. THEN BASED ON THE PREVIOUS YEAR'S PERFORMANCE (WITH THE HELP OF THREE DICE), A REALISTIC BASEBALL GAME WAS PLAYED. PLEASE NOTE THAT THE CARD ABOVE WAS TOO GOOD TO BE GIVEN AWAY AS A POKER LOSS. SCRUBS, SCHLOCKS AND DUKIES LIKE MARV THRONEBERRY, JAY HOOK AND CHOO-CHOO COLEMAN WERE MORE LIKELY CANDIDATES TO BE DISCARDED.

My appreciation for poker wouldn't resurface again until my working vacation at Disney World with RBOY. At our apartment complex, I met three disgruntled Disney employees from rural South Carolina, (Bob, Ronnie and Brad). After quitting, they became waiters at Red Lobster. Later, they got me a job there too. Once our friendship bloomed, on many occasions, we had poker sessions on the floor of their place. We mainly played "DR. PEPPER," for chump change, (RBOY was invited but never played and neither did ZYMBOT when he came for his prolonged visit).

AUGUST 1974 IN KISSIMMEE FLORIDA. THAT'S ME WITH TWO-THIRDS OF THE SOUTH CAROLINA MAFIA. AT OUR POKER GAMES, THERE WASN'T A LOT OF MONEY CHANGING HANDS BUT I THINK I ALWAYS CAME OUT AHEAD.

Oddly, I was intimidated from playing poker during my Las Vegas years, (1979-1984). What makes this even stranger was that the World Series of Poker was a budding giant. Several of my friends and acquaintances were players or dealers; like SK28 and John Imperiale. But their horror stories made competitive poker against strangers seem to be anything but fun.
THE "WSOP" EVOLVED FROM BENNY BINION (IN 1970), INVITING THE SEVEN BEST (MOST KNOWN), PLAYERS FOR A SINGLE TOURNAMENT. WHEN I LIVED IN VEGAS, THE WSOP HAD GROWN. BUT STILL SMALL ENOUGH THAT BINION'S HORSESHOE ONLY HAD TO TEMPORARILY REMOVE A FEW BLACKJACK TABLES FROM A REMOTE ALCOVE OF THE CASINO TO ACCOMMODATE IT. IN 2010, THE MAIN EVENT, WORLD CHAMPION'S PRIZE WAS NEARLY NINE MILLION DOLLARS. TODAY THIS INCREDIBLE, TEXAS HOLD 'EM TOURNAMENT IS HELD IN A CONVENTION HALL IN ORDER TO SUPPORT CLOSE TO 20,000 ENTRANTS.

The one time I was lured into a Vegas poker game was by LTJEFF. Two of his fellow Mint Casino craps dealers, ran a private Cajun poker game called, Boo-Ray. The gracious hosts, (Big Jim and Buffalo Joe), supplied an array of cold cuts, salads and other snacks, plus a fully stocked bar. Later I found out that for discrete guests, a wide range of narcotics were available too.

This friendly game had two major rules. First, each pot had a small rake to defray the cost of the "refreshments." Rule two was anyone who reneged had to match the pot.

While I was playing, when the antes were low, a department store manager reneged and everyone laughed off the four-dollar error. But as the night wore on and flow of liquor etc. took effect, the once cautious group became sloppy as the antes skyrocketed. So when the ante money created a fifty-dollar pot, the atmosphere became mercenary when the next sap, (one of Jim and Joe's casino supervisors) reneged. At that point, I thought it prudent to bow out.

I stuck around and watched for another hour. By that time only fifties and hundred-dollar bills were being used. That's when the hosts (who were both winning a lot), cashed a drunken airline pilot's $650.00 payroll check. I knew that sober Jim and Joe were grossing less than $300.00 a week, so this maneuver opened my bloodshot eyes. Soon, I became convinced that they were weasels by their shared procedural reaction, on how their victim should sign over his check.

The next day, I asked LTJEFF if Jim and Joe were in cahoots and if the whole game was a scam; he shrugged. Weeks later, LTJEFF confirmed my suspicions. He told me that Big Jim kicked Buffalo Joe out of the house when his girlfriend moved in...and how frustrated Joe broadcast their scheme to bilk the Boo-Ray players with cheating signals. He also spelled out how they made a separate chunk of cash by gouging everyone for the grocery money.

In 1984, I moved back to Canarsie while my New Jersey gaming license was being processed. During that year, RCC and JEFFDDS included me in their monthly poker game with other boyhood friends. These social events had venues in Brooklyn, and Staten Island as well as Edison and Princeton New Jersey.

This was the purest form of relaxing entertainment. Nobody got hurt and the games like, "BINGO FOR IDIOTS," were full of laughs.

In 1992, coworkers from my current job started a poker game. The last of the charter members have either moved away, changed days off or became unavailable for a million reasons. So with PCSHMEE set to move to California next month, I formally declare that our little social club, after a nineteen year run, has become defunct. Further, I decree that this blog serves as a eulogy and a Requiem for my dearly departed night out with the boys.

I fondly remember FRANKIERIO of fashionable Somers Point being the first host. He served chili and white rice. The second game boasting barbecued ribs was in Tuckerton, at KURUDAVE's. For the most part, we rotated the hosting duties among the generous core of originators.

To fill in the empty seats, tons of coworkers, relatives, neighbors and friends of every nationality, race, religion, gender and sexual persuasion were included. We even included our fair share of space-cases...from other planets, (most of them were never invited a second time).

In the early days, we put in an eight-hour shift, (9:PM-5:AM). The night was so much fun that the cards frequently interrupted the hilarity. Along with coffee and cake, we had half-time entertainment ranging from cartoons, to porn to music videos....we even had a girl, (Sapphire), from work volunteer to be a topless cocktail server.

THE ACTUAL POKER ASPECT OF THE GAME WAS STILL IMPORTANT BACK THEN. ERGO, OUR TOPLESS BEER WENCH WAS VOTED DOWN 4-3

We used a dealer's choice format. My favorite poker game was called, "DEUCES, JACKS, THE MAN WITH THE AX." It's a seven-card stud game featuring nine wild cards, (all the twos and jacks plus the king of diamonds). However, a pair of natural sevens beats anything. And if that wasn't enough, the five of spades was the "death card." That meant that no matter how good your hand was, if you turned that card over, you got kicked-out of that hand and had to add a dollar to the pot.

REGARDLESS OF THE SITUATION, THE FIVE OF SPADES, A.K.A. THE "DEATH CARD," WAS GUARANTEED TO CAUSE SPONTANEOUS LAUGHTER AT THE EXPENSE OF ITS PREY.

I adopted the death card concept from the South Carolina bunch. After years of careful cultivation to make it the wonder that it now is...maybe I should copyright it and formally call it my own. Hell, there's nothing wrong with making a few extra bucks for something so pleasing. My point is proven by the fact that that element had been incorporated into many of our other poker games.

Some of the alumni players from the last nineteen years who read my, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," blog include: CGS39, DOMT, MAL, MIKE123, BLAZELION, RJKL, RSKB102, WTW and TOMD. After a recent survey with many of them, it seems that the following was our most unusual and memorable night.

Ten years ago, on a hot summer night, CGS39 hosted his first game. I was driving PCSHMEE and KURUDAVE through the Jersey boondocks to Little Egg Harbor. On unlit Stage Road in Ocean County, we went quite some time without seeing anything relating to civilization. We were doing about sixty when suddenly the black pavement ended and gave way to what looked like a dirt road. I slammed on the brakes unnecessarily because the dark-colored roadway gave way to a whitish pavement.

That scare left the three of us on edge plus we had gone five miles through the wilderness without seeing a house, business or even a sign. KURUDAVE made a, "BLAIR WITCH PROJECT," reference which spurred PCSHMEE to call ahead for some reassurance. CGS39 laughed at us, called us names and said, "When you pass over the Garden State Parkway, I'm a half mile up on the right."

