From way up here on the mountain, thank you America, for standing up for our country in November and starting to take back control of our government. You did good. And now..... Act II.
HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU AND YOURS!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
MORE TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST
Another Wednesday chronicle from my days with the Flat Rabbit Press. One thing I've noticed is that, like sales of the now defunct newspaper, readership of the blog is soaring. Thanks; I'm glad you're enjoying the ride.
Welcome back, pal.
Houston, we have a problem. I suggested in my last column that I might tell same tales from my days of collecting gambling debts, and I'll surely get started on that before long, but something else has been nagging at me. Unfortunately, when we get into the "something," I just know what it's gonna do to the esteemed editor and publisher of this gazette. I figure he'll no longer be esteemed, but just "steamed."
You see, when I save these columns to my computer, I use a file name like FRP20050731. FRP, of course, is the acronym for "FLAT RABBIT PRESS." The 2005 is for the year, 07 for the month, and 31 for the date. This methodology makes it so much easier to find files, because they line up in your index by date. That's my free computer tip for the day.
Now, back to the "FRP." It seems to me, tucked way back there in the cobwebs of my cavernous mind, that there was once-upon-a-time a comic strip where the main character, a fat old guy with a stovepipe hat, used to utter things like, "Fapppp" and "Frrrp" and such sayings in response to being caught doing or saying something wrong, or having someone go one-up on him. And, frankly, that's what's naggin' at me.
I don't think it was "MOON MULLINS," but it might have been. I know for certain that it wasn't "MICKEY FINN," or "NANCY," or "DICK TRACY," or "ALLEY OOP!" It's really bugging me. I mean, I've been sipping on grasshoppers for an hour now, and it still doesn't come to mind. By the way and as another free tip, it's so much easier to sip on grasshoppers if you spread their wings first.
So it is, my pal, that I need your help. I really need to know the answer to this most perplexing question before I venture into straight brandy, because brandy gives me the gout. If you know the answer, could you PLEASE… Oh, PLEASE LORD…. Cometh on down from your mount and layeth the answer upon my soul! CLEANSETH ME from my wicked ways and…. No, strike that last thought. I do so much admire my wicked ways.
If you know the answer, please send me an email at bullitts@frontiernet.net or drop me a postal card at PO Box 238, Burney, CA 96013 and I'll be most grateful. Or, is it "greatful?" Who cares? I'm into the brandy already. FRPPPPP! Who so evereth shall provideth me with the answerth, shalt be enterdeth into a drawingeth for a free sippeth of my brandyeth. Uh oh, dang thing's emptyeth! FAAPP!
There are sooo many stories that I can relate about collecting gambling debts. Many of them are fascinating because of the people involved. Most of them have a humorous overtone. A lot of them I can't tell, for obvious reasons.
In my day, I was the single best "phone man" in the business. Ask anyone. I collected more money on the phone than the Pope at Sunday Mass. My success was generally due to my injection of humor. My favorite line in the latter '70's was, "You ever watch ‘THE GODFATHER?'” Of course, everyone in the world had been to see that movie. "Well, unless you pay up, you're gonna' end up in bed with the OTHER end of the horse!" That single line probably collected well over a million greenbacks.
A cab driver owed the Aladdin $600 for a bad check. I had a guy working for me by the name of John. John would call the customer and meanly ask when in the hell the guy was going to pay up. The guy would consistently answer that he came in to pay last week, but that he couldn't make it past the dice tables and he'd lost the $600. John would go totally ballistic. Problem was, the dice tables were just outside the main cage where our offices were located and John couldn't understand why the guy just would not step on over and pay up.
One day, just for the heck of it, I gandered through the pit records and tallied up the customer's craps losses for the previous year. I told John, "God forbid the day that you collect that $600. It'll cost the joint $30,000 in revenue a year on the dice tables."
There was a another guy from southern California who owed the Desert Inn a lot of money for a long time. But, he'd always been a loyal customer and he and his wife had been on the splits. One day, he called me to announce that they had gotten back together and that things were going great with their business and, "Bob, thanks for bearing with me, how much do I owe?" He sent the money the very next day.
Well, we reestablished his credit line and he and his lovely wife came to see me and they gave me a very expensive knife set in gratitude. A few weeks and trips later, George called me to say that he'd like to come up as a "non-registered guest." That usually meant that the customer was playing hanky panky and didn't want anyone to know he was staying at the hotel. Of course, I accommodated his wishes.
On the day of his arrival at the Desert Inn, I received an unexpected call from his wife. "Have you seen George?" No. And, I did NOT lie! I had not seen him, yet. "Good. I'm staying across the street at the Frontier and I have, well, he's a gentleman friend of mine, and we'd like to see Frank Sinatra Jr. I've seen Wayne Newton's show so many times! Can you fix us up with that and, if you should hear from George, please don't mention I'm in town? I mean, he's in Omaha working his tail off on business and I just know he'd be angry if he knew I was in Vegas without him!"
Sure, sure, sure. And, yep! My next call was to George's room, no answer. I left a message. "Urgent you return my call." He didn't get it.
What are the odds? George and girlfriend end up in the Desert Inn's foyer on the way to see Wayne Newton at exactly the precise moment Sharron and boyfriend enter the foyer on their way to see Frankie Jr. Like I said, please pass the gray poop on! Yeah, the cops ended up on the bloody scene. But, at least, I had a good set of kitchen knives. Still have ‘em, too.
Holy Cleveland! Now the stories are zapping through the infinite resources of my mind like speeding bullets! I could fill this gazette with stories for the rest of the year! Next!
There I was, eyeball to eyeball with the business end of a loaded 45. It was an automatic. I knew it was automatic because it didn't have the little round thing that holds the bullets. I knew it was loaded because I saw the guy slip the clip in. Needless to say, I watched intently as he laid it down on the top of his massive and well-polished mahogany desk.
"Do you know," he growled, "I own the sheriff, the police chief, and the judges in this town? All I have to do is just reach for the gun and blow your ***** head off and no one, I mean no one, will ever know what happened to you." Succinctly said.
Of course, you're salivating. This is a classic movie scene. Where’s good old Marlon when you need him? But, what's in the cards, my friend, is that I will tell you that whole story in the next issue. And then, we'll talk about Bugsy Siegel or Howard Hughes, I haven't decided yet. But, I continue to have stories to tell.
Welcome back, pal.
Houston, we have a problem. I suggested in my last column that I might tell same tales from my days of collecting gambling debts, and I'll surely get started on that before long, but something else has been nagging at me. Unfortunately, when we get into the "something," I just know what it's gonna do to the esteemed editor and publisher of this gazette. I figure he'll no longer be esteemed, but just "steamed."
