HERE'S SOMETHING CHARLIEOPERA COULD NEVER FORGET

September is here and it brings two bits of great news. First, football season is upon us and second, the Feast of San Gennaro is just over the next horizon.

Unfortunately for me, my beloved New York Jets are projected to have still another miserable year. That forces me to remain focused into October, on my playoff bound New York Mets. Lordy-Lou, the Mets making the playoffs or even being relevent, has become a fantasy.  Hell, it's even tough to say with a straight face. That means, with the Jets and Mets out of the picture, I’m left to root (far less passionately) for my auxiliary football teams, the Redskins and 49ers. Or more likely, be entertained by the NFL for the sake of entertainment.

On the other hand, the Feast of San Gennaro, in Manhattan’s Little Italy, is a highly recommended New York City tradition. To mark this eleven-day block party’s, 87th anniversary, this year’s big event will be held from September 12th through the 22nd.

To varying degees and in their own way, other U.S. cities observe this holiday.  So San Gennaro's religious origins are sometines overlooked in contemporary society. Therefore its general significance has evolved to a celebration of Italian pride…more specifically, an appreciation for the faith and spirit of the countless immigrants who settled in Little Italy, during the early 1900s.

MULBERRY STREET (circa 1900).  I MARVEL HOW HOLLYWOOD USED THE SAN GENNARO FEAST AND THE ACTUAL STREET PERFECTLY, IN CAPTURING THE ABOVE VIBE IN, "THE GODFATHER II."

Remember to bring your appetite because the San Gennaro festivities include dozens of existing Italian restaurants, cafés and specialty shops. Plus temporary food stands cram Mulberry Street with ethnic fast-foods from around the world. Additionally, there is free entertainment, rides, souvenirs, religious ceremonies and parades.

OUR LAST VISIT WAS 2009.  NOTHING BEATS THE AROMA OF SIZZLING SAUSAGE, PEPPERS AND ONIONS FROM FORTY CONCESSION STANDS.  EVEN IF YOU STRAY ACROSS CANAL STREET AND HAVE LUNCH IN CHINATOWN, YOU CAN STILL HAVE A GREAT DESSERT AT SAN GENNARO...ESPRESSO AND CANNOLIS GO WELL WITH EVERYTHING...WELL, MAYBE NOT BORSCHT, BITTER HERBS AND GEFILTE FISH.

There is one person I know who shares the same appreciation for the NFL and the San Gennaro Feast…and that’s my friend, crime novelist Charlie Stella, (a.k.a. CHARLIEOPERA). This pass week, Charlie and I had a long overdue meeting which included him accompanying me to the New Jersey Casino Control Commission, a walk on the Atlantic City boardwalk and lunch with MRS.OPERA, at the Tropicana Casino.

I don’t get out much, so this four-hour laugh-a-thon was exactly the medicine I needed to combat my doldrums. Charlie's face lit-up when I mentioned San Gennaro.  He said, "I know a guy who knows a guy on Grand Street who makes the best suffrite."  I said, "What's suffrite?"  He said, "It tastes great but the secret ingredients are so disgusting that if I told you the recipe, I WOULDN'T have to kill you...you'd gladly do it yourself."  When we switched to football, a small part of our conversation included commiserating each other on our inept teams, (his Buffalo Bills...my Jets).

If Charlie didn’t piss me off twice, it would have been the perfect outing. First, for some strange reason, he now insists in calling me Stevie. I spent a good deal of my adolescence trying to wean my mother off calling me that. After wasting tons of money on beaucoup hours of therapy, I learned the hard way that regardless how she referred to me, I’ll always be mama’s little boy.

So I confronted Charlie and insisted he stop. As the lovely and talented Mrs. Opera might say of Charlie, "My big galoot is a funny, generous, sensitive, caring person...with sociopath tendencies." So I shouldn't have been surprised when he apologized by smirking, “I won’t call you that anymore…Stevie.”

His second dagger in my side was him doubting my memory. Nothing riles “Instant Recall” Edelblum more than being challenged on a point that his is certain of. Of course, even as a storehouse of useless information, I don’t claim to be perfect, (in last week’s Disney blog, RBOY made several noteworthy corrections).  But Charlie's long and short-term memory might have been affected by millions of head hits he endured while playing college football at Minot State (North Dakota)  Plus he was already swilling a third Dos Equis beer during our chat.  Our brewing argument was delayed when he belched, "I only drink this crap because I like the 'most interesting man in the world' commercials." 

WHEN CHARLIE RATTLED OFF SOME CATCHPHRASES FROM THE COMMERCIAL SERIES, I ADDED, "HE'S SO INTERESTING, HIS MOTHER HAS A TATTOO THAT SAYS, 'SON.'"

Charlie responded by rolling down his sleeve and showing me his work in progress.  It was a tattoo of the Buffalo Bills' Mount Rushmore.  I'm not a body art fan but this detailed modification of the landmark was truly artistic...except it was unfinished. Like the familiar images of Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson and Teddy Roosevelt, I saw Jack Kemp, Thurman Thomas and Jim Kelly.  But the last face was left blank.  I said, "I guess you're reserving that space for O. J."  Charlie said, "HELL NO!  The Butcher of Brentwood will never defile my bicep.  I'm just waiting for some new guy to take us (the Bills) to the promised land."  I joked, "It might be a long wait."  Charlie just gave me the malocchio, (Italian evil, dirty look).

Our conversation (difference of opinion) went back on point.  The debated topic dates back forty years when Charlie and I were both Canarsie Chiefs on our high school football team, (he was a year behind me). When Charlie reminded me that he missed his entire junior season (my senior year) due to an injury, an "Instant Recall Edelblum" red flag went up.  I said, “That means, we were NEVER on the field at the same time.” I won’t bore you with the details of our screaming profanity-filled argument that ensued. All you need to know is, I’m right and he’s wrong!

Down through the years, I thought Charlie might’ve been on my JV squad as a freshman. But he assures me that as a ninth grader, he was still attending the, "OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL MENSTRUAL CRAMPS MIDDLE SCHOOL."  So, in the spirit of camaraderie, now that I know he wasn't there, I'll share with him (and you) a deep dark secret from my JV (sophomore) season, guaranteed to be remembered, even by Charlie, for a long time.

TO ASSIST CHARLIE IN REGAINING LUCIDITY, I SUBMIT THIS 2002 PHOTO OF MY SON ANDREW.  IN HONOR OF MY MOTHER'S 72nd BIRTHDAY, HE'S WEARING MY JV (SOPHOMORE YEAR 1970) GAME JERSEY, (CHARLIE WASN'T IN CANARSIE HIGH YET).  IN HIS RIGHT HAND IS MY JUNIOR YEAR (1971), VARSITY JERSEY, (THAT SEASON, CHARLIE WAS ON THE JV).  IN MY BOY'S LEFT HAND, IS MY SENIOR JERSEY (1972).  CHARLIE MISSED THAT ENTIRE YEAR DUE TO AN INJURY. 

My deep dark secret dates back to early September 1970.  Our school’s first ever (barely funded) JV football team (without buses) piled into the cars of parents and were taken to the Bronx. Our premiere action versus a live opponent, was a scrimmage (practice game) against the Governors, of DeWitt Clinton High School.

DeWITT CLINTON (1769-1828) WAS THE GOVERNOR OF NEW YORK (1817-1822).  A NATURALIST AND PROGESSIVE THINKER, HE PRIORITIZED IMPROVING THE STATE'S INFRASTRUCTURE AS A PATH TO ECONOMIC GROWTH AND A BETTER WAY OF LIFE.  HE IS CREDITED WITH THE FORESIGHT TO BUILD THE ERIE CANAL.  I'M POSITIVE, ELIOT SPITZER WILL NEVER HAVE A HIGH SCHOOL NAMED AFTER HIM!

During the week before our debut, wise guys from the varsity had filled our (my) naive head with propaganda. The nonsense that stuck in my brain centered on the fact that DeWitt Clinton was all-boys. We all knew that parochial schools weren’t co-ed but I was told that the fact that Clinton had no female students and was public...that meant it was a "reform school." As soon as I was duped into believing that it was a reform school, I drew my own conclusion that all the students were juvenile delinquents and future criminals.

To intensify the fearful butterflies in my stomach, the car I was driven-up in, also had MIKE85 and NICK9. When I whispered that we were playing a bunch of depraved, drug-ravaged desperadoes with nothing in life to lose, they nodded in agreement. Hell, I was immature and inexperienced so the mind games took an immediate toll on me. Maybe the 1974 movie, “THE LONGEST YARD,” was inspired by someone else going through similar trepidation that I was going through.

SET IN A PRISON, THE ORIGINAL "LONGEST YARD" WAS A COMEDY. IT FEATURED A FOOTBALL GAME WITH THE SYMPATHETIC INMATES GOING AGAINST THE PRISON GUARD BADDIES.THE 2005 RE-MAKE WAS FAR LESS FUNNY.

My first eerie glimpse of DeWitt Clinton High School, is as clear in my mind today as it was forty-three years ago. Against the beautiful blue sky and harmless puffy clouds of that Saturday morning, the old and ugly, red brick school, like a penitentiary, sat on an isolated perch, atop a barren hill.