CGS didn't believe in screened windows. While he introduced us to his neighbor Corey, we were dodging huge flying insects. CGS was in the middle of telling us that he just dusted off his dirt bike from when he was a kid when MAL showed up.

MAL interrupted CGS's story. He was referring to the large amount of flying bugs when he said, "All we need is an all Japanese cast, our mouths to be unsynchronized to the dialog and a cameo appearance from Raymond Burr and we'd have the makings for another "MOTHRA," movie.MERCHANDISING FROM 1964's , "GODZILLA vs. MOTHRA."

CGS continued by saying that he hadn't taken the dirt bike a hundred feet behind his property when an armed forest ranger...who looked like Barney Fife in a Smokey the Bear hat, stepped out from behind a tree and blocked his path.

The ranger's gun hand shook violently as he asked CGS for a motorcycle operator's license. CGS had no ID. The license he once had, expired long ago. While staring down the barrel of the vibrating service revolver, he tried to explain the circumstances and pointed to his house. The shaky ranger only nodded. When he finally spoke, CGS was detained with a ten minute lecture highlighted by a segment on helmet safety. He politely listened and prepared to humbly accept the stiff warning. So it really pissed him off when Ranger Fife wrote two $75.00 tickets.

When MAL heard the word "detained," he encouraged PCSHMEE to repeat for everyone, the nightmare story he had been told. Apparently, when going through Canadian customs in Manitoba, the staff spot-checked PC's suitcase. An undeclared item, (a gift wrapped, $300.00 wristwatch for his Internet girlfriend) was discovered. After getting caught, PC compounded their ire by lying about its value. To minimize his tax exposure, he under-exaggerated the cost. Moments later, the actual receipt was unearthed from his wallet. PC then cemented his wise guy's fate by saying, "I thought you meant the wholesale price."

PC's punishment included being officially "detained." Which meant that in addition to being held in custody for hours that night, all future trips into the "great white north" would require him to "check-in" with Canadian authorities. Additionally, he was charged a higher tax rate on the item and was heavily fined.

When PC finished, CGS's neighbor Corey said, "That's nuthin'! When I was a teenager, I was crossing into Canada at Windsor Ontario and made a drug smuggling joke. Some Dudley Do-Right impersonator handcuffed me and led me to a small room. He and another Canuck stripped me, attached my cuffs to a metal hook bolted to the floor and did a full body-cavity search on me. Even though they found nothing, I was detained and forced to pay a fine."

So during our poker game, in addition to incessant, dive-bombing moths, nobody sat pretty after hearing Corey's story. Later while driving home at 4:AM, with MAL following behind us in his car, PCSHMEE, KURUDAVE and I joked about body-cavity searches.

When we crossed Stage Road's white pavement back onto the blacktop, an antlered deer appeared in the distance. I can still recall the exact angle of its head and how its feet straddled the yellow median line. I hit the breaks and high-beams at the same time...and the deer vanished. Not ran away...vanished!

PC said, "What was that?" KURU said, "Did you see where that guy went?" I said, "It was a deer but I don't know where it went." PC said, "No, it was a ghost and it de-materialised...UP!" KURU said, "You're both crazy, it was an old geezer limping into the woods." I pulled over and flagged down MAL. But he saw nothing. We were all too tired to argue. To this day, everyone remains adamant to what they saw...but we have no answers. However, the one thing we all agreed on was... that night was the most bizarre poker game and that the going home "deer" incident was even crazier.

Who knows? Maybe I'll find another poker game. But the truth is, this blog is a symbolic funeral. If you were here, you'd see I'm typing in a pair of black boxers and a black, fishnet, wife-beater tee-shirt. Because, the "Pee-Wee's Playhouse Theme," is long gone. During this mourning period, that silly music has been replaced by the interwoven tapestry of much louder bagpipe dirges and the tolling death knell of far away bells.

So while I cling to the positive notion that PCSHMEE is going to a better place... I along with all his poker buddies wish him every success and happiness. Nevertheless, with my head hung low, I officially proclaim the death of the death card and the end of a great night out with great friends.

A NATIONAL NIGHT, IN...MY CAR

The "NATIONAL NIGHT OUT," program is a community, police-awareness-raising event. Since its inception in 1984, municipalities across the USA and Canada have set aside the first Tuesday in August to promote the, "men and women in blue." (In Texas due to the summer heat, many towns observe this event in October).

In its infancy, this program took the form of a "CRIME WATCH," meeting but few people got involved. Soon, it quietly expanded to, "lights on vigils." Then through innovations like block parties, the idea gained momentum.

Earlier this week on August 2nd, my township (Galloway NJ) boasted its biggest National Night Out. Over four thousand people attended, (a thousand more than last year). The genius of this, "night out against crime," is bolstered by our economic downturn and the fact that August is the only month without a major holiday. So people gladly take advantage of the inexpensive, festive opportunity. Then in a fun and informative way, the police are honored while displaying their skills and services. The fire department, EMT squads, the military and other agencies also got in on the action.DESIGNED TO SHOW HOW THE POLICE KEEP US SAFE, MARSH BOAT PATROLS, THE K-9 CORPS, HELICOPTER RESCUES AND SWAT TEAMS WERE AMONG OUR EXHIBITED HIGHLIGHTS.

On my way to work that night, I passed Patriot Lake, at Galloway's municipal complex. I felt a twinge of jealousy as I saw the carnival-like atmosphere interwoven into the various demonstration booths with revelers full of civic and American pride participating.

A week earlier, our college search for my son Andrew led us to the University of Maryland, in the town of College Park. The traffic on Interstate-95 was so bad that our guided campus tour was over when we arrived. Luckily, we found a gracious tour guide who answered our college-life questions. Then she directed us to the admissions office where another upbeat representative gave us valuable entrance criteria info.

Afterwards we did a short...okay, very short... walking tour of the beautiful grounds, (it was 97 degrees). One of my regrets was missing the Jim Henson and Kermit the Frog statue.

WHILE THE UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND TERRAPINS PRIDE THEM SELF ON "TURTLE POWER," JIM HENSON, CLASS OF 1960, (AND KERMIT TOO) , HELPED MAKE FROGS IMPORTANT TOO.

On our way out of town, I suggested going to Baltimore's Little Italy. I was left with two unenthusiastic shrugs. I said we deserve a special dinner after we killed our self to get to the college, only to miss the actual tour, have no lunch and broil while wandering around random buildings. Neither my wife or son was keen on the idea but grudgingly agreed.

While leaving College Park, I noticed several advertisements for their National Night Out. With police in mind I jokingly said, "We're headed into the teeth of rush hour traffic, too bad we can't get a motorcycle escort." This attempt at sophisticated humor went unappreciated.

We hit no traffic during our twenty-five mile jaunt. However, along the way, one of the digital signs on the interstate read; "North of Baltimore, three lanes closed...expect major delays." That's when I reminded my troops that; by stopping for dinner, that'll give them time to unsnarl the traffic.

The mile drive off the highway to Little Italy took an eternity. But we were rewarded with a nearby and ultra rare, free parking spot. We walked one city block and were suddenly faced with more than a plethora of dining choices.

I have been fascinated with Baltimore's Little Italy since 2002. That's when we had a day trip to the Inner Harbor. We shopped, took my son to the aquarium as well as the Children's Science Museum and mistakenly hiked up Federal Hill, thinking it was Fort McHenry.

We wanted to end the day with a nice meal and walked to Little Italy. Every restaurant (and remember there was more than a plethora of them), had lines out the door into the street. Rather than wait, we retraced our steps and wound up at the tourist trap, "ESPN ZONE." To make matters worse, between our "gourmet" burgers and the arcade games, our tab probably added-up to close to what the authentic Italian dinner would have been.