You see, when I save these columns to my computer, I use a file name like FRP20050731. FRP, of course, is the acronym for "FLAT RABBIT PRESS." The 2005 is for the year, 07 for the month, and 31 for the date. This methodology makes it so much easier to find files, because they line up in your index by date. That's my free computer tip for the day.
Now, back to the "FRP." It seems to me, tucked way back there in the cobwebs of my cavernous mind, that there was once-upon-a-time a comic strip where the main character, a fat old guy with a stovepipe hat, used to utter things like, "Fapppp" and "Frrrp" and such sayings in response to being caught doing or saying something wrong, or having someone go one-up on him. And, frankly, that's what's naggin' at me.
I don't think it was "MOON MULLINS," but it might have been. I know for certain that it wasn't "MICKEY FINN," or "NANCY," or "DICK TRACY," or "ALLEY OOP!" It's really bugging me. I mean, I've been sipping on grasshoppers for an hour now, and it still doesn't come to mind. By the way and as another free tip, it's so much easier to sip on grasshoppers if you spread their wings first.
So it is, my pal, that I need your help. I really need to know the answer to this most perplexing question before I venture into straight brandy, because brandy gives me the gout. If you know the answer, could you PLEASE… Oh, PLEASE LORD…. Cometh on down from your mount and layeth the answer upon my soul! CLEANSETH ME from my wicked ways and…. No, strike that last thought. I do so much admire my wicked ways.
If you know the answer, please send me an email at bullitts@frontiernet.net or drop me a postal card at PO Box 238, Burney, CA 96013 and I'll be most grateful. Or, is it "greatful?" Who cares? I'm into the brandy already. FRPPPPP! Who so evereth shall provideth me with the answerth, shalt be enterdeth into a drawingeth for a free sippeth of my brandyeth. Uh oh, dang thing's emptyeth! FAAPP!
There are sooo many stories that I can relate about collecting gambling debts. Many of them are fascinating because of the people involved. Most of them have a humorous overtone. A lot of them I can't tell, for obvious reasons.
In my day, I was the single best "phone man" in the business. Ask anyone. I collected more money on the phone than the Pope at Sunday Mass. My success was generally due to my injection of humor. My favorite line in the latter '70's was, "You ever watch ‘THE GODFATHER?'” Of course, everyone in the world had been to see that movie. "Well, unless you pay up, you're gonna' end up in bed with the OTHER end of the horse!" That single line probably collected well over a million greenbacks.
A cab driver owed the Aladdin $600 for a bad check. I had a guy working for me by the name of John. John would call the customer and meanly ask when in the hell the guy was going to pay up. The guy would consistently answer that he came in to pay last week, but that he couldn't make it past the dice tables and he'd lost the $600. John would go totally ballistic. Problem was, the dice tables were just outside the main cage where our offices were located and John couldn't understand why the guy just would not step on over and pay up.
One day, just for the heck of it, I gandered through the pit records and tallied up the customer's craps losses for the previous year. I told John, "God forbid the day that you collect that $600. It'll cost the joint $30,000 in revenue a year on the dice tables."
There was a another guy from southern California who owed the Desert Inn a lot of money for a long time. But, he'd always been a loyal customer and he and his wife had been on the splits. One day, he called me to announce that they had gotten back together and that things were going great with their business and, "Bob, thanks for bearing with me, how much do I owe?" He sent the money the very next day.
Well, we reestablished his credit line and he and his lovely wife came to see me and they gave me a very expensive knife set in gratitude. A few weeks and trips later, George called me to say that he'd like to come up as a "non-registered guest." That usually meant that the customer was playing hanky panky and didn't want anyone to know he was staying at the hotel. Of course, I accommodated his wishes.
On the day of his arrival at the Desert Inn, I received an unexpected call from his wife. "Have you seen George?" No. And, I did NOT lie! I had not seen him, yet. "Good. I'm staying across the street at the Frontier and I have, well, he's a gentleman friend of mine, and we'd like to see Frank Sinatra Jr. I've seen Wayne Newton's show so many times! Can you fix us up with that and, if you should hear from George, please don't mention I'm in town? I mean, he's in Omaha working his tail off on business and I just know he'd be angry if he knew I was in Vegas without him!"
Sure, sure, sure. And, yep! My next call was to George's room, no answer. I left a message. "Urgent you return my call." He didn't get it.
What are the odds? George and girlfriend end up in the Desert Inn's foyer on the way to see Wayne Newton at exactly the precise moment Sharron and boyfriend enter the foyer on their way to see Frankie Jr. Like I said, please pass the gray poop on! Yeah, the cops ended up on the bloody scene. But, at least, I had a good set of kitchen knives. Still have ‘em, too.
Holy Cleveland! Now the stories are zapping through the infinite resources of my mind like speeding bullets! I could fill this gazette with stories for the rest of the year! Next!
There I was, eyeball to eyeball with the business end of a loaded 45. It was an automatic. I knew it was automatic because it didn't have the little round thing that holds the bullets. I knew it was loaded because I saw the guy slip the clip in. Needless to say, I watched intently as he laid it down on the top of his massive and well-polished mahogany desk.
"Do you know," he growled, "I own the sheriff, the police chief, and the judges in this town? All I have to do is just reach for the gun and blow your ***** head off and no one, I mean no one, will ever know what happened to you." Succinctly said.
Of course, you're salivating. This is a classic movie scene. Where’s good old Marlon when you need him? But, what's in the cards, my friend, is that I will tell you that whole story in the next issue. And then, we'll talk about Bugsy Siegel or Howard Hughes, I haven't decided yet. But, I continue to have stories to tell.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
THIS IS THE TIME OF THE YEAR...
TO HAVE A BEER.
MERRY CHRISTMAS, MY FRIENDS
AND TO ALL, GREAT CHEER!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST
Well, it’s Wednesday again and time for more of my incredulous stories, wit and wisdom from my days with the FLAT RABBIT PRESS. Here’s another rehash of a column past….
Welcome back, pal.
As promised, this is my take of my three different encounters with flying saucers. But, I need to carefully lay out my case to you, so that you don't gather up a posse and throw me into the nut house. I’ve been in there three times already this year…
I have been a pilot and a topographical surveyor. It follows that you might say my abilities at observation of things and distances are honed a tad above those of normal folks. Okay, so I'm abnormal. So, just zip it. And, I have, in at least two separate incidents, been in a situation that others might glom onto as "proof" of UFO's; one was fairly recent.