In a parking lot, along side the buses that brought the varsity, I got out of the cramped back seat of a 1960 Ford Comet and joined some teammates. Most of them had experience in organized football so my Baptism under fire was no big deal to them. But in the short time before the others arrived, a tingly nervousness excitement invaded me.

I marveled at the sharp playing field (complete with an electronic scoreboard) and the perceived extravagance of a separate practice facility, (we had no home field and practiced in an open expanse, in Seaview Park...complete with broken glass, rusty beer cans and assorted litter than included the occasional spent condom...they were called prophylactics back then).

When I turned away from Clinton's sports complex, I noticed, the ancient-looking, gothic, vaulted entrance that led into the bowels of the school’s basement.

When all twenty-two JV players were accounted for, the coach gave us an uninspiring rah-rah pep-talk and led us to the ominous, gothic slit in the building.  My (our) eyes had trouble adjusting from the brightness into the dark.  Confusedly, while toting our equipment-filled duffle-bags over our shoulders, we entered the foreign territory of a long, narrow, stone-faced corridor. Immediately, the loud blare of a record player bombarded our ears with segments from classic Knute Rockne, pre-game, locker room motivational speeches. The ultimate psych-out, I'm getting goose bumps typing these cob-web filled memories as I recall their impact on my previously mentioned jitters.

KNUTE ROCKNE (1888-1931) IS REGARDED AS ONE OF THE GREATEST COLLEGE (NOTRE DAME) FOOTBALL COACHES OF ALL TIME.  IN ADDITION TO STRATEGIC INNOVATIONS, HE IS EVEN BETTER KNOWN AS A TREMENDOUS MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER, (PARTICULARLY HIS, "WIN ONE FOR THE GIPPER SPEECH.")  UNFORTUNATELY, ROCKNE SUFFERED A BIZARRE DEATH...IN A PLANE CRASH, IN BAZAAR KANSAS...HE WAS FORTY-THREE.

Rockne’s gifted words felt like they were intended just to churn and burn my innards. “We’ll beat’em on the ground, we’ll beat’em in the air, we’ll annihilate them all over the field…” Then when my eyes got used to the dimly lit dungeon-like hallway, I saw three, well-spaced, forty watt bulbs in the ceiling. When I looked down, I noticed, in the tight quarters, the entire Clinton team, seated in full uniform, lining each side of the passage with their out-stretched legs interlocked with the player across from them.

My heart was racing as I carefully tip-toed behind a teammate.  Rockne's voice continued to fire-up our opposition who were now rhythmically slapping their thigh pads in unison. It was intimidating to think that one false step onto a stray ankle of a criminal in training could ignite World War Three.  I felt a gurgling rumble in my belly when I envisioned, in that confined space, a bloody, if not deadly riot featuring our enemy swinging their helmets against our defenseless heads.

The massacre never happened but my internal damage was worsening.  At the end of this long, dangerous tunnel, the door to the visitor lockers was the most welcome sight I ever saw in my fifteen-year life. Inside brought quiet, open spaces.  My instincts caused me to scan the lay of the land.  In seconds, beyond the sea of battleship gray cubbies, I spied a glimpse of salvation, a tiled floor; coincidentally in Canarsie Chief light blue and navy colors.  A sudden torturous, sharp impulse of pain electrified my mid-section.  I was doubled-over as I scurried into a room full of unoccupied toilet stalls. I may not have been a fast runner but nobody was ever quicker.  Luckily for me, every second I shaved off my time paid-off because simultaneously as I sat at ground-zero, a Mount Vesuvius-like volcano exploded from the most remote abyss inside me. 

I’m so glad I side-stepped life's ultimate embarrassment, because I’m sure if my situation turned out different, I might've been immortalized on Canarsie football's Mount Rushmore of Humiliation…for all the right reasons.

By the way, we kicked the crap out of Clinton that day…the JV included. I guess their coach retired the Knute Rockne psyche job because it’s a really stupid thing if you always lose. So each of the next two years, we went up there again and beat the tar out of them both times.  Additionally, my expectation about Clinton came true. In 2010, it had the distinction of having, New York City's, "Most Heavily Armed Student Body."  This assertion as well awful test grades almost caused this historic institution (since 1897) to close.

So because the statute of limitations on "almost soiling myself" has run-out decades ago, I'm willing to share my near-crappy event with CHARLIEOPERA and the world.  Unfortunately for me, Charlie will bust my stones over this...and far worse, this'll be the one thing that he NEVER forgets.   Plus, I'll be reminding him forever that he CAN'T call me Stevie!

LEONARD ZELIG SHOULD HAVE BEEN A MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER FOR DISNEY EMPLOYEES

It’s funny, the pressure of fitting in, usually causes people to stand out.

In June 1974, RBOY and I, in the comfort and safety of his parents’ car, set out for our grand adventure, a working summer vacation at Disneyworld. His folks were going somewhere in North Carolina and were kind enough to drop us off, (about halfway to our destination), at the Rocky Mount Greyhound station.

RBOY and I weren’t in this small town (Rocky Mount) to exercise our liberalism, introduce the deep south to hippie-ism or impress anyone with our Canarsie savvy. All we wanted to do was get on a bus and go to Disney. In retrospect, between our clothing and accents, I think the very Yankee swagger we prioritized hiding, burnt like a fluorescent neon beacon for all to see.

The depot wasn’t a hub so it catered to Tar Heel commuters.

IT'S BELIEVED THAT THE TAR HEEL NICKNAME IS DERIVED FROM THE TAR, PITCH AND TURPENTINE PRODUCTS THAT ARE MADE FROM NORTH CAROLINA PINE FORESTS.  ALSO IT ALSO SERVES AS A COMPLMENT TO LOCAL CIVIL WAR SOLDIERS WHO STOOD THEIR GROUND AS IF THEY HAD TAR ON THEIR HEELS.

Few amenities like electronic signs lavished this time-warped bus station. That meant overwhelmingly, the regular customers had a firm idea of where and when they were going and didn’t need fancy gadgets to help them. In the rare circumstance that foreigners like us were passing through, if they (us) weren’t clever enough to ask which bay (there were only four) their (our) bus was departing from; they (us) became reliant on garbled PA announcements that were laden by a thick Southern-twang.

We didn’t know where to go. I looked back at the stiff lady in the retro-1960’s beehive hairdo who sold us our tickets. She had nobody on her line but rather than give me eye-contact, she busied herself by adjusting the chain that held her cat woman glasses around her neck. I was intimidated enough by her to point outside and suggest to RBOY, “Let’s ask him.”

A driver with a leathery face and graying blond hair was off-loading packages from the bowels of a bus marked, “DEADHEAD.” RBOY said, “Excuse me sir.  Which is the bus to Orlando Florida?” The man took a long, thoughtful drag off the last nub of an unfiltered cigarette. Then he crowed in a loud Foghorn Leghorn-like voice, “I wouldn’t eat at issy-here lunch counter. Over yonder is a right-nice café and today is grilled ham-n-cheese with hush puppies day.”

FOGHORN J. LEGHORN WAS A LOONEY TUNES CHARACTER.  THIS BLUSTERY, LOUD-MOUTHED BRAGGART WITH A SOUTHERN ACCENT APPEARED IN 28 CARTOONS DURING THE GOLDEN AGE OF ANIMATION (1946-1963).

At the time, we thought the driver's answer made him an idiot. But over the years, I’ve come to believe, he was just putting us northern boys on.

In the wee hours of the following morning, we had a long layover in Jacksonville Florida. To kill time, RBOY and I left the bright, modern terminal and sat out on the curb. We stared off into the vast dark abyss of an open field and discussed our fear of the unknown.

A few hours later, that unknown was upon us as we switched buses in Orlando. At 10:00AM, the express to Disney dropped us off at the employment office. The scary part started as we hurdled forward, full of naïve excitement and lugged our luggage inside. Beyond a pleasant reception area, a sea of prim and proper teenage hopefuls, in their Sunday best, were completing applications or waiting to be interviewed.

RBOY and I were operating on pure adrenaline. We were dirty, in need of a shave and burnt-out from our 24-hours on the road. I was expecting to be immediately rejected because it was impossible to blend-in when you’re the only ones toting suitcases. Our competition, (the boys were in suits and the girls in conservative dresses) stared at us with open mouths as we strolled in wearing shorts, tee-shirts and sneakers. Still, we were treated like the others and eventually made it to an interviewer.

To help us further stand out, we insisted on being questioned together because if only one of us was hired neither of us would take the job. Interestingly, despite all the obvious obstacles, they were ready to hire us both, (either flipping burgers or sweeping the floor). However, we raised a red flag by leaving two glaring omissions in the paperwork (a local address and the question regarding transportation).

When we blankly shrugged, the interviewer sifted through his rolodex and said, “Call this place. They have limited availability. If you get lucky, they only rent to Disney employees and provide a shuttle to the park.”

This defunct motel was converted into the “Young American Inn (YAI).” We would soon learn the YAI was perfect for us, especially the $95.00 a month rent that we could split. Plus, they still had some vacancies. The problem was, they wouldn’t give us the room without a job and Disney wouldn’t hire us without a place to live. RBOY realized this CATCH-22 and took the bull by the horns. He eliminated the middle man (us) and had the two sides hash it out.