From working in casinos, I have met tons of people who swear by Baltimore's Little Italy. The consensus was, there's so much competition that all the restaurants are great. So I have secretly pined to return for nine years.

Last week when Sue, Andrew and I made our triumphant return, there was a fancy-looking eatery on each corner at the first cross street we saw...with another ten in sight. We were tired and hungry. It was still 97 degrees and I was under the impression it didn't matter where you ate. Of course, we picked the wrong place, (unless they all suck). We paid top dollar and everything we ordered was worse than okay or awful. Plus, when the dissociative waitress awakened from her aloof trance, her bitchy attitude was a disgrace.

On our way back onto I-95, we made fun of our terrible eating experience. In the middle of laughing, I saw a similar digital; major delays north of Baltimore sign. Except this one included the problem's location, (mile marker 64). Ten miles later, in full daylight, we learned just how serious our bad luck was. We came to a near standstill with the problem four miles away.

THIS STOCK PHOTO IS NOT I-95. AND JUDGING BY THE SPACING, I'D GUESS THESE LUCKY DEVILS WERE AT LEAST MOVING.

We inched along for forty minutes. That's when I noticed that my gas tank was on empty. It was a long time till the next exit. When I could squeeze by, I drove on the shoulder to get off. After filling up, I saw a roadway running parallel to the interstate. I only needed to go four miles north to avoid the big traffic jam. But after one mile, the road to the I-95 on-ramp came up. In the twilight, without knowledge of an alternative way around the problem, I got on...and immediately came to a stop. We crept along. On two occasions, we had to move aside for emergency trucks.

This must have been one horrible accident because it was at least two hours since we saw the first digital sign for it. And a fire truck and an ambulance were still en route from a place called Rosedale.

The situation got worse, it was now dark and we were at a complete stop. I had the car in park and soon turned off the engine. Like a dating service, people got out of their cars in the harsh hot breeze to meet, compare notes and complain. When I looked backwards, I could see what seemed like the whole country, in the form of headlights, backed-up to the horizon. This was indeed a national night, in...our cars. Even worse, looking forward, I couldn't even see the interstate.

An hour later, people up ahead came running back to their cars. At first we were inching but soon we were rolling and stopping. At the crest of a hill, we finally saw our three lanes merging onto I-95. And in the extreme distance, I saw the beginning of the end, flashing lights.

I guess we had been at a complete stop because they temporarily closed the only open lane so work crews could safely open a second lane. When we got close enough to "rubberneck," we saw no crushed cars, the worst was over. Most of the remaining thirty emergency vehicles were filing away. On the wet roadway, firemen were coiling their hoses and stowing gear as the army of rescue personnel encouraged us weary motorists to keep moving.

The usual two and a quarter hour drive back from Baltimore took five and half hours. In the thirteen and a half hours from the time we left home until we returned, we were out of the car for a mere three hours.

Sometimes we need a kick in the head like a National Night Out, to remind us of the greatness and bravery involved in being a policeman, fireman, an EMT or be in the military. Also, because we need the assistance of civil servants so infrequently, it's easy to forget all the good they do.

If you still take these bastions of selflessness for granted or you're too self-centered to care about anything but your own convenience, please remember what a wise man once said; it is far better to be stuck in a terrible traffic...than to be the cause of it.

Next year, I'll meet you at the National Night Out. In the mean time, please support your local men and women in blue.

EDITOR'S NOTE:

Before knowing the true spirit of the National Night Out, (in my November 15, 2010 blog, "GETTING HOOKED-UP BY NEW YORK'S FINEST,)" I mistakenly mentioned that there should be a day commemorating the police in a manner similar to Veteran's Day.

SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DINE & DASH...DIXIE-STYLE

My four and a half years at Brooklyn College...a.k.a., thirteenth grade only served to prolong my childhood. WHILE ATTENDING BC, I HAD MANY ADMIRERS WHO LOOKED UP TO ME. OF COURSE MOST OF THEM USED THEIR GREAT EDUCATION AND WENT ON TO LEAD PRODUCTIVE LIVES.

When I graduated, (June 1977), my protective, zero-responsibility umbrella called schooling, closed up. It is safe to say that the next fifteen months of my weltschmertz-filled life was not a smooth transition into adulthood.

By August 1978, the pressure of dim horizons were crashing in on me. Until a glimmer of hope poked through my gray clouds of uncertainty during a weekend in Atlantic City. While visiting a friend of a friend, I stumbled across a stray casino supervisor's pay stub. When I focused on this boxman's "gross pay" field, the allure of money swayed me.

The gaming industry was a burgeoning infant, on its way to becoming a global giant. Economic forecasts suggested that long-term careers in this suddenly corporate, (respectable), business included, plentiful opportunities, good pay and generous benefits. If that wasn't incentive enough for me, there was also the convenience of a dealer training academy on West 32nd Street, in Manhattan.

I remained non-committal for several weeks. During this period of idling, I noticed what seemed like everybody I knew, either already gone from my neighborhood or leaving. I dreaded being left behind. I consulted a friend, Mr. K., who left Canarsie two years earlier to become a craps dealer in Reno. He painted a rosy picture of casino life and encouraged me to take the plunge.

Even with the support of my local friends, I still wasn't able to pull the trigger. Until destiny exploded in my face between late night episodes of, "GILLIGAN'S ISLAND," and "THE TWILIGHT ZONE." It was a sexy commercial for the, "NEW YORK SCHOOL OF GAMBLING." I was smitten. I visited the facility and without hesitation, signed up.

The school's student body could be lumped into two main categories. Three-quarters were seeking employment in Atlantic City and the rest in Las Vegas, (with a minute faction heading elsewhere).

I hung-out with the Vegas-bound bunch. The personalities in this group was a microcosm of high school. It was easy for me to avoid stoners, criminal wannabes and weirdos. Of course the jet-setters wanted no part of me, so I gravitated to the earthy, regular guys and jocks.

My clique was a solid ten-man group. Slowly, the one's who preceded me, graduated and moved to Las Vegas. Ciro, my closest friend made his move in November. He took my phone number and said he would call when he was settled.

I landed in Las Vegas the first week of January 1979. The school's free, job placement service set me up to work at the same place as Ciro, the Slots-A-Fun Casino. When I contacted him, Ciro invited me to sleep on his floor until I got on my feet.

When I got to his tiny place downtown on South Tenth Street, my first impression, (from outside), was that it was a hovel. While knocking on the door, I guessed that the inside was a pigsty.

Ciro ushered me in. From noon's bright sunshine, I entered his dark, stinking lair. Through a thick gray-blue haze of stale cigarette and marijuana smoke, I saw his frat-house-like two-bedroom apartment. My eye gravitated to the sink full of dirty dishes. Then to a cockroach scurrying across the counter between a crushed Olympia Beer can and a generic scotch bottle laying on its side.

I was there twenty seconds and I already sped-up my mind in reverse to recall reading the Stardust marquee, advertising eighteen-dollar rooms. Ciro interrupted my daydream and said, "You're in luck. The Chief, (his roommate Bob Bailey from school) was hospitalized with alcohol poisoning." When I raised my eyebrows he added, "That means that John Heaverlo can sleep in his bed, LUPY can now take the couch and you can push these two chairs together...it beats the floor."

The school had placed Bob Bailey at the California Club. John Heaverlo started at the El Cortez the day before and LUPY got hooked-up at the Lady Luck, (but he took one look at that dump and struck out on his own...with no success).

Ciro offered me some instant coffee. I refused as he led me to the sofa. He pushed aside an over flowing ashtray and a non-value stack of poker chips before setting his mug on the coffee table, (a slat of wall paneling propped up by two piles of Popular Mechanics Magazines). He told me that even though Slots-A-Fun was on the fabulous Las Vegas "strip," it was still one of the worst jobs in town, (but slightly better than the Lady Luck). He said he took the city bus to work and added that the others walked to their downtown casinos.