In the summer of 2002, I was firmly planted in a soft lawn chair in the back yard of my Wingfield Springs home, (Sparks, Nevada). My friend Ernest, an ex-Marine, pointed to the sky and exclaimed, "Do you see that?" We saw two dots of light in the northeast heavens moving in what can only be described as aerodynamically impossible maneuvers. One dot was chasing the other at high speeds and radically abrupt turns. The natural conclusion would be that we were watching two highly sophisticated and advanced objects that should be classified as UFO's. Well, pal, now that I'm down the road a few years and somewhat more sober, I have to rationalize that no two UFO's are going to travel billions of miles across the universe to play tag in the atmosphere above a relatively primitive planet. Remember now, YOU'RE primitive and I'm just abnormal. Anyway, my guess is that we saw some government "Star Wars" technology being tested.
The point here is that I don’t automatically rule every strange object I see to be a UFO, unless of course, it’s being driven by a politician.
In 1994, I was chased down a desert road in the middle of the dark night and in Nevada's southern desert by extremely bright flashing lights; the multi-colored lights were so bright that I became unable to see to drive and had absolutely no choice but to pull off to the side of the road. My friend, I was scared beyond belief. I so sincerely hoped and prayed that the savage aliens who were chasing me would not haul me off in their saucer to some foreign world where gray beings might probe my belly button and discover lint. Well, the damned cop gave me a speeding ticket. Nevertheless, I will forever insist that he was alien, and he was gray.
Now for the real stuff. Back in 1964, I was given a TDY assignment, (temporary duty for you gringos), to Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho. My mission was to train a couple of guys to be surveyors. As part of the training course that I laid out, we took off in the middle of a dark summer night to "shoot the stars." That is, in plain English, we traveled away from the base and nearby town lights to use theodolites, (surveying instruments), to determine differences in angles between known stars. With that information, and a relative chart of the stars and the application of some geometry, algebra and logarithms, we could determine our precise position on planet Earth. These days, it's all GIS and GPS.
We were about two hours into this exercise when one of my trainees, (I'll call him Larry), hollered, "Jeeeeezus! Look at that light!" There was a moderate hill near us and we could see very bright and white light from the other side of it. The light had not been there when we arrived; otherwise I would have chosen another location where bright lights would not interfere with "shooting the stars." And, when Larry insisted that he had seen the light come in from the sky and land there, curiosity grabbed us.
When we reached the top of the hill, we looked down and saw several very bright lights coming from a circular object that was on sandy ground surrounded by sagebrush. The object itself, as I remember it, was made of a very shiny aluminum-type material. It had a domed center, which is the classic description of a flying saucer. What's more is that there were two "beings" outside. They were in shiny uniforms with some type of helmet and they were doing something to the ground while using long sticks.
Looking back on it now, I would have to say that they were gathering soil samples and I would surmise that their biological makeup was not compatible with ours or they would not have needed to be wearing "space suits." But, at the time, none of us looked back. In fact, we exited the hillside like bats out of D.C., threw our gear into the pickup truck, and vamoosed back to the base. Seconds after we started down the road, the bright light took off and flew directly over us and disappeared into the horizon, almost instantly. Yes, please pass the gray poop on.
We agreed never to report the incident or to talk about it. We all were aware of the endless scrutiny we could face if we tried to file a report. Although we never told anyone, there were soon widespread reports of UFO's floating around the base and the town of Mountain Home itself.
It was in 1976 that I had my second real encounter. This one was flat-dab in the middle of Las Vegas. I was working part-time for good friends, Bernie and Peg. They operated a small convenience store, called Stop N Go, in the northeast Las Vegas valley. I worked weekends, and it was nearing 11:00 PM on a Sunday night, almost closing time.
I was outside in the parking lot and hosing it down. Two kids who lived in the mobile home park nearby, were walking onto the parking area from the street when one of them jumped up and down and hollered, "Holy SHIT! Look at that!"
I looked straight up to where they were pointing. I can say that I could not see any stars in the night due to the bright lights from the city and from the store. What I did see was a circular object with both white and slightly orange lights at the perimeter that were flashing in such a sequence as to make it appear that there was an organized rotating light around the circumference. There was absolutely no noise or indication of motive power.
From my position directly below, there was no way that I could see whether or not there was a dome on top of the object. It appeared to me that the circle interior was dark. It was traveling from west to east about 3,000 feet above the ground and at a speed of approximately 75 mph. I watched it go over the store and then I walked to the side of the store so I could see it continue. It abruptly stopped, reversed itself and flew to the west and directly over us at an extremely high rate of speed.
A police officer showed up in the parking lot seconds later. He yelled out of his cruiser window and wanted to know if I had just seen a really strange object in the sky, which I confirmed. Two days later, the local newspaper carried an article tucked into one of the obscure areas of section C or D. It was a one or two paragraph story of "a few" local citizens seeing strange lights in the sky. Nearby Nellis Air Force Base was stating that the sighting was not on radar and there were no scheduled flights in the area at the time.
Another time I saw a flying saucer was in Las Vegas in 1979. I had just offered some congratulatory remarks to my then wife about having made a terrific dinner and, "Was that frozen, or did you make it from scratch?" This particular flying saucer came at me at astronomically high speed and from nowhere. I know for certain that it was a UFO from outer space because I never saw her throw it.
Anyway, I did give you something to think about. Wanna hear some tales about my days collecting gambling debts? Grab the next issue.
(Next Wednesday).
Welcome back, pal.
As promised, this is my take of my three different encounters with flying saucers. But, I need to carefully lay out my case to you, so that you don't gather up a posse and throw me into the nut house. I’ve been in there three times already this year…
I have been a pilot and a topographical surveyor. It follows that you might say my abilities at observation of things and distances are honed a tad above those of normal folks. Okay, so I'm abnormal. So, just zip it. And, I have, in at least two separate incidents, been in a situation that others might glom onto as "proof" of UFO's; one was fairly recent.
In the summer of 2002, I was firmly planted in a soft lawn chair in the back yard of my Wingfield Springs home, (Sparks, Nevada). My friend Ernest, an ex-Marine, pointed to the sky and exclaimed, "Do you see that?" We saw two dots of light in the northeast heavens moving in what can only be described as aerodynamically impossible maneuvers. One dot was chasing the other at high speeds and radically abrupt turns. The natural conclusion would be that we were watching two highly sophisticated and advanced objects that should be classified as UFO's. Well, pal, now that I'm down the road a few years and somewhat more sober, I have to rationalize that no two UFO's are going to travel billions of miles across the universe to play tag in the atmosphere above a relatively primitive planet. Remember now, YOU'RE primitive and I'm just abnormal. Anyway, my guess is that we saw some government "Star Wars" technology being tested.
The point here is that I don’t automatically rule every strange object I see to be a UFO, unless of course, it’s being driven by a politician.