At a time when minimum wage was $2.25/hour, RBOY and I became sweepers on the 4:00PM till midnight shift, at $2.40/hour. We were both offered an additional nickel an hour to follow the parade horses. RBOY and I, in a unanimous vote, turned down this opportunity to stand out among the peons while giving up a perceived fast-track for upward mobility as well as the big salary boost.

Once RBOY and I were in our “clean-up” staff uniforms, we never had to worry about our uniqueness.


DISNEY HAD A STRICT DRESS-CODE AND AN EVEN MORE STRINGIENT PERSONAL APPEARANCE POLICY.  NEVERTHELESS, THEY NEVER CAUGHT ON TO ME POLISHING MY BROWN SHIT-KICKERS (above) BLACK.  HOWEVER, TO AVOID BEING FORCED TO WORK "UNDERGROUND," I BUTTONED MY SHIRT TO THE TOP, THE TIME I REPORTED TO WORK WITH A HICKEY ON MY NECK.

 We were assigned to the same department but our responsibilities and locations were different. My T-shaped territory was sweeping the floor in Fantasyland. I had the ramps through Cinderella’s castle then right to the Le Mans Speedway and left to the Swiss Sky Ride.

RBOY worked in Adventureland. He was in charge of refilling the paper products in the restrooms and reporting overflowed toilets and sinks. We were both trained in the procedure for dealing with vomit and shown where a product called Zip-Zorb was stored. I just put that scenario out of my mind because I’d run in the opposite direction if I had to deal with that, (trust me, if I was confronted by such a problem, I would double the need for Zip-Zorb).

My supervisor also demonstrated how to close the umbrellas on the snack tables. In the late afternoon, like clockwork, the wind kicks up in Central Florida and a brief squall, usually accompanied by an electrical storm stops everything in the park.

I thought my standing out days were over. But when it came time to close all those umbrellas, all my fellow sweepers were nowhere to be seen. I made matters worse by catching my finger in the umbrella’s fold-down mechanism and nipped-off a chunk of skin.

Later, I complained about my painful injury to a coworker. He winked and said, “Don’t be a chump. Let someone else do it. You don’t want to risk getting hit by lightning. Next time go up to the Swiss Sky Ride.” The following day, at the first sound of thunder, the guests evacuated the rides and sought shelter. I followed a sweeper up the ramp to Swiss Sky Ride and found ten other sweepers, (goof-offs I never saw) sitting on the floor,(hiding), smoking cigarettes and telling ribald stories at the expense of the company. I suddenly realized that not everyone thought it was a privilege to work for the “Tragic Kingdom” and “The Rat.”

When RBOY and I received our first paycheck, we net $78.38. I was already disillusioned that we had to pay for our daily meal but I was unhappily surprised that we weren’t paid for our forty-five minute lunch break.

In my second week, another supervisor (Kurt Doctor) heard that I was a fantastic worker, (everyone else did nothing, so I stood out because I did something). He was shorthanded, so he recruited me to work on Main Street for a day. Apparently, I had a say in the matter because he kept telling how great I was and could work for him if I wanted. I had gotten used to working Fantasyland without being bothered. I wanted to stay anonymous but Kurt liked me.  I didn't care that he implied that he could help me get ahead.  All I cared about was that he was an overbearing jerk. I just wanted to keep a low profile, get through the shift and return to my normal duties.

At one point, Mr. Gung-Ho gave me his walkie-talkie and said, “While I’m on break, you’re my number one man.” For a few seconds I was taken in by the power trip. Then I was annoyed by the continuous, unintelligible squawk of the radio, (to make matters worse, if there was a terrible emergency, I didn’t know how to use it).

Kurt was supposed to be back in thirty minutes. An hour later, I saw him hustling across the street carrying a camera bag. Later, I asked him about the bag. He stammered, “Y-you must have mistaken me for someone else.” Kurt never recruited me again.

Later that night, I wandered into the arcade and watched people play pinball. In an empty corner, I spotted a quarter on the floor.  It didn't feel right to grab it.   When I found two more, I swept them up.  Then I went back to the first and pocketed it too.

A week passed and I told Carol who worked at the photo shop about Kurt. She didn’t know him but said, “He probably found it (the camera bag) and was going to keep it.” I was thinking; so much for the high moral fiber of middle America, as she added, “Did you know management leaves fake wallets around and spies on the employees to see what they do with them? I guess your friend Kurt didn’t care especially if there was a four-hundred dollar Nikkon in the bag plus a bunch of expensive lenses.” I was bewildered and said, “No.” She added, “Lost and found is another scam. A valuable item like a gold pocket watch is turned in and the kid behind the counter calls a friend or relative. An hour later when this kid is on break, their accomplice describes the lost piece to innocent third party and goes home with it.”

Carol sensed that I was stunned by the Disney hypocrisy and said, “You know Peggy my new supervisor, right?” I nodded and she continued, “Didn’t you just go through orientation with her…” I finished her sentence by saying, “And you can’t request a departmental transfer or apply for a promotion until you have been employed ninety days.” She sighed, “It’s the same who-you-know bullshit here…as anywhere else.”

I was sweeping off a bench at the Dumbo ride when I found a white, plastic package. It wouldn’t fit in my dust bin so I picked it up. It was warm and squishy. I was trying to figure out what it was when two moms started cackling and pointing at me. That’s the exact moment I learned what Pampers were. In embarrassment, I hustled to the, It’s a Small World ride.


THIS MUSICAL BOAT RIDE FEATURED BRIGHTLY COSTUMED AUDIO-ANIMATRONIC DOLLS FROLICKING IN THE SPIRIT OF INTERNATIONAL UNITY.  THE REPETITIVE THEME SONG WAS SO ANNOYING THAT I USALLY STAYED AWAY FROM IT.  SO WITH THAT IN MIND, I'LL SPARE YOU BY NOT INCLUDING IT.


The ground around the ticket taker station was heavily littered with entry tickets. From a near distance, I watched the ticket taker. He was in business for himself. Many times, I witnessed him pretend to tear them in half and miss tossing the still-good tickets in his trash can. When there was a break in the line, he scooped up as many as he could and stuffed them in his pocket.

I timed my approach and when he was busy I arrived. He said, “That’s okay, I’ll sweep up later.” I knew he was powerless to stop me and said, “No biggie, let me do it for you.”

Soon I noticed this racket was happening all over Fantasyland. After I amassed a gazillion free tickets, I used some on a date to the park. I mailed a ton to my aunt in Brooklyn and still had more than I can ever use.

Carol introduced me to a girlfriend who worked in a gift shop. She needed a shit-load of tickets. I gave her everything I had left without asking for anything in exchange. She said, “Next time you visit the park, come to my register with all the stuff you want…and make sure you get a bumper sticker.” RBOY and I showed up and we weren’t pigs but we both got two tee-shirts for the price of a fifty-cent bumper sticker.

It wasn’t even the 4th of July yet and the 8 ¾ hour shift plus the ninety-minute commute in each direction was getting tiresome. This was supposed to be a working vacation but I had no time to spend the little money I was making.

Two former Disney employees who lived in our complex put the idea in my head that there was a better way. Rob and Donnie were Laurel and Hardy-like guys from South Carolina. They quit Disney because of all the bullshit and got jobs as waiters at Red Lobster. I said, “Are they still hiring?” Donnie who spoke so slowly that when he pronounced the make of his car (Ford), it sounded like he was saying, “forward,” said, “There’s only one way to find out.”

Due a combination of laziness and stupidity, I didn’t follow through on this golden opportunity.

The next day at Disney, my destiny changed. I was sweeping in front of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and I found a clump of money on the floor. A ten-dollar bill was on the outside. Like a toad zipping his tongue at an unsuspecting insect, I swept the cash into my dust bin…and ran like a thief to the privacy of a toilet stall. My heart was racing as I unraveled my new found booty. It was a ten, two fives and two ones. What a coincidence that was exactly what I already had in my pocket. “Ugh,” I groaned. When I realized, I found my own money, I was disgusted in myself! I wanted so badly to blend in and took it too far by becoming one of them.

My situation took an odd twist an hour later when I was sent to my department head’s office. My big boss was around twenty-three and named Gaylord, (he was to this day, the only Gaylord I ever met). Gaylord was a six-foot-six stick. Between his crooked yellow teeth, awful face full of purple berry-like acne and enormous pulsating Adams apple, it was hard to take him seriously. Especially when he spoke even slower than South Carolina Donnie when he said, “Son, I got a report that you haven’t been smiling enough.” He saw the shock on my face and added, “Don’t worry, this isn’t a written reprimand, it's more like constructive criticism.” I said, “Okay.” He correctly sensed that I had something on my mind because as I was leaving it took what seemed like twenty minutes to say, “Don’t burn down your bridges. You can have a bright tomorrow here at Disney.”

Before work the next day I ran to Red Lobster and was hired. That night I reported to my immediate Disney supervisor and announced that it was my last day. The rest of the summer, I worked five-hour shifts and cleared more in two days than I made all week at Disney. Plus, I ate like a king and was driven by Rob and Donnie the five minutes back and forth to work. And talk about standing out in a crowd, I opened a bank account and saved over $600.00 to come home with.