John Heaverlo was a little older than the rest of us. He was married and planned on sending back to Poughkeepsie for his wife when he established himself. John was also the only one of us with a car. So Ciro thought it would be a good idea to borrow Heaverlo's 1971 Buick Skylark and give me a guided tour.

John agreed as long as we didn't mess-up the back seat and trunk because even though they were packed solid with his stuff, he knew exactly where to find everything.

Once Ciro got the okay, the first thing he did was leave his apartment in his ratty, light blue, terry-cloth robe wearing black socks. Three minutes later, he came back with two (stolen) newspapers. From each, he ripped out a Silver Nugget Casino coupon, for an eight-ounce beer and a cup of chili for twenty-five cents.

THE SILVER NUGGET WAS ACTUALLY IN NORTH LAS VEGAS. IT WAS A SMALL DIVE THAT CATERED TO LOCALS AND ECONOMY-MINDED DAY TRIPPERS.

Ciro drove to Slots-A-Fun first. He suggested that I check-in with them...I refused. We drove the length of strip. Along the way, he gave me an estimate on how much the craps dealer made in each place. Caesar's Palace and the MGM were tied at the top...alone at the bottom was Slots-A-Fun.

At Tropicana Avenue, we got on the freeway and returned downtown. Back in the low-rent district, we cruised Fremont Street. Again Ciro told me how much tip income was generated at each casino. He put Binion's Horseshoe at the top, (less than half of Caesar's) and the Nevada Club neck and neck with the Lady Luck at the bottom of the dung heap. Only this time, he added the extra dimension of telling me the who's who of our schoolmates and where they were working.

A few blocks up, Ciro pointed out John Heaverlo's casino, (the El Cortez). He said, "Hal Mair works there too. They average twenty-two dollars a day." At the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard, we turned left. In a few streets, we crossed Bonanza Avenue and entered the next town, North Las Vegas.

The Silver Nugget was a clean and modern casino with a big empty parking lot. Like walking into a cathedral, you could hear a pin drop on the spacious, low-limit casino floor. We did a superficial loop of the property and saw few customers. Ciro encouraged me to take my first shot on their craps table. After I timidly refused, he led me to their southwestern-themed, Wagon Wheel Cafe.

The large restaurant was bright, cheery and completely empty. We waited at the sign that read; PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. A young, stuttering, redhead with a Kayla, TRAINEE name tag greeted us. When she dropped the lamented menus, a much older hostess named Dixie bolted out of the kitchen.

Dixie's deeply wrinkled face and liver-spotted arms coupled with the most unnaturally dyed blond beehive hairdo made her look like she was a hundred. In a coarse southern accent that suggested that she gargled with lye, Dixie reamed-out Kayla for her lack of eye-contact with us and the angle of her elbow while handling the menus.

Teary-eyed Kayla was humiliated and stormed away. So aloof Dixie escorted us to a table. Ciro asked her to wait as he emptied his pants pockets onto the table. He placed down John Heaverlo's car keys, a box of Marlboros and a book of matches from the Dunes.

Dixie said in a huff, "Well..." Ciro said, "Wait...," as he put his apartment keys, glasses case and wallet down. He looked puzzled until he said, "Oh, I have them here." That's when he took the two coupons out of his shirt pocket and said, "We should show you these first, right?" Dixie looked at him with contempt and rasped, "What else will you gentlemen be having?" Ciro pushed his menu an inch closer to her and said, "That's it."

When she was gone I said, "Boy, what a sourpuss, she was disgusted with us." Ciro said, "Yeah, the Wicked Bitch of the West...I could tell she really hated you...be careful, she might spit in your chili." I gave him an uneven smile and said, "She wouldn't...?"

We watched from thirty feet away as the menus slipped out of Kayla's grip as she greeted three women. Luckily, this time she managed to grab them before they hit the floor. She looked over her shoulder but Dixie was nowhere to be found. Seconds later, Kayla's serious, freckled face smiled when Ciro gave her the thumbs-up sign as she lead her party by us.

A minute later, sobbing Kayla came out of the kitchen with our order. She set down two Silver Nugget, Wagon Wheel Cafe napkins with caricatures of chili peppers in sombreros. Then without spilling a drop, she cautiously put our coffee cups filled with chili on top.

IN SMALLER PRINT THE NAPKINS READ: WASH DOWN RAIMUNDO AND EDDIE'S DELICIOUS, EXTRA HOT CHILI SPECIALTIES WITH AN ICE COLD BEER.

Kayla's voice quivered as she said, "W-w-will there be anything else?" Ciro said, "Are you okay?" She said, "I-I'm supposed to be a hostess but my boss is so mean that the waitress just quit. I don't know what I'm doing and now Eddie the cook saw her go into Mr. Atkinson's office. She's screaming about firing me too. But I don't care...I'll just go back to McDonald's." She took a deep breath, put our short beers on the table and said, "Will there be anything else?" Ciro said, "If it isn't too much trouble, how about some more crackers and some Tabasco sauce too." Her broad smile revealed a mouth full of braces as she said, "You might want to try the chili first."

When she came back Kayla set down our 53c check with the coupons stapled to it. Then she put down a basket of Saltines, the hot sauce and two glasses of water. Kayla said, "If you're fixin' to put more Tabasco in that, you'll need all these." Ciro slipped her two dollars and said, "You'll be okay whatever happens. Trust me, you're very nice." Seconds later Dixie's voice boomed from up front, "How long are you gonna make these good folks wait for a table?"

Ciro and I were done "eating" in a minute. But his mouth was on fire. He gobbled up all the extra crackers and doused the fire in his mouth with the rest of his beer and both of our waters. So it surprised me that the first thing he said was, "Where's that $%#$&! Dixie?" I said, "I don't see her." Ciro said, "Let's dine and dash." I said, "Heh?" He said, "That girl is getting fired anyway, c'mon, let's beat this toilet for the check." I wasn't in Las Vegas twenty-four hours and after refusing many of his other suggestions, I was ready to become a felon. I said, "Okay."

Ciro worked around the piles of spent Saltine wrappers and gathered his possessions as Dixie came in from the casino and went into the kitchen. We could hear her screaming at Kayla as Ciro said, "Let's go, go, go."

Ciro and I walked fast, left the restaurant, crossed the casino and continued outside. We were laughing at John Heaverlo's car as the smile vanished from Ciro's face. He started emptying his pockets on the hood of the Buick. The one thing missing was Heaverlo's keys. Ciro cursed and went back in. He wasn't smiling when he came back and said, "That $%#$&! Dixie was waiting for me. She was twirling Johnny's key ring on her middle finger when she said, 'forget something, low-life?'" I said, "What did you do?" "What could I do? I gave her a five and grabbed the keys."

We were about to pull out when Kayla exited the casino. Ciro called her over and asked, "Did Dixie fire you?" She beamed, "Hell no, I quit!" Ciro said, "That sucks. But hey, give me your phone number and we'll go out and have a good time." Kayla said, "Go out with you? Go to hell, low-life."

ABSCESSIVE BEHAVIOR

OUCH! Who wants to talk about pain? No one does...but we will.

"MR. LUCKY," one of coworkers once said, "Never complain about pain because the guy you're telling...might have it worse."

When my son was born, my wife Sue endured nineteen hours of labor. She went through excruciating pain and at one point begged for the epidural that never came. I have often joked that if I witnessed the end of her experience first, I would have immediately fainted.