In 1994, I was chased down a desert road in the middle of the dark night and in Nevada's southern desert by extremely bright flashing lights; the multi-colored lights were so bright that I became unable to see to drive and had absolutely no choice but to pull off to the side of the road. My friend, I was scared beyond belief. I so sincerely hoped and prayed that the savage aliens who were chasing me would not haul me off in their saucer to some foreign world where gray beings might probe my belly button and discover lint. Well, the damned cop gave me a speeding ticket. Nevertheless, I will forever insist that he was alien, and he was gray.
Now for the real stuff. Back in 1964, I was given a TDY assignment, (temporary duty for you gringos), to Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho. My mission was to train a couple of guys to be surveyors. As part of the training course that I laid out, we took off in the middle of a dark summer night to "shoot the stars." That is, in plain English, we traveled away from the base and nearby town lights to use theodolites, (surveying instruments), to determine differences in angles between known stars. With that information, and a relative chart of the stars and the application of some geometry, algebra and logarithms, we could determine our precise position on planet Earth. These days, it's all GIS and GPS.
We were about two hours into this exercise when one of my trainees, (I'll call him Larry), hollered, "Jeeeeezus! Look at that light!" There was a moderate hill near us and we could see very bright and white light from the other side of it. The light had not been there when we arrived; otherwise I would have chosen another location where bright lights would not interfere with "shooting the stars." And, when Larry insisted that he had seen the light come in from the sky and land there, curiosity grabbed us.
When we reached the top of the hill, we looked down and saw several very bright lights coming from a circular object that was on sandy ground surrounded by sagebrush. The object itself, as I remember it, was made of a very shiny aluminum-type material. It had a domed center, which is the classic description of a flying saucer. What's more is that there were two "beings" outside. They were in shiny uniforms with some type of helmet and they were doing something to the ground while using long sticks.
Looking back on it now, I would have to say that they were gathering soil samples and I would surmise that their biological makeup was not compatible with ours or they would not have needed to be wearing "space suits." But, at the time, none of us looked back. In fact, we exited the hillside like bats out of D.C., threw our gear into the pickup truck, and vamoosed back to the base. Seconds after we started down the road, the bright light took off and flew directly over us and disappeared into the horizon, almost instantly. Yes, please pass the gray poop on.
We agreed never to report the incident or to talk about it. We all were aware of the endless scrutiny we could face if we tried to file a report. Although we never told anyone, there were soon widespread reports of UFO's floating around the base and the town of Mountain Home itself.
It was in 1976 that I had my second real encounter. This one was flat-dab in the middle of Las Vegas. I was working part-time for good friends, Bernie and Peg. They operated a small convenience store, called Stop N Go, in the northeast Las Vegas valley. I worked weekends, and it was nearing 11:00 PM on a Sunday night, almost closing time.
I was outside in the parking lot and hosing it down. Two kids who lived in the mobile home park nearby, were walking onto the parking area from the street when one of them jumped up and down and hollered, "Holy SHIT! Look at that!"
I looked straight up to where they were pointing. I can say that I could not see any stars in the night due to the bright lights from the city and from the store. What I did see was a circular object with both white and slightly orange lights at the perimeter that were flashing in such a sequence as to make it appear that there was an organized rotating light around the circumference. There was absolutely no noise or indication of motive power.
From my position directly below, there was no way that I could see whether or not there was a dome on top of the object. It appeared to me that the circle interior was dark. It was traveling from west to east about 3,000 feet above the ground and at a speed of approximately 75 mph. I watched it go over the store and then I walked to the side of the store so I could see it continue. It abruptly stopped, reversed itself and flew to the west and directly over us at an extremely high rate of speed.
A police officer showed up in the parking lot seconds later. He yelled out of his cruiser window and wanted to know if I had just seen a really strange object in the sky, which I confirmed. Two days later, the local newspaper carried an article tucked into one of the obscure areas of section C or D. It was a one or two paragraph story of "a few" local citizens seeing strange lights in the sky. Nearby Nellis Air Force Base was stating that the sighting was not on radar and there were no scheduled flights in the area at the time.
Another time I saw a flying saucer was in Las Vegas in 1979. I had just offered some congratulatory remarks to my then wife about having made a terrific dinner and, "Was that frozen, or did you make it from scratch?" This particular flying saucer came at me at astronomically high speed and from nowhere. I know for certain that it was a UFO from outer space because I never saw her throw it.
Anyway, I did give you something to think about. Wanna hear some tales about my days collecting gambling debts? Grab the next issue.
(Next Wednesday).
Saturday, December 18, 2010
SCREW THE RICH?
I've been going through one of those rare lucid moments in my life when I can attack issues with some degree of intelligence.
The liberal left wants to take from the rich and keep it for themselves. Oh, they'll tell you they want to give it to the poor, but when is the last time your saw a rich liberal give even a dime to the Salvation Army? Those on the right will tell you that wealthy people and businesses contribute to the economy by hiring more people, so if you tax them, unemployment will stay high.
So, there's the crux of that argument. But, there's really more. It's the wealthy individual and business that has invested so heavily in research and development, and I'm talking hundreds of billions of dollars. It galls me that Bill Gates started his business in a garage with $1,000 and here he is in 2010 with billions and billions of dollars employing a helluva lot of people and the liberal left wants to take his money from him. To top it all off, think about what the guy gives to charitable organizations and educational institutions. Yet, without Bill Gates taking that initial risk, you wouldn't be reading this on a computer and I'd be typing it on an old, beat up Smith Corona.
In fact, without Bill Gates' software research and development, your bank would still be hand-canceling checks and taking several weeks to print your statements. Cell phones would not work, you couldn't pay for gas at the pump, carbon paper would still be in style... I can go on, and on.
Howard Hughes impacted, and still is impacting the country in the same way. What about the Waltons and... well, I can create a very long list here, and that's just of the super-rich. There's a huge, huge list of people and organizations in the $10 million to $1 billion range who have contributed in so many ways to our culture, our way of life, our economy, ad infinitum. The fact is, if it wasn't for the rich we'd still be washing clothes on a washboard and sending astronauts to outer space on a bicycle.
How about this thought? If you took all of the billions of dollars that billionaires in this country currently own and you used their money to pay down the national debt, you could not cover even one year's worth of government spending.
That pretty much tells the whole story, doesn't it?
The liberal left wants to take from the rich and keep it for themselves. Oh, they'll tell you they want to give it to the poor, but when is the last time your saw a rich liberal give even a dime to the Salvation Army? Those on the right will tell you that wealthy people and businesses contribute to the economy by hiring more people, so if you tax them, unemployment will stay high.