ROB (left) AND DONNIE (center) WERE FROM SUCH A SMALL MAYBERRY-LIKE TOWN THAT IN 1974, THEY STILL USED A CRANK TO ACTIVATE THEIR TELEPHONES, MABEL THE SWITCHBOARD OPERATOR RECOGNIZED EVERYONE BY THEIR VOICE AND ALL THE PHONE NUMBERS HAD ONLY FIVE NUMBERS.

I think Leonard Zelig would have made a great motivational speaker for Disney employees.

"ZELIG" IS AN UNSUNG WOODY ALLEN GEM.  THIS 3 AND A HALF STAR DOCUMENTARY FARCE FROM 1983, IS ABOUT LEONARD ZELIG, A MAN IN THE 1920's WITH THE UNCANNY ABILITY TO BECOME AND ACT LIKE WHOEVER HE'S AROUND.  WHILE DOCTORS TRY TO FIGURE OUT THE MEDICAL CAUSE, ZELIG REALIZES IT BETTER TO BE YOUR OWN PERSON THAN A HUMAN-CHAMELEON.

In the long run, we all want to fit in.  But in reality, we're best served if we follow our own dreams.

WAY BEFORE...WHAT HAPPENS IN LAS VEGAS...

In January 1979, (I was twenty-three years old), I showed up for my first day at the Slots-A-Fun Casino with my brand new "Sheriff's Card" in my billfold.  Before I was permitted to work, I had to show these credentials to the boss.    

DUE TO THE FEAR OF ORGANIZED CRIME INFILTRATION, A COSTLY NEW JERSEY GAMING LICENSE INCLUDED AN IN DEPTH BACKGROUND CHECK.  THIS LENGTHY INVESTIGATION CAUSED THE MOST ROUTINE APPLICANT TO WAIT SEVERAL MONTHS, EVEN A YEAR TO BE APPROVED. NEVADA WAS DIFFERENT, IT HAD AN "INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY" ATTITUDE. TO GET MY "SHERIFF'S CARD,"  I WAITED IN LINE FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES AND PAID THREE DOLLARS. 


I carefully slid my sheriff's card back into my unique billfold. My billfold was a card holder that some salesmen used to display credit card-sized photos of their goods, (it was practical too because it had two hidden sleeves that were suitable for storing small amounts of paper money).  Even though I received a lot of flak because it was a less than masculine baby blue, I liked it because of the gimmick I developed, (too bad I was never clever enough to take a picture of it). 

The gimmick I discovered, included putting the heavier, laminated cards like my Brooklyn Collge ID and draft card at the top.  That way, I could fling the cards forward simultaneously while saying, "Let me present my card." Like an accordian, the plastic compartments would fly open towards who ever I aimed it.  People thought it was funny..the manager at my new job...not so much.  However, about a week later, I found out that one of the dealers waiting to go home on my first day, Pete Izzo, thought it was hilarious.

It should be noted that Vegas was separated into two licensing jurisdictions, (basically, the strip and downtown).  The specific border that divided the city from the county was Sahara Avenue.  Therefore a toilet like Slot-A-Fun which was south of Sahara was technically in the high rent district, (a.k.a. the fabulous Las Vegas Strip), and required a sheriff's card.   On the other hand, the rinky-dink casinos downtown, (north of Sahara), required a "police card." Much of this story is concentrated on that Sahara Avenue division.

I ALWAYS HAVE TROUBLE FINDING DECENT SLOTS-A-FUN PICTURES ON THE INTERNET.  IRONICALLY, I'VE HAD THIS ONE ALL ALONG, (TAKEN BY MY DAD IN JANUARY 1980).


Pete Izzo (25) was so fascinated by my billfold gimmick that he tried to buy it off me.  He was such a nice guy that even when I turned him down, we became passing friends. 

Izzo was a sloppy, fat guy from Woonsocket Rhode Island.  His dark, pockmarked, oily complexion and sharp facial features gave him a caveman look.  His greasy, wild hair was a trifle long for casino standards.  But due to his tough exterior and claim of connections to the wise-guys in Providence, noboby bothered him over such trivialities.

On one of my night's off, I bumped into Pete and two of his fellow, Slots-A-Fun graveyard shift dealers.  They were a rather large trio. His buddies were, Joe Imperiale, (a 310-pound former college football player) and Frank Ianucci (who was built like Izzo, at 5-11 and 260 pounds).  I later nicknamed them.  Then years later, I wrote a corresponding blog, (March 1, 2010) called, "THE LAW FIRM OF, IMPERIALE, IANUCCI AND IZZO." 

They were on their way to the El Cortez Casino for the steak dinner special and invited me along.  Later, we played twenty-five cent craps and drank for free all night.  I hung with them on my night off many times.  In the weeks to come, we made several more visits the El Cortez.  Also, we went to Jai Alai at the MGM on three occasions (until we got barred for life) and horse back riding once.

Izzo's tough exterior was just a front.  He was a country boy at heart and his move to Las Vegas was the first time he had ever left Rhode Island.  Privately, he was a milk and cookies kind of guy who missed his mother and phoned her every Sunday.  Another part of this big galoot's unwillingness to leave home was a fear of flying and driving.  He was okay on a bus, in a taxi or as a car passenger but to move west, he took AMTRAK.  Therefore it was shocking that he got on a horse, (at the time, I joked that the other horse's were jealous of my horse because at 190 pounds, I was a twig compared to them).

Sometimes, I pushed the envelope with Pete.  Luckily, he thought my "jealous horse" line was funny. He also had a sense of humor when we wound-up at Denny's for munchies, at six o'clock in the morning.  Imperiale, Ianucci and I all had breakfast food but Izzo ordered "Dinner Italiano," (a.k.a. the slop Denny's called meatballs and spaghetti). 

We were all cutting up Izzo's odd choice up when Ianucci said, "Are you sure your Italian?"  In the middle of gulping his root beer Izzo countered, "Pure Sicilian!" Imperiale sneered, "Your mother would be so proud." Izzo interrupted our laughter by saying, "You assholes can drop dead! 'Cause I know when you see my plate, you'll all want some...and you can beg till you're blue in the damned face...but I ain't givin' up shit!"

Izzo dug in as soon as he was served. His contorted expression signaled to us that he made a poor food choice.  He moaned, "Yous wanna try this?"  We shook our heads.  To save face, he devoured the whole mess.  We had a good laugh at his expense when he looked up from the empty dish with red sauce all over his face.  Pete Izzo stated with a sigh of satisfaction, "That was pretty good. But these guys would make a fortune if they made pizza."  I looked at his sausy face and said, "You look like a friggin' pizza."  Then the joke hit me.  So, I modified the pronounciation and said, "Your new name is 'Pizza,' (more specifically 'Pete-Sza').  He didn't care so after that day, that's what I usually called him.

Imperiale and Ianucci left Slots-A-Fun for better jobs at the same time that I was pushing myself to get out.  On one of my last shifts, I crossed paths with Izzo as I was rushing in and he was rushing out. I noticed that he had a fresh, short haircut and cracked, "Hey Pete-Sza, you look different...what did you do, wash your face?"  He gave me a dirty look.  That look stayed with me because after I left the job, I didn't see him for several more months.

By December 1979, I was living with SK28 on East Sahara and dealing craps at Hotel Fremont.

I WAS AT THE FREMONT FROM SEPTEMBER 1979 UNTIL MARCH 1980.  ON THE NIGHT BEFORE MY FIRST DAY, I WRECKED MY CAR. SO MOST OF THE TIME I LIVED WITH SK28, I HAD NO WHEELS.

SK28 had no car either.  He was a pan dealer and break-in poker dealer at the Sahara Casino.  This was way before casino Texas Hold'em went viral.  So SK28, in order to qualify as a poker dealer had to serve an apprenticeship by acting as a Hold'em player to fill spots on the table during his breaks from dealing pan.

PAN, FROM THE PHILIPPINE WORD, PANGUINGUE (pan-geen-gee) IS A RUMMY-LIKE, 320-CARD GAMBLING GAME.  IT DATES BACK TO THE 1800's AND WAS INTRODUCED IN THE USA IN 1905.  IT IS NO LONGER OFFERED IN LAS VEGAS CASINOS AND CAN ONLY BE FOUND IN A HANDFUL OF CALIFORNIA CARD ROOMS OR ONLINE.

SK28 could rationalize not needing a car because he could walk to work, a shopping center and the bus stop easily.  One night, I walked to the Sahara to meet SK28 after work.  We had decided to eat in the steakhouse diagonally across the street, in the Jolly Trolley Casino, (by being on opposite sides of the jurisdiction border, Jolly Trolley workers required a police card and Sahara employees needed a sheriff's card).

The Jolly Trolley Casino was a bust-out, saw-dust joint with a terrible reputation for attracting low-lifes as clientele, dealers and managers.  To lure in gamblers, they had a seedy topless theater.  At the snack bar, (which offered a huge hamburger for 49c), if you sat in the right seats, you could avoid the cover charge and get a cheap thrill when the bouncer pulled aside the curtain and exposed the dancers.

While I was waiting in the Sahara for SK28 to punchout, I saw Pete "Pete-Sza" Izzo playing poker.  He was dressed like a knucklehead tourist and was toting a plastic bag full of Vegas souvenirs.  He whispered that he was a professional poker player and duped the so-called sharpies by having them think he was a mook (an easy mark) from out-of-town.  He also explained that he lived nearby and played a lot at the Sahara.  Similar to SK28, he liked living in the area because the city bus was convenient and made the whole town excessible.