Moments after our prize came into the world, Sue's gurney was wheeled out of the birthing room and back to her private suite. In those sparse seconds in the hall, I heard another future mom's interwoven tapestry of profanity, melded perfectly with agonized screams of uterine distress. It was at that precise second, (as if I needed more evidence), that I gained a better insight as to the astronomical hurt level involved in bearing a child...and how that pain is dealt with by different people. Either way, I concede that none of the following examples of pain could possibly come close to the rigors of motherhood.

In the eighties, for three years, my business sponsored a Casino League softball team. I recall only one noteworthy injury.

Unfortunately, it is human nature to laugh at the misfortunes of others. Think about it, slapstick comedy is founded on this principal, (slipping on a banana peel, exploding cigars or the ever-popular knee in the groin, are the ultimate in this type of humor).

So I confess to laughing when our catcher broke his pinkie in a home plate collision. Mind you, this was NOT a compound fracture...nobody will ever compare this incident with the tragedy that ended NFL quarterback Joe Theismann's career...in fact, I was certain my poor little insurance liability only suffered a sprain.

From the way my big and burly catcher sounded, you'd think this galoot had a deep, paper cut under a finger nail from a razor blade. So that's why, I, like many of his teammates found his reaction (hopping around and screaming like a twelve-year old girl), to be funny.

I rushed him to the hospital. On the way, I had to hide my smirk and come-off as supportive as this damaged soul whined and cursed. The situation worsened (for me) in the ER because I was stuck by his side...and had to watch him maintain a vice-grip on his right wrist as he moaned and groaned for an hour.

It was difficult for me ignore his repeated whimpering of, "It's broke, help me, I know it's broke." In the beginning, I thought he was just "screaming" out for attention but after a while, I interrupted his fixation, caved-in and re-examined his finger.

I guess we all have different thresholds of pain. Even though he came off like a tough-guy in the past, you can never understand what someone is feeling internally. I patted his shoulder and conceded, "Yeah, maybe it's broke," when I remembered the paradox of a body-builder from my youth who was afraid of heights.

I went to the receptionist to try to hurry our wait along. When I was returning to my seat, I found our exactly how much intestinal fortitude my disabled buddy had.

Two nice-looking girls in short-shorts came in. When they passed, neither of them looked as if they were in disrepair, so I assumed they were visiting. The taller one was wearing a men's Everlast, boxer tank-top...which was trendy at that time. This fashion statement featured an exaggerated arm hole that was cut low into both sides of the shirt. It also had a more narrow than usual strip of fabric at the breast. What made this "look" more unique was that she wasn't wearing a bra. While the smaller girl filled out forms, Ms. Everlast sat quite comfortably in her modesty, as one, if not both of her boobs were alternately, fully exposed.

This was serious business...there was nothing slapstick about it. That's why my wounded warrior like everyone else in the room, (including me), quietly gawked at her. The next time my catcher griped about his affliction was when the view of the bosomy free-show became blocked by an unprofessional precession of health care employees (both male and female) who came out of the back-of-the-house to parade through the lobby, to check her out.

When the novelty of the girl wore thin, my catcher's dismay returned as a low muttering. If I still had lingering doubts about the legitimacy of his "unbearable" pain, that all ended when two men burst through the ER's doorway. They were dragging in a third man with what looked like a metal spike sticking out of his bloody face.

In the split second they hurried by, my player and I caught a quick, grisly glimpse of the victim. We overheard the men explain to the receptionist that a screwdriver snapped and the broken shaft stuck in this poor bastard's eye. Without filling out paperwork, they were ushered right in...and Mr. Broken Pinkie never uttered another word.

When I dealt craps at Hotel Fremont in Las Vegas (February 1980), my crew was talking about pain while standing dead. A fellow dealer, (Captain Johnny), told us a gut-wrenching story, (he hated being called Johnny and didn't like any references to his army rank. But we called him that because...for someone who saw as much active combat in Vietnam as he claimed, he couldn't make the simplest decision...and far worse, was afraid solicit tips from the players).

We were all expecting to hear of physical or mental tribulation at the hands of the enemy. Instead, he said his platoon was surrounded by the Vietcong and cut off for a week. Supplies were being air-lifted in but instead of clean water, the only drinks were cans of Coca-Cola. He said that after three days, he developed incredible pain in his side. The medic gave him pain killers. But he was still so bad off that he was forced to temporarily relinquish his command because he was reduced to writhing in his foxhole, for the next three days. Then Captain Johnny explained that; like peeing rusty razor blades, he passed a kidney stone...the size of a cigarette filter. When I heard that, with my eyes open, everything went black. If my supervisor wasn't there to prop me up, I would have gone down.

Johnny's experience in no way helped me get through my kidney stones. Seven years ago after an hour of sleep, I woke up with an awful pain in my side. I couldn't lay, sit or stand. For five hours, I tried everything I could think of. My wife wasn't home so I waited until my son woke, to let him know I was going to the hospital.

My three days there were spent waiting for me to pass the stone. Rather than use a laser and annihilate it, the more cost effective policy for the hospital was to wait and see if I naturally passed it.

Even with the pain killers, the image of a stone the size of a cigarette filter getting passed was tormenting. On the second day, the genius doctor told me that the x-rays showed that the kidney stone was obstructed. He said, "Tomorrow, I'm going in."

I was lulled into thinking that I didn't need my meds. At 3:00AM, I woke up in excruciating pain. I called for the night nurse but nobody came. Suddenly, the only two bites of the first solid food I had eaten there erupted up from my stomach. In a panic, I ripped off all my feeder tubes but my mad dash for the restroom came up short. The orderlies were scrubbing the blood soaked walls and disinfecting the remnants of my tuna sandwich off floor for an hour.

In January 1987, I was demonstrating a craps technique to a casino class. Suddenly like a bolt of lightning, I felt a deep stabbing sensation in my back. My legs felt a numb and I was helped to a chair as the agony increased. There was no sign of relief. I was crying buckets of tears during the comedy of errors when I was loaded into a car.

At the Atlantic City Medical Center, I was told I was lucky to only have a MILD strain of my lower lumbar...and released. My wife alone took me home. This "mild" strain cost me a half hour of my life...just getting out of the car, wobbling a few steps to a staircase, up one flight, down an exterior forty-foot corridor and another twenty feet into our apartment's bedroom.

I was thinking; just kill me, as I struggled to find a comfortable position (on my side). Sue tucked me in bed and ran out to fill the pain management and muscle relaxant prescription. While she was gone there was a knock on the door. I could not get up (maybe, if there was a fire I could). Plus, it was too far to yell; who is it? Ten minutes later the telephone rang. The phone was out of reach...I let it ring. After about thirty rings, I inched out of my comfort zone and re-lived the intense pain. When I picked up, it was Sue, (that was her at the door and she had to drive back to a convenience store to call).

She told me that in the confusion, she took a set of car keys without an apartment key. Without help, I was forced to crawl to open the door. I spent the next nine days in bed. Sue came home to spend her lunch hour with me and empty bed pans.

The first day on my feet, I woke-up to a twenty-four inch blizzard. I wasn't supposed to go out but poor Sue was using a kitchen trash can to scoop away snow from our cars. Stripped of all my testosterone, the feeling of uselessness overpowered me. Until a heroic student from the school (Robert Francis) who lived in our complex, organized the tenants to work as a team...and clear the roads and free-up cars.

To add insult to injury, my first morning back to work was a sunny but frigid ten degrees. The highway was clear but along the way, I got a flat. Few good Samaritans perform their magic when it's that cold. So I hung a white rag on the radio aerial and waited.

Just shivering from the cold was torturing my back but I had to do something. I soon found out that I was "stuck" in more ways than one. First, I was determined to put myself back in the hospital and stupidly decided to fix my own flat. Then I found out that even I couldn't sabotage my lower lumbar because the jack was "stuck," frozen to the wall of my trunk.

Mr. Lucky was right. When I look back at my worst experiences, I think I should consider myself blessed. Of course the pain of the past is a moot point until something new comes up. Yes I got struck again last week with the granddaddy of all toothaches.