So, there's the crux of that argument. But, there's really more. It's the wealthy individual and business that has invested so heavily in research and development, and I'm talking hundreds of billions of dollars. It galls me that Bill Gates started his business in a garage with $1,000 and here he is in 2010 with billions and billions of dollars employing a helluva lot of people and the liberal left wants to take his money from him. To top it all off, think about what the guy gives to charitable organizations and educational institutions. Yet, without Bill Gates taking that initial risk, you wouldn't be reading this on a computer and I'd be typing it on an old, beat up Smith Corona.
In fact, without Bill Gates' software research and development, your bank would still be hand-canceling checks and taking several weeks to print your statements. Cell phones would not work, you couldn't pay for gas at the pump, carbon paper would still be in style... I can go on, and on.
Howard Hughes impacted, and still is impacting the country in the same way. What about the Waltons and... well, I can create a very long list here, and that's just of the super-rich. There's a huge, huge list of people and organizations in the $10 million to $1 billion range who have contributed in so many ways to our culture, our way of life, our economy, ad infinitum. The fact is, if it wasn't for the rich we'd still be washing clothes on a washboard and sending astronauts to outer space on a bicycle.
How about this thought? If you took all of the billions of dollars that billionaires in this country currently own and you used their money to pay down the national debt, you could not cover even one year's worth of government spending.
That pretty much tells the whole story, doesn't it?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
MORE TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST
More rehashed and reworked stories from my days as a writer with THE FLAT RABBIT PRESS.
Welcome back, pal.
In my lifetime, I've had more than my share of experiences that really boggle the mind. I'll relate them all to you in due time, but I'll have to settle for just one in this issue. After which, space permitting, maybe we'll talk about hookers.
I was Senior Loan Officer for a major San Francisco financial institution and my then wife and I were also co-managing an apartment and motel complex in Marin County. One day, my wife informed me that a tenant by the name of Susan had bounced her rent check, so I hot-footed my then suave, masculine body up to her apartment and knocked on the door. Undoubtedly, you know what happened next.
The door opened about a quarter of the way and there was Susan, about 5 feet six, young, luscious, blonde, well-stacked, and seductively posed in a completely see-through baby-doll negli-golly-whiz-gee outfit. "Hi," she purred, just as smoothly as an idling 1958 supercharged Olds with Hollywood mufflers. I explained who I was and that I was there about her bad rent check. She tugged invitingly at her silk shoulder strap and cooed, "Why don't you come in? I'm sure we can work something out."
It goes without saying that, being the loyal husband that I was, I exercised my very best judgment and passed on the offer. Besides, I could see my wife's reflection in Susan's front window; she was standing on the stoop in front of the office and watching all of the action. Susan did make that check good, but she bounced the next month's rent and split the scene. She left behind a lot of interesting adult gadgets, and I'm not talking about can openers, either.
Anyway, the wife was very pregnant with our first son, and we eventually decided to move to Seattle to be closer to her parents and to get me into managing a finance company. We also co-managed a housing complex and…. Yeah, how'd you guess? Susan was a tenant there and yes, she bounced a rent check. You know, that blew my mind away. It also blew Susan's mind when I knocked on her door. "You came all of the way up here from California to collect a rent check?" she asked. I gave her 48 hours to cover the current check.
Well, I was sitting at my manager's office desk at the finance company the very next day when I heard Susan explaining to my loan officer that her mean, bully landlord was dogging her for the rent. I pulled the loan officer aside and explained the situation. I told him to use his own judgment and to leave me out of the decision-making process. To make a long story longer, he decided to go ahead and make her the loan and to use the title to her car as security. When she sat down to sign the papers and obtain her rent money, I walked out into the lobby and spilled the beans. "You'd better never, ever bounce a check on this loan," I warned her, "because I WILL come to get you, and it won't be pleasant.”
Six months later, Susan bounced a loan payment and a rent payment and she disappeared into the night. This time and to my complete and utter dismay, she didn't leave behind any toys. I made it a point to skip-trace her myself and I located her in Surrey, British Columbia. One Saturday, my loan officer and I took a Saturday drive and knocked on Susan's door. The landlord of the place told me that we had barely missed her; she had moved out the day before. “But, I think the RCMP might be able to help you," he winked. The Mounties were good enough to pin her down for me and she was working in a hotel in Edmonton, Alberta as the “house organ player.” I won't go into details about what organ she was playing.
That's the last I heard of Susan for a very long time. As far as I knew, she never missed another payment on the loan, but I would eventually find out differently. You see, I ended up working at the Landmark Hotel in Las Vegas as the Executive Casino Host. I had developed quite a reputation in the gaming industry for collecting gambling debts, and the credit manager there asked me if I could teach some of the tricks of the trade to his new collector.
Yeah, you guessed it again. I ran across a $200 bad check written by Susan and she was working as a blackjack dealer at the Royal across the street. I told Mike that I'd soon have the money he'd been trying to collect for the last six months. You should have seen the look on her face when I sat down at her table the next day. "My God," she said, white as a pillow case, "you DID chase me down." Needless to say, I collected the money.
Pretty darned phenomenal, huh? What a story! But, it ain't over yet. About ten years later, I got a job offer at the Peppermill in Reno and put my Vegas house up for sale. The real estate market was in a slump at the time, and the agent suggested I should consider taking in a renter. Just like a jack-in-the-box and out of nowhere, up popped Susan as a potential tenant. She eventually did buy the place. Of course, I gave her an excellent credit recommendation. Well, what the bank doesn't know won't hurt them. They wouldn't have believed the real story, anyway. But, finally, that was the end of that story, I hope.
Now, let's talk about hookers.
While I was working at the Landmark, we hired a Director of Security by the name of Francis Lynch. The guy used to be a New York City Chief of Detectives I thought, but my friend Gary now tells me that Francis was a former FBI agent. Anyway, the guy dressed in $25 genuine gray polyester suits.
Mitch the Bell Captain came to me one day with a complaint that Francis had run all of the hookers out of the place. "I'm having trouble making my house payment," he lamented. I sized up the situation and decided to take Francis to lunch. That is worth mentioning because, in those days, I was tighter than a jock strap on an elephant. Okay, so some things never change; you do win that point.
"Francis," I confided, "it is a sign of good business to have a couple of hookers hanging around the bar."
"Why's that?"
"Well, hookers like money and gamblers have money and gamblers with money like hookers. If you have a couple of hookers hanging around, gamblers figure that this is a good house to play in."
The very next night, my girlfriend Debi collared me on the casino floor, (I was divorced by then, but Susan had nothing to do with it,). "What kind of a place are you guys turning this casino in to?" she demanded to know. I asked her what she was talking about, and she directed me to the lounge. I peeked inside the plush velvet curtains and, lo and behold, there were about 40 hookers in there.
"Francis," I said, after I chased him down. If I remember correctly, he was getting his tennis shoes shined at the time. "Francis, we've got to talk."