We exchanged phone numbers.  Once I dropped by his apartment and we went to the Jolly Trolley for a burger, a beer and some cheap thrills.  He had two of each so my check was half his $1.98.

The second time we decided to have lunch at the Trolley, I was sitting on his sunken-in couch admiring his littered living room.  I was amazed to see so many partially-finished Fudge-Covered Oreo Cookie packages and the army of McDonald's chocolate thick shake empties.  I complemented his choice of cookies but added, "How can you drink so much of that aerated kaopectate?" as the phone rang.  Someone told him about a lucrative poker tournament at the Aladdin Casino. Pete-Sza excused himself from lunch and wasted no time in getting his faux-tourist uniform on.  We were going in the same direction so I waited with him at the bus stop, (same corner as the Jolly Trolley).  When he got on, I went into the casino.

THE JOLLY TROLLEY  (1977-1981) WAS LOCATED IN A STRIP MALL, (PARDON THE PUN).  IT WAS ORIGINALLY HONEST JOHN'S CASINO.  IT BECAME THE BIG WHEEL IN 1971 AND FROM 1975-1977, IT WAS CALLED THE CENTERFOLD.

I got my belly-full as well as many quick glimpses of the topless girls.  But when I reached for my baby blue billfold that I used as a funny gimmick, it was no laughing matter...it was gone...and I was penniless.  Based on their scummy reputation, I loudly made a fool of myself and claimed to have been the victim of a pickpocket.  That dump was used to vermin...except it was the bouncer accusing me of being a cockroach trying to beat a 99c check.  I was powerless to resist and was ushered out.  In the street, I was confused, mortified and angry.

A few weeks later, I got a new (old) car and a different apartment miles away. I fell out of touch with Pete-Sza again.  In that time, the porn star Marilyn Chambers did a one-women show called, "THE SEX SURROGATE," in the Jolly Trolley showroom. 

MARILYN CHAMBERS (1952-2009) WAS AT THE TOP OF HER CRAFT THROUGH THE 70's AND INTO THE 80's.   IN THAT TIME, SHE APPEARED IN 36 HARDCORE FILMS.

Ms. Chambers was supposed to use the Jolly Trolley opportunity as a springboard to the legitimate singing and dancing career she always wanted.  But her act featured full-frontal nudity during an interpretative dance as she pantomimed an orgasm during self-satisfaction.  Vice cops were in the audience so her first and only performance was stopped.

Months later, I got a call from SK28.  He said Pete Sza called and found my billfold in the cushions of his couch. When I was re-united with my Canarsie branch of the Brooklyn public library card, New York State driver's license, some pictures and other forms of ID, I was also relieved that all eleven of my dollars were still hidden in the secret compartments.

It was no surprise to me that the Jolly Trolley lived-up to its reputation and closed down in disgrace.  That's when a keno player hit the top prize $25,000.00 and the Nevada Casino Control Commission revoked their license because the casino didn't have enough cash to pay-off.

CASINO KENO IS A LIVE, INEXPENSIVE, LOW-PERCENTAGE LOTTERY-LIKE GAMBLING GAME. TWENTY OUT OF EIGHTY NUMBERED PING PONG BALLS ARE RANDOMLY CHOSEN AND THE PLAYERS WHO MATCH ENOUGH NUMBERS WIN.  IN 1979, THE JACKPOT WAS $25,000.00.  THESE DAYS, IT'S DOUBLE.

Today that strip mall boasts a true Las Vegas landmark, the world's biggest gift shop.

IN 2009, I TOOK MY FAMILY INSIDE.  AND YES ANY CHINTZY LAS VEGAS SOUVENIR YOU COULD IMAGINE IS FOR SALE IN THIS INCREDIBLY LARGE STORE.  MY ONLY REGRET WAS THAT I DIDN'T SEE PETE-SZA BUYING NEW PROPS TO SUPPORT HIS" INEXPERIENCED POKER PLAYER" SECRET IDENTITY.

These days the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce and Better Business Bureau have teamed-up with slogan; What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.  Now that you read this blog, you know the craziness out there...is nothing new.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM...THANKS FOR TEACHING ME THE FINE ART OF RESTAURANTING

AUGUST 22nd WOULD HAVE BEEN MY MOTHER'S 83rd BIRTHDAY. PLEASE HELP ME CELEBRATE HER GREATNESS BY ENJOYING THIS COLUMN.

MOM ON VACATION IN RIMOUSKI, QUEBEC, CANADA...SEPTEMBER - 1971



A few years back, I was eating with my mouth full.  When some of it went down the wrong pipe, my mother smiled, "You're just like me...even when you're choking, you keep chewing."  Her point was, we both enjoy eating so much that an idle death threat won't force us to spit anything out. 

If mom was young today, she'd be a foodie.  She had an appreciation for good eats especially the exotic, (Indian food, Thai, Turkish, Moroccan and sushi).  Me, I'm far less discerning.  I can't even spell cuisine without a dictionary.  So, I let my sister take mom to the fancy places she referred to as, Ipsy-Pipsy.  That means, don't waste your time, energy and money on me, I don't need gourmet specialties...just give me what I like.

But just because you give me what I like, doesn't mean it's good.  The perfect example of this would be the original Ray's Pizza in Manhattan.  Some how...since the 70's...the world's greatest slice has gone taken a belly-flop in the deep end of the toilet.  While you'd be hard pressed to find an Italian person working in the kitchen today...the recipe should be the same?  That means you can't blame the waitress, the counter man or the chef...all the accountability lies in the dirty hands of the penny-pincher who buys the ingredients.

In regard to cutting corners, one of my new readers, VJV shocked me by ragging on restaurant management, "I don't like to eat out...especially Italian food."  VJV was born in Italy and has owned restaurants.  The ultimate host, when you go to his house, you eat like royalty.  So much is homemade and even his store-bought items are so fresh, tasty and beautifully prepared, you'd think they were made from scratch too. 

During his rare trips to restaurants, VJV's family is sometimes embarrassed because he'd nitpick seemingly trivial matters like covering the ice reservoir, regular vacuuming and the necessity of pristine restrooms. When he was really riled-up, he'd confront in the manager/owner.  If the owner blamed an unmotivated staff VJV would blast, "No, you're cheap, lazy or both!  If they were trained well, this...that and the other wouldn't happen."

I believed everything VJV said until he added, "But I do like eating at the Olive Garden." 

SINCE 1982, THE OLIVE GARDEN, SPECIALIZING IN ITALIAN-AMERICAN COOKING,  IS A CASUAL, FAMILY-STYLE RESTAURANT CHAIN.  THEY NOW BOAST 800+ LOCATIONS WORLDWIDE.

I arched one eyebrow in disbelief until he added, "If you stick with soup, salad and breadsticks...that's one place that you know exactly what you're getting.  Besides, the only reason why you're there to begin with...is to socialize."



                                                                                 *


My dad passed away in 1995.  In his absence, mom and I arranged around ten visits a year, (a combination of her taking a casino bus to Atlantic City and me driving into Canarsie, Brooklyn).  When her mobility failed, the amount of visits stayed the same...with me exclusively driving to her.

The early part of my visits were dedicated to sorting out mom's personal affairs and running errands.  This was a time when my mom relied on Meals on Wheels or microwavable delights for many of her suppers.  So my visits were highlighted by early evening outings, usually to diners, (which in New York...is a good thing). 

My adventurous parents were always willing to travel to new places or return to far-off restaurants.  So once I put the bug in my mother's ear that I was getting tired of the same local hot-spots, she amazed me with a vast knowledge of eateries throughout Brooklyn and into Queens, (today we have the luxury of the Internet). But the old-school word-of-mouth network the ladies at mom's senior center used...NEVER failed, (she once hinted that the famous rooftop carrier pigeons of Canarsie were part of their information sharing equation but I'm fairly certain she was kidding).

AT BROOKLYN COLLEGE, ONE OF MY PROFESSORS, NICK PINGATORE SAID, "I'M EXCUSING CLASS EARLY IN HONOR OF THANKSGIVING.  PLEASE, EVERYBODY ENJOY YOUR TURKEY...AND THOSE OF YOU FROM CANARSIE...ENJOY YOUR PIGEON."

Mom's connections gave her insights to where to find valuable coupons and the best daily menu specials.  She knew who served lobster, Hungarian goulash, brolied fish, Romanian steak, lamb stew etc. Unfortunately, mom's health continued to deteriorate.

They say; when life serves you lemons...make lemonade.  So, I made more trips to Brooklyn.

Mom was bogged down with emphysema.  That meant we had to incorporate her oxygen tanks and a walker to our travels.  Luckily mom's personality always remained sharp so the new reality of her physical shortcomings were minimized by great conversations.

On my end, I researched better restaurants.  Being a  a casino worker with a strong customer following (primarily in roulette), I had a wealth Brooklynites to ask for suggestions.  A man I called "Z" because he was from Avenue Z, told me about Maria's Restaurante on Emmons Avenue in Sheepshead Bay.  Mom and I loved itt.  Plus, the owner/manager sitting with us, was a memorable touch.