It started while I was on vacation last Friday. I figured the pain would go away but it became more acute. During the day I survived on aspirin. That night the jack hammering throb in my tooth expanded up the wall of my outer gum to the roof of my mouth and down throughout my lower jaw. I got practically zero sleep.

On Sunday my cheek was so swollen that I looked like a right-handed squirrel. I bought Ora-Gel. Are you kidding? It did NOTHING! One application useless... ten applications, still nothing! What a waste of hope, time, energy and ten bucks. In the furthest corner of our utility closet, I found the tiniest relief in the form of expired pain killers. They helped give me three hours of choppy sleep.

Oops! In the shuffle, I forgot I had jury duty on Monday. Everyone I spoke to asked if I was sick. I held my jaw for eight-hours, got through that boring ordeal and wasn't picked. I went to bed at midnight full of expired pills and woke up just after 5:00AM. At exactly 9:01AM, I called my dentist. The joke was on me, Tuesdays were the only day of week they didn't open until eleven.

I was diagnosed with an abscessed gum from a disintegrating crown. I was given antibiotics and sent home. I'm okay now. The area will be re-evaluated in August. My dentist said that the infection will return if I don't have it properly treated. Trust me, there's no way I would allow that to happen twice...if I can help it. My two options will be surgery or getting what's left of the tooth yanked. Either way, I'm NOT going through that again.

More importantly, I hope my readers can't relate to any of this. But pain is a reality. So I hope all the future moms in my audience have mild labors and for everyone else...when it seems you can't bear another second of agony, I hope the right person for your taste appears in a most distracting level of undress.

HE USED TO BE A BIG SHOT.

I just saw a re-run of TV's, "LAW AND ORDER." "LAW AND ORDER," WAS A POLICE/COURTROOM DRAMA SET IN NEW YORK CITY. ITS 456 EPISODE RUN LASTED FROM 1990-2010.

While watching, like radar, the little antennae in my head rose up when the detectives made a point to go to the library for information, to help investigate their case.

Something didn't set right with me. Being a member of the, "JUNIOR SHERLOCK HOLMES CLUB," to satisfy my need to know, I pressed the red, candy-like "SELECT/OK," button on my remote. In a split second, I discovered that the show was produced in 1994. 1994? Wasn't that yesterday? Are you kidding me, New York City detectives didn't have access to the Internet in 1994...astounding!
IT'S TOO BAD THAT SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE'S, SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS A FICTIONAL CHARACTER BECAUSE WITH HIS MIND AND THE INTERNET AT HIS DISPOSAL, NOBODY WOULD HAVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH ANYTHING !

When you consider the advancements available today, I hate to admit it but I'm still technologically challenged...and intimidated. Why, just last night, the fragments of my poker buddies were hanging out. Somebody mentioned a funny segment from an old TV show I never heard of. While he struggled to put the routine's exact wording together, someone else quietly pulled out their Android. In seconds, we all saw this bit, on his phone. Baffling and amazing...isn't it.

I'm baffled and amazed because in my generation (TV offered channels 2-13 only and the concept of movie rentals was as ridiculous as having Big Foot as a next door neighbor). That meant, if you missed something on TV, your chance to see it when it was still relevant to you, was nearly impossible.

I remember something like that happening to me as a teenager. SLW and some other friends were telling me about the 1939 movie, "THE ROARING TWENTIES." I was jealous how they laughed when quoting Cagney and Bogart. Due to the technology limitations of the time, I felt left out and wouldn't see that classic for years.

DOMINATED BY A RICH CAST, THIS RETROSPECTIVE, PSEUDO-DOCUMENTARY DIDN'T QUITE MAKE IT ONTO AFI's TOP-TEN GANGSTER MOVIES LIST, BUT IT MADE MINE.

The theme of the movie, set against the Prohibition-era of the 1920's, is that life has its ups and downs. This stark point is made clear by Cagney's character, (the former good, bad guy who is now down on his luck). On Christmas Eve, after killing the bad, bad guy (Bogart), he is chased by an insignificant henchman and gunned-down, on a snowy street. At a church, with his last bit of strength, he struggles up a few cement steps. Halfway up, he stumbles down a few steps, collapses and dies.

His unrequited girlfriend and the beat-cop get to the body simultaneously. She says, "He's dead." The cop asks, "Well, who is this guy?" She says, "This is Eddie Bartlett." He says, "Well, how're you hooked up with him?" She says, "I could never figure that out." The cop says, "What was his business?" And the girl says, "He used to be a big shot."

When I look back at my own tumultuous twenties, I see some parallels. Without a care in the world, I graduated Brooklyn College but found no work. In the movie, WWI ended and the heroic main characters returned from the war to find themselves unemployed.

In my mid-twenties, I spent five years in Vegas and tip-toed around all forms of temptation on the road to beating the odds and doing well. In the movie, Cagney and his friends become "Boot-Leggers."

As my twenties were ending, while at the top, with my horizons widening, I gambled by coming back east. I re-united with my family, got married and started a business. In 1929, the stock market crash signaled the beginning of the Great Depression.

I felt immortal. My life was going quite swimmingly throughout my thirties. To paraphrase Billy Crystal; It isn't important how you feel, it's how you look...and I looked marvelous. I didn't have a line in my face, I had no gray hair, high blood pressure happened to other people and I didn't need glasses.

Then as if turning off a light switch, when I hit forty, everything changed. This harsh reality became apparent when my wife, infant son and I were on vacation in San Diego, (December 1995). While in paradise, I noticed my complexion become severely dry. The skin on the bottom of my feet cracked and my itchy arms and legs were suddenly hairless. I rationalized the problem stemming from the foreign environment. It was an easy choice to ignore my difficulties because all the little aches and pains I always had in the past, seemed to go-away on their own.

Unfortunately, the home field advantage didn't help. My problems worsened and I developed new, more acute symptoms. I could no longer remain in denial. I didn't research my suffering because I didn't have fingertip access to the information superhighway. So by the time March (1996) rolled around, I realized I was no longer a big shot. In fact, with my father's passing a year earlier, I quietly convinced myself that I too was dying.

At that point, I was living here in New Jersey about twelve years and never had a reason to visit a doctor. So on the recommendation of a coworker, I made an appointment on the blind. This gentleman must have been a good doctor because his waiting room was crammed with men, women and children.

An hour later, I was permitted by the receptionist to rise up out of the waiting room and into the inner sanctum.  When I finally reached Oz, the doctor listened as I told him about my dry skin and hair loss. Then I added that I was too weak to shampoo my hair, brush my teeth or write a check without taking a rest. When I said my speech was affected by large pimples on my tongue, he cut me off. Like a clairvoyant, he rattled off, "Are you experiencing muscle spasms in your fingers, arms and legs? Are you extremely itchy? Are you unusually cold? Then as if if I was responding to faith-healer, I said, "Yes doctor, yes, yes..." He said, "Are you feeling depressed? Are you gaining weight?" "Yes, yes doctor!"

His snap (correct) diagnosis was an under-active thyroid. He painted a rosy picture, that with the proper medication, I could lead a perfectly normal life with my hypothyroidism. His course of action began with a low dosage prescription. It would be followed by bi-weekly blood tests and adjustments in my medication until the right dose was found.

My ensuing visits typically included an hour in the waiting room. Once I was brought in to the examining room, a nurse would take a blood sample and I'd have a brief consultation with the doctor...five minutes, tops!

The doctor and his support staff couldn't have been friendlier, more supportive or knowledgeable. The problem was the wait time. On my third visit, on the way out, I voiced my concern about the wait time to the receptionist. She said, "On Tuesday and Thursday, the doctor sees patients at night. If you're the first appointment at 7:00PM, you should be in and out."