Next Wednesday, we'll discuss my three experiences with flying saucers.
Welcome back, pal.
In my lifetime, I've had more than my share of experiences that really boggle the mind. I'll relate them all to you in due time, but I'll have to settle for just one in this issue. After which, space permitting, maybe we'll talk about hookers.
I was Senior Loan Officer for a major San Francisco financial institution and my then wife and I were also co-managing an apartment and motel complex in Marin County. One day, my wife informed me that a tenant by the name of Susan had bounced her rent check, so I hot-footed my then suave, masculine body up to her apartment and knocked on the door. Undoubtedly, you know what happened next.
The door opened about a quarter of the way and there was Susan, about 5 feet six, young, luscious, blonde, well-stacked, and seductively posed in a completely see-through baby-doll negli-golly-whiz-gee outfit. "Hi," she purred, just as smoothly as an idling 1958 supercharged Olds with Hollywood mufflers. I explained who I was and that I was there about her bad rent check. She tugged invitingly at her silk shoulder strap and cooed, "Why don't you come in? I'm sure we can work something out."
It goes without saying that, being the loyal husband that I was, I exercised my very best judgment and passed on the offer. Besides, I could see my wife's reflection in Susan's front window; she was standing on the stoop in front of the office and watching all of the action. Susan did make that check good, but she bounced the next month's rent and split the scene. She left behind a lot of interesting adult gadgets, and I'm not talking about can openers, either.
Anyway, the wife was very pregnant with our first son, and we eventually decided to move to Seattle to be closer to her parents and to get me into managing a finance company. We also co-managed a housing complex and…. Yeah, how'd you guess? Susan was a tenant there and yes, she bounced a rent check. You know, that blew my mind away. It also blew Susan's mind when I knocked on her door. "You came all of the way up here from California to collect a rent check?" she asked. I gave her 48 hours to cover the current check.
Well, I was sitting at my manager's office desk at the finance company the very next day when I heard Susan explaining to my loan officer that her mean, bully landlord was dogging her for the rent. I pulled the loan officer aside and explained the situation. I told him to use his own judgment and to leave me out of the decision-making process. To make a long story longer, he decided to go ahead and make her the loan and to use the title to her car as security. When she sat down to sign the papers and obtain her rent money, I walked out into the lobby and spilled the beans. "You'd better never, ever bounce a check on this loan," I warned her, "because I WILL come to get you, and it won't be pleasant.”
Six months later, Susan bounced a loan payment and a rent payment and she disappeared into the night. This time and to my complete and utter dismay, she didn't leave behind any toys. I made it a point to skip-trace her myself and I located her in Surrey, British Columbia. One Saturday, my loan officer and I took a Saturday drive and knocked on Susan's door. The landlord of the place told me that we had barely missed her; she had moved out the day before. “But, I think the RCMP might be able to help you," he winked. The Mounties were good enough to pin her down for me and she was working in a hotel in Edmonton, Alberta as the “house organ player.” I won't go into details about what organ she was playing.
That's the last I heard of Susan for a very long time. As far as I knew, she never missed another payment on the loan, but I would eventually find out differently. You see, I ended up working at the Landmark Hotel in Las Vegas as the Executive Casino Host. I had developed quite a reputation in the gaming industry for collecting gambling debts, and the credit manager there asked me if I could teach some of the tricks of the trade to his new collector.
Yeah, you guessed it again. I ran across a $200 bad check written by Susan and she was working as a blackjack dealer at the Royal across the street. I told Mike that I'd soon have the money he'd been trying to collect for the last six months. You should have seen the look on her face when I sat down at her table the next day. "My God," she said, white as a pillow case, "you DID chase me down." Needless to say, I collected the money.
Pretty darned phenomenal, huh? What a story! But, it ain't over yet. About ten years later, I got a job offer at the Peppermill in Reno and put my Vegas house up for sale. The real estate market was in a slump at the time, and the agent suggested I should consider taking in a renter. Just like a jack-in-the-box and out of nowhere, up popped Susan as a potential tenant. She eventually did buy the place. Of course, I gave her an excellent credit recommendation. Well, what the bank doesn't know won't hurt them. They wouldn't have believed the real story, anyway. But, finally, that was the end of that story, I hope.
Now, let's talk about hookers.
While I was working at the Landmark, we hired a Director of Security by the name of Francis Lynch. The guy used to be a New York City Chief of Detectives I thought, but my friend Gary now tells me that Francis was a former FBI agent. Anyway, the guy dressed in $25 genuine gray polyester suits.
Mitch the Bell Captain came to me one day with a complaint that Francis had run all of the hookers out of the place. "I'm having trouble making my house payment," he lamented. I sized up the situation and decided to take Francis to lunch. That is worth mentioning because, in those days, I was tighter than a jock strap on an elephant. Okay, so some things never change; you do win that point.
"Francis," I confided, "it is a sign of good business to have a couple of hookers hanging around the bar."
"Why's that?"
"Well, hookers like money and gamblers have money and gamblers with money like hookers. If you have a couple of hookers hanging around, gamblers figure that this is a good house to play in."
The very next night, my girlfriend Debi collared me on the casino floor, (I was divorced by then, but Susan had nothing to do with it,). "What kind of a place are you guys turning this casino in to?" she demanded to know. I asked her what she was talking about, and she directed me to the lounge. I peeked inside the plush velvet curtains and, lo and behold, there were about 40 hookers in there.
"Francis," I said, after I chased him down. If I remember correctly, he was getting his tennis shoes shined at the time. "Francis, we've got to talk."
Next Wednesday, we'll discuss my three experiences with flying saucers.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
CONGRESS: A CESSPOOL OF ADDICTION
Like most children, I learned at an early age: when mom says "Don't touch!" well then, don't touch. Sometimes we simply had to ignore her; that's how we ended up burning our fingers on the stove top.
We just had a national election. We, the people, said loud and clear that we are sick and tired of "business as usual" in Washington. We made it plain as day that we don't want any more of this "earmarking" crapola. Right after the election, legislation was introduced to ban future earmarks. There was a lot of ballyhooing on the part of some Congressional circles to the effect that, every now and then, earmarks were essential and that all parties concerned were making a solemn pledge to the American public to minimize the practice. On November 30th, the Senate stopped the anti-earmark proposal by a vote of 56-39 along party lines.
Here's the first major piece of legislation since that vote, the Bush Tax Cut - Unemployment package, and guess what? Buried in the bill is a whole humongous pile of earmark dung, none of which is even remotely connected to the Bill at hand. Like drug addicts, they obviously cannot quit; they're looking mom straight in the eye and putting their grubby fingers on the stove top anyway.