(M and R) A cigar chomping jerk with an extremely pleasant wife hooked me up with Gargiulio's in Coney Island.  Mom had mixed feelings about that place.  Everything was great, except her condition made the one giant step-up into the dining room...like Mount Kilimanjaro.

IN EARLIER DAYS, MOM'S FAVORITE WAS FLORENTINO'S, IN GRAVESEND, ON AVENUE U.  WE HAD SEVERAL BIRTHDAYS FOR HER THERE, AS WELL AS  (LATE DECEMBER 1999), I THREW HER A MILLENIUM PARTY, (above).  WE ONLY STOPPED GOING BECAUSE THE LADIES ROOM WAS DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS.

Another of my regulars, Adam, a thirty-ish jet-setter surprised me by saying, "I don't eat out much in Brooklyn because I go to my mother's apartment every Sunday."  But he did add that Jordan's Seafood Shack off Knapp Street had a top-notch reputation.  And he wound-up being right. 

Tony Baloney, (the self-proclaimed Emperor of Kensington) recommended Thursday's International Cafe.  It was the remodeled coffee shop in one of those hourly-rate motels near Kennedy Airport.  Through mom's connections at the senior center, she found a grand opening, two-for-one, seven-course meal, earlybird special coupon. I don't know if it was the hideous orange and white decor leftover from the 70's, the musty stink that was covered by the thick stench of pine cleaner, the poor service or the fact that they were out of the glamorous items that lured us in...Thursday's was a dud.  But as VJV would say...we were there to socialize.  Plus we had the added bonus of being able to poke fun at the place for a long time.

One year, when mom's birthday rolled around, my sister and her family came to visit.  Mom heard through the grapevine that Ember's Steakhouse in Bay Ridge was the top-of-line and it lived up to its high expectations.  That day also started my son Andrew as a bon vivant.  Thus following in the footsteps of his connoisseur grandma and meat-n-potatoes dad.  It started when I ordered scungilli and calamari salad as my appetizer.

SCUNGILLI SALAD, MY MOUTH IS WATERING JUST THINKING OF IT...TO COMPLETE THIS PERFECT PICTURE, I'D WASH IT DOWN WITH A DR. BROWN'S CEL-RAY SODA.

Ten-year old Andrew looked at my plate, pointed at some tentacles and said, "Yuck!  What is that?"  I said, "Scungilli and calamari are the Italian words for octopus and a shellfish called conch."  He distorted his face and shook his head.  I said, "If you try it, you may like it."  He's an infintely braver soul than I'll ever be.  He ate some, liked it and still loves it.

At his age (hell, even now), if something doesn't strike my fancy, NOTHING on this earth can get me to try it...even mom.  Looking back, in situations involving me turning down such delicacies as; borscht, gefilte fish, cooked fruit or Brussel sprouts mom would smirk, "Good, that means more for me."

NO PHOTO ON THE COMPUTER SHOWS JUST HOW DISGUSTING GEFILTE FISH LOOKS.  FAR WORSE THAN RESEMBLING BRAINS, THIS ETHNIC TREAT OF MY ANCESTORS IS COVERED WITH A SLIMY GEL WHICH MAY HAVE PROMPTED THE SAYING, "I WOULDN'T EAT THAT WITH YOUR MOUTH."  P.S. BORSCHT IS FAR MORE GHASTLY AND SOME PUTRID THING CALLED SCHAV IS A GAZILLION TIMES WORSE. 

A week after the party at Embers, the casino had a restaurant owner convention.  I saw a delegate's nametag from West Virginia.  Her first and last name were Italian, as was the name of her restaurant.  I told her a fast version of Andrew's introduction to scungilli and calamari and she said, "What is scungilli and calamari?"

Most of mom's last two years were spent in a rehabilitation center.  Towards the end, I needed help getting her in and out of my car, causing our excursions to become far less frequent.  Her 78th birthday party was at Lenny's Clam Bar in Howard Beach Queens. My sister and my cousins Vicki and Sonny attended.

WHILE ANDREW WAS OFF PLAYING ANGRY BIRDS, SONNY THE PHOTOGRAPHER FORGOT TO SAY CHEESE

Mom's last birthday was at Brooklyn's Outback Steakhouse in Dyker Heights.

MOM WAS FRAIL BY THIS TIME . THE REHAB CENTER RECOMMENDED THAT WE DON'T TAKE HER OUT.  WHEN WE GOT TO THE OUTBACK, MOM COULDN'T MANEUVER HERSELF, TO HELP US GET HER OUT OF MY CAR.  HEROIC COUSIN SONNY (far right) STEPPED-IN AND LIFTED MY MOM OUT LIKE A FIREMAN.  I COULD NEVER DO THAT AND IF I TRIED,  I'D RIP THE VERTEBRAE OUT OF MY BACK   I RECENTLY REMINDED HIM OF HIS GREAT ACT AND MR. MODESTY SAID, "IT WAS NOTHING."

All these restaurant trips came to mind two weeks ago when Sue and I met our life long friends the Zymbiodelic's, ( ZYMBOT and FLOWGLO), for dinner.  It's unfortunate how infrequently we get together.  This time we met halfway between their mountain chateau in Central Jersey and our old homestead.  The place we decided on was the Artisan Grill, in Toms River.  To justify the beautiful Tuscan theme and a warm, comfortable micro-brewery, the menu was quite pricey.

Our conversation, as if we were with them the day before, never wavered.  We were so chatty that the waitresses was turned away twice because we hadn't scoured the menu.  When we did make our selections, everyone chose something different.  I picked last because I was blabbing so much that I still hadn't decided.  Everyone was waiting.  I felt rushed.   But I didn't have my glasses.  So I squinted well enough to see my old standard, veal parmigiana.  I should have seen this as an omen when the waitress said, "We don't have that on the menu.  We have chicken and eggplant parm but no veal."  Upon harder squinting, she was right.  Some Italian restaurant.  On impulse, I went with the eggplant...and it was awful.  Later, I commented that it was like eating an On-Cor frozen dinner. 

ACTOR AL MOLINARO WAS THE FACE (AND NOSE) OF ON-COR's TV COMMERCIALS.  HE WAS BEST KNOWN AS MURRAY THE COP ON TV'S, "ODD COUPLE" and AL DELVECHHIO, THE OWNER OF ARNOLD'S DRIVE-IN RESTAURANT ON "HAPPY DAYS."  CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO SEE HIM STAR IN AN ON-COR AD.
http://search.mywebsearch.com/mywebsearch/redirect.jhtml?searchfor=Al+Molinaro&cb=CD&p2=%5ECD%5Exdm003%5ES04317%5Eus&qid=d8d773761e884b31b324f701f1a0cb06&n=77fc41c7&ptb=D6B92608-79BD-4909-92A0-160CFD832118&si=CKuH4unForUCFQPd4AodLCEADg&pg=GGmain&action=pick&pn=1&ss=sub&st=bar&qs=&pr=GG&tpr=sbt&redirect=mPWsrdz9heamc8iHEhldEcgdjfjqpMajKYmz288FhTKQMkoOrq6%2BR%2Fz7%2FzOO9S3WrH4ww5G5oc7Wmk7aNOyGZw%3D%3D&ord=5&ct=AR&

Unfortunately everyone in our party was also disappointed in the Artisan Grill.  Like my mom and VJV like to say...we were there to socialize so in this case...the company was great and the expensive food was secondary.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!  Thanks for teaching me the fine art of restauranting. And if restauranting isn't a real word, I say let's make it one and credit you with its discovery.  While we're at it, let's also give my mother the proper footnote every time we use it.

More importantly, I hope the food in heaven is better than Thursday's !

1972, GETTING READY TO HEAD OVER TO LUNDY'S, THE BEST RESTAURANT (SEAFOOD), EVER!

Next time Sue and I hang with the Zymbiodelics, we'll see if Tom's River has an Olive Garden.

DEBBIE DOWNER'S BROTHER DINO

In 1993, I crushed my thumb with a hammer. I let out a muffled yet sickening yelp.  My wife Sue ran upstairs to investigate.  When she saw me writhing in agony, my ever-supportive mate shook her head and smirked as I recited chapter and verse from my, "Big Book of Advanced Profanity." 

I have no talent as a handyman.  Deep down, she knew I was a spaz with a history of making simple repairs worse...while usually hurting myself.  So I had no business hanging pictures. Sue's confidence in me was proven the previous autumn when I found out that she charged our palmcorder the night before I went up a twenty-foot ladder to clean leaves from my leaders and gutters.  She even put, "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST VIDEOS," on speed dial, in an attempt to cash-in on my anticipated accident...making their blooper reel.

Sue thought my thumb was serious and insisted that I call-out and go to the emergency room.  But I decided to gut-it-out.  My wound pulsated all day and was still radiating when I got out of the shower before work.  The reddish, brown, purple and black skin around my cracked nail was tough to look at.  By the time Sue finished bandaging me, it looked like I was trying to smuggle a lightbulb into the casino.

That was twenty years ago when I was new to dealing roulette.  So, I was uncertain if there was a casino rule that might prevent me from dealing that night.  I decided to give my supervisor a heads-up.  On the schedule, I saw that Dean Leopold, an ugly, tiny man with a shaved head, (before it was popular), was overseeing me that night.  He always had an intense look on his face and the prominent veins that protruded from around his beady eyes and tight skull looked like he were always ready to burst.