When my Thursday night appointment rolled around, I was faced with postponing because my wife had an emergency away from home. Rather than put it off, I decided to take my twenty-two month old son Andrew with me. He was an unusually calm little guy and I figured I could keep him occupied for a few minutes.

To further assure that I'd be taken right away, I purposely arrived at the doctor's office five minutes early. To my chagrin, there were seven patients ahead of me. To make matters worse, at night I didn't recognize any of the staff's faces. I got a harsh glare from the receptionist when I said, "I have the first appointment." She said, "So does everyone else."

I brought an arsenal of activities to distract my boy. I read his favorite book, sang silly songs and helped him play with his toys. After ten minutes, he started losing interest. He started toddling through the oblong waiting room. Most of the waiters smiled pleasantly but after fifteen more minutes, Andrew became more curious and vocal. We still had three folks ahead of me and people were losing their patience.

When a woman complained, a nurse who was a combination of Nurse Ratched and the Wicked Witch of the West whispered me the riot act. Before I could counter by saying I was a victim of circumstance or that I was told there would be no wait, the bitch put her finger to her lips and and said, "Shush." One of my symptoms was a shorter temper. But due to the situation, I was able to avoid going off on her.

It was forty minutes before that same nurse led Andrew and I into the examining room. I was getting into the blood sample seat when she said in a huffy tone, "What is the nature of this visit?" I was angry but with my son there I didn't lash out; you got my frickin' chart in front of you. Instead I said, "I'm here to give a blood sample." With a spiteful smirk she said, "We don't take blood at night."

I lost it. She screamed. I yelled back and in seconds the doctor came in to finally see me...as well as every member of the staff and several patients. The doctor said, "I'm sorry, but this behavior..." I cut him off, "Don't worry, you'll never see me again!" On our way out, I started to call the nurse some more unkind things when the doctor interrupted. That's when I interjected, "And you, don't know how to run an office!"

I went to another doctor and got straightened out. Sixteen years later, I still take my meds on time and my thyroid is an invisible factor in my life. Yeah, I got lines in my face, my hair is all gray, my blood pressure goes through the roof without my pills and I could never type this without my glasses. But I still look (and feel) marvelous. Maybe I'll get them to etch into my grave stone; HE WAS STILL A BIG SHOT TILL THE END.

More importantly, you don't have to be a brainiac or well-versed in this automated age to know that; life has its ups and downs. That's why when you have a chance to, "go for it," without hurting anyone, you should. Because you never know if you'll have that opportunity again.

A BLESSING! GALLOWAY NJ, NOW HAS THE BEST FOOD IN TOWN

In 500 BC, at a Chinese restaurant owner convention in Peking, keynote speaker Confucius said; To attain eternal transcendental bliss, it is far better to fill one's stomach and fulfill one's soul, at a Chinese restaurant...where other Asians eat.

Of course, down through the ages this orthodox stance has gained some flexibility.

Groucho Marx was the host of the, "YOU BET YOUR LIFE SHOW." He asked an Asian contestant, "Where are you from?" In a strong oriental accent the man said, "Jackson Mississippi." "Oh," said Groucho, "what do you do?" The man said, "I own a Chinese restaurant." Groucho looked puzzled and said, "Why would you open a Chinese restaurant in Mississippi?" The man said, "No competition."

The moral of the story is, no matter where you are from, people take going to a Chinese restaurant so seriously that it becomes a religious experience. I believe this to be true...for me, my family and much of the people where I grew up, (Brooklyn).

Like going to most houses of worship, we ate Chinese food on Sundays. In my neighborhood, (Canarsie), there were several places to choose from but Joy Teang on Rockaway Parkway was the one we flocked to.

CANARSIE'S ROCKAWAY PARKWAY IN 1976. IN THE BACKGROUND THIS MIGHT SEEM LIKE A VIEW OF THE WORLD TRADE CENTER FROM NINE STORIES UP. BUT IN REALITY, THE INNER SIGNIFICANCE IS THAT JOY TEANG WAS IN THE SECOND STRIP MALL ON THE LEFT.

The problem with Joy Teang was that everyone else flocked there too. Such pilgrimages caused long waits for a table. Therefore an exodus out of the neighborhood, of biblical proportion became typical. It became a search for the holy grail...a great Chinese restaurant with no wait.

BROOKLYN'S ADDICTION TO CHINESE FOOD WAS SO ACUTE THAT AN ENTERPRISING BUSINESSMAN TRANSFORMED A MR. SOFTEE TRUCK AND SUCCEEDED IN SELLING CHOW MEIN IN EDIBLE BOWLS, FOR MANY YEARS

In my youth, the preservation of a family's personal, cozy restaurant became as secretive as the Dead Sea Scrolls. When Crusaders found a worthwhile eatery that fit into their parochial parameters, they withheld this information even from friends and secondary relatives, lest the heavenly body would become an overrun hell.

Soon, it was considered an eleventh commandment to NOT spread the name of such a hot new restaurant. Like a pagan ritual, it got so bad that families threatened their kin with excommunication if they divulged the location of their last supper (of the week).

Like a nomadic tribe, my family criss-crossed our borough and auditioned many places. One was across from the WATCHTOWER newspaper building by the Brooklyn Bridge, another next to Prospect Park looked like a monastery and the one in Coney Island had a Hari Krishna waiter.

I must confess some of the restaurants proved to be false idols (food wasn't good), a couple were unwashed deities in need of redemption and still others were seemingly pure but suffered from the sin of long lines.

I HOPED OUR MISSION ENDED WITH THE RESTAURANT BY THE WATCHTOWER. IT WOULD HAVE PASSED WITH FLYING COLORS, EXCEPT FOR THE LONG LINE TO GET IN.

Around 1970, in the East New York section, (on Linden Boulevard across from Gershwin Junior High), we found spiritual oneness with the universe at a cathedral called, "THE HAPPY INN." Immediately, my Aunt Mary sensed that we found our utopia and asked my dad about it. Pop wasn't about to risk fire and brimstone. He patted her husband on the shoulder, admitted nothing and said, "Am I to be my brother's keeper?"

Until recently, I lit a candle of praise every Sunday, in honor of this pagoda of gastric delights. You see, we had gotten in on the ground floor and soon George the owner/manager became a father figure. Inside the door, he'd greet us at an altar-like rostrum and hand us his good book (the menu). In no time, we memorized each sacred passage and eventually, we were ready to chant our order before settling into our reserved pew.

For about five years, my family dined there 75% of all Sundays. We were such devoted parishioners that we had my sister's sweet sixteen there. George became a customer of my dad and the restaurant placed a quarter page ad in my football team's program. The only reason I converted and stopped eating there was, I got a driver's license.

Once I had my wheels, the sacrament of going anywhere in mass with my parents pretty much ended. That's when road trips with my friends into Manhattan's consecrated land known as Chinatown became enlightening.

At first, we sacrificed our time, energy and waistlines in places like the Pell Street Mandarin Inn, The Kambo Rice Shop, Lin's Garden and #8 Canal Street (I can't remember the name). But once we found Mecca in the form of Wo Hop, (17 Mott Street), breaking a fast in any other chop suey joint became sacrilege.

IN MY PHOTO ALBUM, I HAVE A PERSONAL SHRINE TO WO HOP. NO CONVERSATION ABOUT EXALTED CHINESE RESTAURANTS IS COMPLETE WITHOUT PLACING THEM NUMBER-ONE. TO PROVE IT, I ALSO HAVE A PRESENT-DAY PICTURE OF NOAH, WEARING A WO HOP TEE-SHIRT AS HE ADMITS ONLY ONE CHINESE RESTAURANT ONTO HIS ARK.

A few years later in 1979, I moved to Las Vegas. I was shocked and dismayed to find out what they called Chinese food. Along the way to seeing the light, three Chinese restaurant incidents in Vegas stand out.