They need to get burned, real bad. Third degree burns would suit me just fine.
We just had a national election. We, the people, said loud and clear that we are sick and tired of "business as usual" in Washington. We made it plain as day that we don't want any more of this "earmarking" crapola. Right after the election, legislation was introduced to ban future earmarks. There was a lot of ballyhooing on the part of some Congressional circles to the effect that, every now and then, earmarks were essential and that all parties concerned were making a solemn pledge to the American public to minimize the practice. On November 30th, the Senate stopped the anti-earmark proposal by a vote of 56-39 along party lines.
Here's the first major piece of legislation since that vote, the Bush Tax Cut - Unemployment package, and guess what? Buried in the bill is a whole humongous pile of earmark dung, none of which is even remotely connected to the Bill at hand. Like drug addicts, they obviously cannot quit; they're looking mom straight in the eye and putting their grubby fingers on the stove top anyway.
They need to get burned, real bad. Third degree burns would suit me just fine.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST
Welcome back, pal. If you remember, last Wednesday I announced something new for this blog. You can check back and take a look, if you want. Here’s some more great wit and truth from my past FLAT RABBIT PRESS days.
I was perusing one of this esteemed publication's would-be competitors a few weeks ago when something caught my attention. It was an article about how the casinos are embedding radio-frequency microchips into their gambling tokens so that they can keep better track of their customers. I have to admit that a wry grin crossed my handsome, rugged face.
You see, it was yours truly who convinced the management of the Flamingo back in 1970 that they should start asking for credit cards for room deposits. God forbid that they should offend a player in those days; these days, the casinos don't seem to care who they offend. And yes, it was me who was the first casino host in the business to buy a computer and to design a database that would allow me to keep a rudimentary track of customers, what they played, how much they bet, and what amenities they liked in their rooms. A good friend of mine, John Tihista, came along shortly after and he, I and another mutual friend, Ed Joyce, put together an extravagant piece of software that became the foundation of most of the good casino marketing systems in existence today.
Another good friend by the name of Steve ended up in Taos, New Mexico. One night, I called him on his cell phone and managed to convince him that I was trying out new computer software that would allow me to precisely locate anyone's geographical location at any given time. I capped the ploy by pointing out that he was in a bar in downtown Taos.
"Where'd you get that software?" he bit the hook. "How much does it cost?" I never did tell him that I could hear the jukebox and the clinking of the bar glasses in the background, accompanied by a patron's voice pleading, "Give me another one, Dolly!"
Have you ever stopped to think about how much data there really is out there in the ethernet? Just for starters, virtually every government entity has made its records available on-line. That's not just recent stuff, either. Some states have ongoing projects whereby data-entry specialists are busily converting tidbits into bytes, and they're going back in time to cover more and more history about you and me, among other things. Take the innocent record of a committee meeting in some old mining county, for example. If you were there, chances are a simple internet search for your name, coupled with Nevada, will turn up a hit. Try my name, and you'll see what I mean.
Do you, by any remote possibility, have electricity at your place? The power company has computers. Do you have running water there? Perchance, how about an old-fashioned landline telly? Those companies all have computers and the computers talk with each other. Now, let's add Sears, eBay, U-Haul, and the cathouse down the road.
Think you have to be a privileged, authorized muckety-muck to get your hands on this stuff? Give me your name and the state and county you live in, and I guarantee you I'll get back some info that'll pique your curiosity. I can do that for free; give me a couple of black chips, and I'll hand you your date of birth, social security number, military record, and stats about your neighbors! Give me three more black chips and I can tell you when you last had sex, at what time, where, and with whom. Yeah, for $500 I can get it all, my friend.
Did you realize that there are marketing companies that gather data on everyone, their relatives, their surroundings, their health, their insurance, their employers, their wages, their savings, and EVERYTHING? Did you know that there are companies that telemarket and that they have in front of them computerized information about you, your spouse, your kids, and the car you drive? When they go into a spiel about having you refinance your home at a low interest rate, they already know down to the last cent how much you owe on the house, who you owe it to, and how much the shack is worth.
I'm sure there's more than one company, but I know of one where I can purchase a few dozen CD's along with the software that will allow me to pre-sort every person in the United States who earns more than $50,000 a year, who plays golf, whose wife knits, who works as an electrician, who owns his own house outright, who drives a Buick Regal, and who does most of his shopping at a major discount shopping store. I can narrow that down by state, county, city, and street.
Do you prefer Miracle Whip or Best Mayo? Do you buy gas at Union or ARCO? How much did you spend in medical bills last year? How many pairs of Haines panty briefs did you buy last year? When you're shopping for Haines panty briefs, do you predominantly shop at Wal-Mart, K-Mart, Penny's or Mervyn's? What percentage of your family income did you spend last year on sweet dill pickles?
These days, you get a Social Security Number within seconds after you're born. Tomorrow, there may be a government agent there at the time to sample your DNA , (all in the interest of public safety, I'm sure), take your fingerprints and tie it all into to your Social Security Number. Then, your eternal computer record will begin, my friend.
Several years ago, the Smart Card was market-tested in Europe. The idea was to put your basic identification, all of your credit card and bank information, health problems and medical insurance, all on a microchip in a plastic card. That test was successful and the Smart Card is now in growing use in the USA. The pitch? You don't have to carry an Exxon Card, five bank cards, a driver license, your health plan card, and your belly-button size. It's all contained in ONE card. Isn't that great? Yes, when you're paying for your panty briefs, you have your choice of accounts from your Smart Card; charge MasterCard, American Express, your checking account, whatever. And now, the cashier clerk can smile at you and say, "I notice you didn't purchase any Depends today. You normally purchase three packages of Depends during your visit to our store. We have a sale today on Depends. Wouldn't you like to buy some Depends?" Nice, cheeeeezy smile, lady.
Wiley was playing blackjack and he was beating the house unmercifully. Each hour, the pit boss would wander through the casino and take notes as to how each table stood, (winning or losing), and about any particular players of note. Every hour, the boss would sidle up to Wiley's table and proceed to neatly stack the growing, but disorganized pile of chips in front of Wiley so that they could be properly counted. And, every hour, just as the boss finished stacking up the chips to begin his count, Wiley would swipe has hand across the piles and mess them all up again. Yes, each and every hour, the boss would holler at Wiley and tell him not to do that again.
Eventually, the boss approached Wiley and told him that he was about to do his "count." He admonished Wiley to keep his hands off of the damned chips until the count was finished. Wiley didn't respond, as he was cunningly busy winning his next hand. The pit boss completed stacking the chips and, sure enough, Wiley knocked them down again. This time, the pit boss was really livid. "I oughta throw you out of this place!"