Dean (50+) was nicknamed "Dino Downer" because in addition to being unfriendly, he was a serial complainer.  Dino was famous for venting about his finances.  Those complaints led to his frustration about not being able to afford a divorce. Then he'd plow on about how his wife propagandized their only child against him.  But he hated one thing even more...his job.  Dino would whine about the special treatment his cohorts were getting, (he called them "Jet-Setters)."  He'd get so frazzled that the few people who actually hung around long enough to hear his rants would joke about him going postal.

Dino hated serving the public as well as the tedium and unnecessary paperwork that was at the core of his job description.  He had no interest in multi-tasking so on the rare occasion that he really had to exert himself, he put up a brick wall of pure attitude to close off added responsibility or went into a rage.  He especially couldn't stand the being accountable for break-ins, (someone new to casino work...or in my case, new to a specific game...roulette).

I knew Dino wasn't thrilled to have an inexperienced roulette dealer (me) that night.  So I was rather sheepish when I pointed out the gigantic bandage on my thumb. Dino snarled at me, "You think that's bad, look at these old shoes, my feet are killing me and I'm too broke to get new ones."  I changed my tact and said, "Can I deal with this?"  He bellowed, "I don't give a shit, it's your left thumb.  For all I care, you can push the chips with your stink-ass feet."  I shouldn't have been surprised by his reaction but was.  I said, "Oh." He lashed out at me, "How old are you kid?"  I said, "Thirty-eight."  Then the asshole said, "Thirty-Eight?  You're a friggin' baby!  In a day or so your stupid finger will be fine.  But just wait a couple of years...once you hit forty, all those little pains NEVER go away.  Then you become enslaved by your pharmacy and you'll be dependent on chemicals the rest of your miserable life."  I said, "Wait."  Dino Downer cut me off, "No!  You listen to me. In no time your body will start to fall apart.  Every couple of years you'll have another procedure done and the next thing you know, you'll always feel like you're dyin'.  AND!  The only thing that'll make you feel alive is that other guys your age have it worse."

The last thing I ever would want to admit was that ugly, little weasel was right about ANYTHING.  But when I woke up the next morning, I examined my thumb and I was okay.  In a short time, Dino was fired and I went two years without recalling his pearls of wisdom.

In December 1995, my family and I were visiting friends in San Diego.  One morning, I was rubbing the side of my foot and notice that the skin near the ball of my foot was cracked.  I used some moisturizer and forgot about it.  Weeks later at home, I noticed that the problem returned.

I figured I would gut-it-out but instead of healing, it got worse.  Then I sarted feeling other strange symptoms like; dry skin, body hair loss, always feeling cold and incredible levels of fatigue.  I was so easily exhausted that I had to rest while shampooing or brushing my teeth.  I couldn't even write a check without my hands cramping up before I got to my signature.  Still, I remained in denial until large, sensitive pimples formed on my tongue.  When I had three or more of these weird zits, it effected the clarity of my speech   I had never gone to a doctor in adulthood but I caved-in because...I thought I was going to die.

A SELF-FULFILLED PROPHECY.  COMMEDIENNE GILDA RADNER (1946-1989) DIED FAR TOO YOUNG.   SHE FREQUENTLY USED THE CATCHPHRASE, "I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE," IN HER SNL SKITS AS MYTHICAL NEWSWOMAN, *ROSEANNE ROSEANNADANNA.  ONCE I FOUND MYSELF OVER-USING HER LINE, I RAN TO A DOCTOR. *THE CHARACTER WAS INSPIRED BY ABC-TV IN NEW YORK CITY'S REPORTER ROSE ANN SCAMARDELLA.  WHETHER SHE THOUGHT SHE WAS BEING CLEVER OR JUST TRYING TO SENSATIONALIZE (OR BOTH) , SCAMARDELLA WAS KNOWN TO PUT A MICROPHONE UP TO THE MOTHER A MURDER VICTIM AND SAY, "YOUR CHILD HAS JUST BEEN FOUND CUT-UP IN A MILLION PIECES AND STUFFED IN GARBAGE BAGS NEAR THE AIRPORT...HOW DO YOU FEEL?"

Once I started feeling like I was going to die, I cursed the memory of what Dean Leopold said and researched a physician. Friends recommended a local doctor. But before I became acquainted with him, my easy-going nature was tested because I was stuck in the waiting room for an hour before I met the doctor. 

He was a short gentleman around my age.  Despite his Oriental accent and squeaky, high-pitched voice, my first impression of his manner and professionalism was positive. When he asked me to list my symptoms, I had only rattled off a few when he started naming others like, swollen joints, edginess and lack of patience before I could.  In seconds, he diagnosed my problem as an under-active thyroid.  I had faith in him even as I struggled to understand him say, "What you have can be easily treated and is not life threatening.  We'll draw blood today, prescribe medication and repeat the process every other week until we find the right dosage for you."

This scenario of me waiting forty minutes to an hour in his waiting room would repeat itself three times.  While there, the entire support staff was friendly and approachable.  So after giving my latest blood sample, I asked the petite receptionist, "To avoid the long wait, when is the best time for me to come...once I'm in, I'm out in five minutes."  She said, "Come at night.  Make a seven o'clock appointment and you'll be first after our dinner break."

I followed her suggestion.  But just before I went, my wife Sue had an emergency and had to rush out.  Rather than postpone my appointment, I took my son Andrew (he had just turned two).  Andrew even at that age was exceptionally calm and patient.  I took his favorite, "WIZARD OF OZ, " book and a couple of toys to occupy him...just in case.  As an extra precation, I arrived at the doctor's office five minutes early.  To my shock, seven people were already in the waiting room.  The receptionist was a stranger to me.  I said, "I have the first appointment for seven o'clock."  This tiny girl didn't look up as she twirled her hair and cracked her gum.  She used a pencil to point at the waiting room and stated, "So do they!"

Andrew and I had quiet fun for twenty minutes.  Afterwards, his patience withered so I had to control him from running around as well as I shush him.  I reopened his book and returned to the page with the flying monkeys.  But the time passed slowly and I was getting antsy myself.  Under my watchful eye, I let my boy freelance.  Andrew put a smile on some people's faces but one patient complained to the receptionist. She called a nurse, (I never saw her before either).  This woman reminded me of a five-foot, Margaret Hamilton version of Nurse Ratched.

VETERAN MOVIE AND TV ACTRESS MARGARET HAMILTON (1902-1985) WAS BEST KNOW AS "THE WICKED WITCH OF THE WEST," FROM 1939's, "THE WIZARD OF OZ."

Nurse Ratched was the villian from 1975's hit movie, "ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST."  I was reminded of her when my doctor's night nurse rose the hackles on the back of my neck by sternly whispering to me, "Wouldn't you agree that it's not a good idea to bring babies to a doctor's office." 

LOUISE FLETCHER WON AN OSCAR FOR HER PORTRAYAL OF CRUEL AND TYRANNICAL, NURSE RATCHED.

I wanted to tell this supposed emissary of mercy that I made a seven o'clock appointment at the suggestion of the daytime receptionist and expected to be in and out.  But before I could get going, the bitch shushed me and walked away.  Andrew laughed when I said, "There's no place like home.  I wish I could click the heels on my ruby red slippers and..."  I was interrupted when they called my name.

At ten to eight, another unfamiliar (and vertically challenged) nurse allowed Andrew and I access into Emerald City.  She escorted us along a long, yellow carpet through Oz, to wait for the wizard in his office.  Several minutes later, the Ratched clone, while reading my file, walked in and snapped, "What seems to be the problem?"  I couldn't stand her manner and wanted to tell her; you ought to see if the doctor can give you a brain, a heart and the courage to be civil. She looked ridiculous with my case history in her hand and having the audacity to ask me that.

It wasn't easy but I controlled my temper and pleasantly said, "I'm just here to give a blood sample."  She lowered the file, bent down into my face and spitefully laughed, "We don't TAKE blood at night!"  I lost it...loudly!  Maybe I could rationalize my behavior by blaming my condition but my book on advanced profanity really paid off.  In seconds, the doctor rushed in and all of his staff converged at the threshold.  A few patients came behind them and saw me lambaste the doctor.  He said, "Make another appointment when you're feeling more..."  I cut him off and shouted, "You're a moronic munchkin and you run your office like shit...and I'm not making another appointment...because...YOU ARE FIRED !"

Unfortunately for me, Dean "Dino Downer" Leopold was absolutely right about this one thing.  I'm still taking thyroid meds.  And unless I want to feel like I'm gonna die, I'm now taking pills for six others things.

AUGUST-FIRST-O-PHOBIA

It sucks! It blows! It’s hard to believe but true that a mere date on the calendar can breed disillusionment, disappointment and hatred in me. And although hate is a strong word…to me, when I was a ten-year old…August the first was not just a simple thorn in my side. It was a hint that the red death of plague (school) was starting a four-week incubation period, ready to fester and destroy my rapidly evaporating freedom.

In my adolescence, like a dagger through my heart, I recognized August first as the halfway point of the summer. This annual observance signaled my impending doom because I was never an enthusiastic student. So each August, I would torment myself to get in as many adventures and fun times as I could. But as a kid with few resources, I realized that there was little I could do to improve my circumstance. Far worse, this situation developed into pressure and anxiety. So much so that I am positive this caused my first sense of depression.