When I first got to town, my initial baptism under fire was when I dealt at the worst job in town, the Slots-A-Fun Casino. I befriended a much older blackjack dealer named Jesse, (he was thirty-eight). Each night, he got picked up by Eve, his twenty-one year old, incredibly ugly, floozy of a girlfriend.

One day, Jesse didn't show up for work. At the end of my shift, he and Eve appeared at the time office. After he quit our serpent pit, he told me that he got hired at a temple of atonement called the California Club. Jesse was all smiles when he said, "This is the gospel, my tip income is going to quadruple." Then he insisted on taking me to dinner to celebrate.

I didn't need to be prophetic to guess that the shithouse he took me to, (an open-air luncheonette with a Polynesian theme), would have the worst Chinese food. Instead of eating at a table, Jesse had us served at the horseshoe bar. He didn't mind the crappy food because he was sucking down God's blood in the form of double scotches.

Across the bar from us was a single girl about my age. Jesse could barely stand when he rose up and called out to her, "My friend here is alone, are you bi, gay or straight?" The only thing that shielded me from this grossly embarrassing moment was that the girl abandoned her plastic pineapple cocktail and walked out.

The following are excerpts from my short story, "FREDDY THE FINGER."

One year later, I was anointed with the divine privilege of becoming a Vegas Strip craps dealer, at the Stardust Casino. About a year into my service, I gave Freddy Cantor, (my sleeping supervisor), a heads-up. He called me a saint and reacted as though my wake-up call not only saved his job but his soul too. He wanted desperately to repay my kindness. But with different schedules it was difficult to get together especially when we added in his wife and my girlfriend (my wife Sue).

One day Freddy said, "You like lobster?" I said, "Yeah." "Well call your girl, I switched my days off and on Monday, me and Estelle are taking you guys to the Tillerman." He then jabbed one of his nine remaining fingers into my ribs and added, "And for you my savior, the sky's the limit."

An hour before our date with destiny, Freddy called. From his tone, I expected him to renege on our arrangement. I didn't care because he had a reputation as a bullshit artist. If anything, I was shocked that he had carried out the charade this long.

Surprisingly, rather than canceling, he changed the plans by groaning, "Estelle isn't in the mood for seafood. How about we meet for chinks at Jung Jie's?" Before I could speak he added, "They make a lobster Cantonese, to die for."

While getting acquainted at Jung Jie's bar, Sue and I discovered that Estelle, a heavyset six-footer, was an over bearing, obnoxious woman who never stopped yammering on about her self. She was a real estate agent and even wore her gold, Century 21 blazer to prove it. She rattled off some of her celebrity clients, the hefty commissions she had earned and handed us her business card. Then she suggested that we come to her office and see all her awards.

Freddy stared at this female Satan, like she was a Goddess as Sue and I rolled our eyes in despair. But Estelle out did herself by asking us a series of personal questions. Afterwards she said, "Now we can talk turkey. Then I'll put you kids into your dream house." While I choked on my Budweiser, I wanted to scream but big mouth Estelle stole my thunder by calling across the room to Cristian, the maitre d. While he escorted our congregation to a table, Estelle spoke in fluent Mandarin with him.

On the way, even the Buddha statue was annoyed by Estelle. When she passed, I saw it crying tears of blood. After we were seated, we weren't given menus. When Estelle saw the lost look on my face she said, "I took the liberty of ordering for the table." She had no idea that I was a connoisseur of fine Chinese food and that Sue was an advanced aficionado.

I don't think our prayers were answered because the meal she selected for us was the poor plate special. We each got plain won ton soup. The appetizer was a tasteless yet greasy spring roll. Then to cap off this "extravaganza," we were all served roast pork egg fu yung with white rice. I kept quiet through the soup and appetizer but when I saw the cheapest, most common entree on the menu, I had enough of this inquisition and faked stomach cramps.

I made some flimsy excuses and got up. Sue picked up on my lead and said, "He won't 'go' anywhere but in our apartment. He calls it the home field advantage." Estelle said, "You're over wrought with excitement Bubie, you ate too fast. Take a rest, you'll have some dessert..."

We said our good-byes and slithered away. Estelle blared, "I understand, I'm lactose intolerant..." She was still blithering when we were three feet from the door. Then for everyone in the restaurant to hear, she boomed out her name, her company's name, work address and phone number. We were entering the vestibule and I could still hear her say, "Call me next week so we can get together...and don't worry, I got the check."

My last Chinese restaurant incident in Vegas happened when I dealt at the Golden Nugget. The casino had just finished its re-modeling metamorphosis from a saw dust joint to a global destination and every new thing in there was state-of-the-art.

On the opening night for the Chinese restaurant "LILY LANGTRY'S," Sue and my close friend Ciro, met me after work. We planned on going to a movie so I suggested squeezing in the much ballyhooed, Lily Langtry's. Unfortunately the line was long. Even worse, we soon discovered that they were only seating people with reservations. When we approached the coveted head of the line, the hostess escorted the folks ahead of us and left the log book unguarded.

I scanned the names upside down but couldn't find a party of three. I had to think fast as she returned and said, "Do you have reservations?" I said, "Yes, Bishop for four." The hostess said, "Where's the rest of your party?" I motioned towards Ciro and whispered, "His girl is upstairs." Then I wrinkled my nose and added, "The poor little angel's unwell, maybe she'll join us later."

I don't know if the Bishops ever showed up but the hostess stared me down like she wanted me to repent every time she passed. Oh yeah, we made our movie, but we served penance for my transgression, the sanitized food sucked.

The next thing I know, I'm in South Jersey for the next twenty-seven years. In that time, Sue and I experimented with dull sit-down Chinese restaurants, checked into the Chinese buffet fad and even strayed to sushi bars and Japanese hibachi steak houses. But in the end, we settled on, "HOON KING," a local take-out place.

In the early years, I remember the owner's precocious eight-year old daughter, (the only one in the organization who spoke decent English), standing on a stool to take orders while blowing bubble gum bubbles.

That little girl worked there through college and graduate school. Years later, she married and moved away. At that point, the Caucasian delivery driver became their front man. It should be noted that due to my recent reliance on the Atkins Diet, I have shied away from ordering-in Chinese...but my family does, on my days off. To show their dogmatic adherence to ordering from Hoon King, I was once walking my dog in the park and came across the deliveryman. He shocked me by petting Roxy and knowing her name.

Unfortunately, the walls of Jericho came falling down this past winter. That's when I went into Hoon King to pick up my own food. It was like a, "TWILIGHT ZONE," episode. I didn't recognize any of the Asian staff and the counterman was a different Caucasian. The people being different shouldn't have mattered but I had a cross to bear when the plague they called food nearly poisoned us. Thus, we were confronted with a new dilemma, finding a replacement.

In the past few years, a chain of take-out restaurants called, "THE BEST FOOD IN TOWN," has popped up in several nearby communities. The hubris of the name made me automatically discount trying them out. We held out a long time and lived without Chinese food for more than forty days and forty nights.

THE NAME DID NOT SERVE AS A LURE. I THINK I WOULD HAVE MORE READILY EATEN AT "RABBI'S CHINESE FOOD" OR "TELE-EVANGELIST'S TAKE-OUT. "

In March of this year, we were Jones-ing for take-out when our kitchen was being re-modeled. The workmen were Vietnamese and each working day at 1:00PM, they left our Garden of Eden for ninety minutes. At one point Sue asked them where they went and the foreman said, "Lunch." Sue said, "What do you like, pizza, fried chicken, burgers...?" The leader said, "We only go to one place, the best food in town."

I had faith in what Confucius said about getting full and fulfilled in a Chinese restaurant where Asians eat. When we tried The Best Food In Town, it was indeed a miracle and we were all re-born.