On the positive side, I believe this fear of August first (August-First-O-Phobia), forced me to develop a keener sense of urgency…in so far as seizing the moment. This was evident in 1976 when I hitchhiked cross-country, (I took Greyhounds too).

The night before I left with all the preparations made, my "friend" backed-out on me. Even though I was a college senior (twenty-one years old) and it was the last week of June, I was reminded of my August first syndrome.  I was so stoked to go…that I went alone.  Like the syndrome that signaled the beginning of the end, (of something good), , I understood that my carefree days of childhood were dwindling and that summer was my last gasp of worry-free freedom.

It is not an exaggeration to say that every day of my sixty-eight day odyssey brought new and wonderful experiences. While there certainly were slower days, the overall flow of my journey resulted in a continuous, connection of interesting stories.

Before I started, I mapped-out a rough itinerary.  I succeeded in making it to the majority of my destinations. But I used a feather in the wind mentality, so some desirable tourist attractions slipped through the cracks.

By the time August first rolled around, I was disheartened to learn from fellow backpackers that I didn’t take enough advantage of Beale Street in Memphis (the birthplace of the blues), missed the Astrodome in Houston, the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, the Monument Valley (the four corners of Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico and Utah), Yosemite National Park, the 1849 California gold rush area, Alaska, Yellowstone (Wyoming), Mount Rushmore in South Dakota and the Canadian maritime provinces of Nova Scotia, Newfoundland and Prince Edward Island.

IT STILL IRKS ME THAT I DIDN'T HAVE THE FORESIGHT TO REALIZE THAT I MIGHT NEVER GET ANOTHER CHANCE TO SAY I WAS IN ALASKA.

Still, I can take solace in the fact that I covered so much territory and that it’s impossible to see it all. Nevertheless, over the last 47 years, I would have hoped to have scratched a few more off the list but alas, I’ve only managed Yosemite.

BETWEEN LIVING RELATIVELY CLOSE IN LAS VEGAS, (1979-1984), AND BEING THREE HOURS AWAY, (2009), AT THE PETRIFIED FOREST (ARIZONA), I CAN'T BELIEVE I NEVER PRIORITIZED SEEING THE FOUR CORNERS.

Ironically, earlier this week, (August 1, 2013), the tiny town of Kanab Utah made the news. I was there during my cross-country trip for about six hours. A lot can be accomplished in six hours but I accomplished nothing.

This seemingly insignificant hamlet in southern Utah was part of the hitchhiking route I took with a guy (Will Raymond).  We met in the Grand Canyon and he wanted to show me a great time in his hometown, Georgetown Colorado. (The whole Will Raymond story was in a blog called, "THE STOCKHOLM EFFECT ON INTERSTATE-70," from March 2009.

Will and I learned the hard way that the generalization about NOBODY picking up hitchhikers in Utah (Mormon Country) was true! On the border of Arizona and Utah, we camped on the shore of Lake Powell. In he morning (with the air conditioned welcome center across the street), we waited three hours for a ride into Utah. Whether it was out of spite or stupidity I’ll never know but some joker picked us up and dropped us off twenty miles later, in the middle of the desert.

We had learned from this jerk's car radio that it was already 106°. So with few cars going by, no shade and limited water, we were sure to die there...with our tongues and thumbs out. Luckily, a pickup truck stopped for us. In the cab, the driver and his friend were Native Americans. The day before, Will and I were in Flagstaff Arizona.  That was when  two highway patrolmen stopped us to see if we were vagrants or runaways. When we checked out okay, one of the ignorant bastard cops warned us, “Don’t take a ride from Indians. They’ll drive to a secluded spot in the desert, cut off your hands and while you're running around in agony, they use you for target practice.”

My companion and I looked at each other. Silently we acknowledged that we had a better chance of dying from exposure…and climbed into the truck's bed. Our hosts only temporarily saved us because at a cut off for Yuba City, they too dropped us off in the middle of nowhere.

Utah is known for its incredible scenery…but not where we were. We stood, for over an hour, in a dull wasteland under a broiling sun. The occasional car that flew by, provided us with a short breeze that also stung us with a thousand dusty particles.

UTAH'S STATE NICKNAME IS DERIVED BY THE BELIEF THAT THE PEOPLE ARE INDUSTRIOUS, (BUSY AS BEES).  BUT AFTER SURVIVING THE NEXT THIRTY MINUTES, I THOUGHT THE NICKNAME MEANT, COME TO UTAH AND GET STUNG.

In the distance, one gigantic white fluffy cloud seemed to be coming near.

A LOCAL WOULD RECOGNIZE THIS INNOCENT CLOUD AS TROUBLE...BUT WE WEREN'T LOCALS.

I looked at the cloud and welcomed the possibilty of some shade. It crept closer and was almost over head when it changed from white to gray. The breeze picked up as the cloud turned dark gray to black. Suddenly the winds swirled and penny-sized hailstones fell from the sky. At first it was cool.  Then the heavens opened up.  We had no place to hide.  We were forced into a fetal crouch while covering our heads.  For ten minutes, painful golf ball-sized ice pellets zinged us from above as the dust from the crosswind sandblasted our sweaty exposed skin. When the unrelenting sun returned, we half-heartedly wanted more hail.

The first vehicle after the storm, picked us up. It was a big Winnebago with four generations of non-English speaking Germans.

FOR FOLKS WHO WANT TO ROUGH THE GREAT OUTDOORS WITHOUT ROUGHING IT, THE WINNEBAGO (SINCE 1958), IS STILL ONE OF THE MOST POPULAR MOTOR HOMES. 

We were unable to communicate with our benefactors so we rode in comfort while staring at them with uncomfortable grins. In the later afternoon, they dropped us off in oasis-like Kanab.

On the main drag, we found a shady spot in front of a filling station. Over the next six hours, several cars stopped…the folks inside sincerely wished us good luck…and left us behind.

Will and I were going to need a Plan-B because the last glimmers of dusk were giving way to night. Then like a knight in shining armor, a man in a dry ice delivery truck "delivered" from that hell hole.

For the next 47 years, my only discussion about Kanab told that story…until the tiny town made the news, last week. Coincentally, I saw the article…on August first, the dreaded anniversary of my personal depression day.

All this time, I was unaware that there is a tourist attraction on the outskirts of Kanab called, “The Wave at Coyote Buttes.” It is billed as one of the most photographed places on earth.

HOLY CRAP!  WHO WOULDN'T WANT TO SEE THIS?

In retrospect, it's frustrating to find out that I wasted so much time in Kanab when I could have taken the scenic hike to such a natural phenomena. I kept reading and found out that the terrain is so fragile that these days, only twenty permits are issued each day.  But the demand in the summer is so high that a lottery system is used to see who “wins” the opportunity to walk this uniquely beautiful, three-mile trail.

The article mentioned that hikers are issued required reading material that includes the dangers of the desert. I understood this necessity because similar warnings were issued to my family and I, when we attempted to hike down the Grand Canyon’s, nine-mile, Bright Angel Trail, to the Colorado River.

Some of the Grand Canyon’s reminders were:

• There is limited shade on the trail.

• The temperature gets hotter (up to ten degrees as you go down).

• It’s better to go early morning or close to dark.

• Wear a hat

• Bring plenty of water

• Bring healthy snacks like fruit.

In big print at the bottom, a disclaimer stated that helicopter rescues started at $2,000.00 and most insurance companies don't cover it.


To make the story interesting, we started our hike at 2:00PM, on a 100° day.

OH HOW SMUG WE WERE ON THE WAY DOWN...WE LAUGHED SKIPPED AND JUMPED UNTIL WE SAW SUPER-FIT PEOPLE STRUGGLING TO COME UP.

We had little water and a couple of apples. Our casual, joyous stroll down ended when we saw the condition of people coming back up. My wife Sue overheard a breathless Adonis say he wished he had given up and gone back sooner. At first we revised our goal, (to the first rest station 1.25 miles down).

We continued a drop further down, saw more people creeping back up the steep incline and fortunately decided to immediately scrub our mission.  We chose wisely because within fifty feet of retracing our steps, we were exhausted. We were never in trouble but it took an eternity to reach the top because we stopped to rest a gazillion times.  At the summit, my son Andrew claims he saw me humping a Pepsi machine...I know my tongue was scraping the floor at time but I still most adamantly DENY mounting the soda machine!

The Wave at Coyote Buttes article told the story of an Arizona couple who won (seven months earlier) the lottery for the hike permit. The jaunt was to be a part of their fifth wedding anniversary celebration.

ANOTHER VIEW OF THE WAVE.

The story explained that the rough, unmarked three-mile trail is easy to follow on the way out.  But despite GPS coordinates and other landmarks, it is apparently much more difficult to follow on the way back. Like others before them, the couple got turned around and disoriented.  After three hours of wandering around, the wife collapsed onto the sun-baked rock. The husband searched for service on his cell-phone.  When the rescue party arrived, his twenty-seven year old wife had already succumbed to heat prostration...and died. Far worse, this isn't the first hiking fatality at The Wave.  So maybe I’m not so depressed about missing it after all.