"Man," Wiley smiled, "I won these here chips. They're mine. If you want to throw me out, I’ll cash them out and go home and keep the damned money and you’ll get your ass fired for being a dumb shit.”
Ponder all of that until the next issue, and maybe then we'll talk about hookers.
Aren't Wednesdays going to be great?
I was perusing one of this esteemed publication's would-be competitors a few weeks ago when something caught my attention. It was an article about how the casinos are embedding radio-frequency microchips into their gambling tokens so that they can keep better track of their customers. I have to admit that a wry grin crossed my handsome, rugged face.
You see, it was yours truly who convinced the management of the Flamingo back in 1970 that they should start asking for credit cards for room deposits. God forbid that they should offend a player in those days; these days, the casinos don't seem to care who they offend. And yes, it was me who was the first casino host in the business to buy a computer and to design a database that would allow me to keep a rudimentary track of customers, what they played, how much they bet, and what amenities they liked in their rooms. A good friend of mine, John Tihista, came along shortly after and he, I and another mutual friend, Ed Joyce, put together an extravagant piece of software that became the foundation of most of the good casino marketing systems in existence today.
Another good friend by the name of Steve ended up in Taos, New Mexico. One night, I called him on his cell phone and managed to convince him that I was trying out new computer software that would allow me to precisely locate anyone's geographical location at any given time. I capped the ploy by pointing out that he was in a bar in downtown Taos.
"Where'd you get that software?" he bit the hook. "How much does it cost?" I never did tell him that I could hear the jukebox and the clinking of the bar glasses in the background, accompanied by a patron's voice pleading, "Give me another one, Dolly!"
Have you ever stopped to think about how much data there really is out there in the ethernet? Just for starters, virtually every government entity has made its records available on-line. That's not just recent stuff, either. Some states have ongoing projects whereby data-entry specialists are busily converting tidbits into bytes, and they're going back in time to cover more and more history about you and me, among other things. Take the innocent record of a committee meeting in some old mining county, for example. If you were there, chances are a simple internet search for your name, coupled with Nevada, will turn up a hit. Try my name, and you'll see what I mean.
Do you, by any remote possibility, have electricity at your place? The power company has computers. Do you have running water there? Perchance, how about an old-fashioned landline telly? Those companies all have computers and the computers talk with each other. Now, let's add Sears, eBay, U-Haul, and the cathouse down the road.
Think you have to be a privileged, authorized muckety-muck to get your hands on this stuff? Give me your name and the state and county you live in, and I guarantee you I'll get back some info that'll pique your curiosity. I can do that for free; give me a couple of black chips, and I'll hand you your date of birth, social security number, military record, and stats about your neighbors! Give me three more black chips and I can tell you when you last had sex, at what time, where, and with whom. Yeah, for $500 I can get it all, my friend.
Did you realize that there are marketing companies that gather data on everyone, their relatives, their surroundings, their health, their insurance, their employers, their wages, their savings, and EVERYTHING? Did you know that there are companies that telemarket and that they have in front of them computerized information about you, your spouse, your kids, and the car you drive? When they go into a spiel about having you refinance your home at a low interest rate, they already know down to the last cent how much you owe on the house, who you owe it to, and how much the shack is worth.
I'm sure there's more than one company, but I know of one where I can purchase a few dozen CD's along with the software that will allow me to pre-sort every person in the United States who earns more than $50,000 a year, who plays golf, whose wife knits, who works as an electrician, who owns his own house outright, who drives a Buick Regal, and who does most of his shopping at a major discount shopping store. I can narrow that down by state, county, city, and street.
Do you prefer Miracle Whip or Best Mayo? Do you buy gas at Union or ARCO? How much did you spend in medical bills last year? How many pairs of Haines panty briefs did you buy last year? When you're shopping for Haines panty briefs, do you predominantly shop at Wal-Mart, K-Mart, Penny's or Mervyn's? What percentage of your family income did you spend last year on sweet dill pickles?
These days, you get a Social Security Number within seconds after you're born. Tomorrow, there may be a government agent there at the time to sample your DNA , (all in the interest of public safety, I'm sure), take your fingerprints and tie it all into to your Social Security Number. Then, your eternal computer record will begin, my friend.
Several years ago, the Smart Card was market-tested in Europe. The idea was to put your basic identification, all of your credit card and bank information, health problems and medical insurance, all on a microchip in a plastic card. That test was successful and the Smart Card is now in growing use in the USA. The pitch? You don't have to carry an Exxon Card, five bank cards, a driver license, your health plan card, and your belly-button size. It's all contained in ONE card. Isn't that great? Yes, when you're paying for your panty briefs, you have your choice of accounts from your Smart Card; charge MasterCard, American Express, your checking account, whatever. And now, the cashier clerk can smile at you and say, "I notice you didn't purchase any Depends today. You normally purchase three packages of Depends during your visit to our store. We have a sale today on Depends. Wouldn't you like to buy some Depends?" Nice, cheeeeezy smile, lady.
Wiley was playing blackjack and he was beating the house unmercifully. Each hour, the pit boss would wander through the casino and take notes as to how each table stood, (winning or losing), and about any particular players of note. Every hour, the boss would sidle up to Wiley's table and proceed to neatly stack the growing, but disorganized pile of chips in front of Wiley so that they could be properly counted. And, every hour, just as the boss finished stacking up the chips to begin his count, Wiley would swipe has hand across the piles and mess them all up again. Yes, each and every hour, the boss would holler at Wiley and tell him not to do that again.
Eventually, the boss approached Wiley and told him that he was about to do his "count." He admonished Wiley to keep his hands off of the damned chips until the count was finished. Wiley didn't respond, as he was cunningly busy winning his next hand. The pit boss completed stacking the chips and, sure enough, Wiley knocked them down again. This time, the pit boss was really livid. "I oughta throw you out of this place!"
"Man," Wiley smiled, "I won these here chips. They're mine. If you want to throw me out, I’ll cash them out and go home and keep the damned money and you’ll get your ass fired for being a dumb shit.”
Ponder all of that until the next issue, and maybe then we'll talk about hookers.
Aren't Wednesdays going to be great?
Saturday, December 4, 2010
SHOOT OUT AT THE CONGRESSIONAL CORRAL?
If you remember correctly, the former Democratic incumbents and staffers of the White House trashed it before they left at the end of the Clinton Administration. They erased emails and emptied the computer system, glued wrong keys onto keyboards, and performed a whole host of other deeds designed to let the incoming Bush Administration know that they were pissed off.
Childish? If I had been Bush, I would have rounded them all up and sent them off to prison for a week weeks for destroying government property, and the fact the Bush did not do just that was one of the first clues that he was not going to be a “no non-sense” President which we desperately needed after eight years of Lewinsky, et al.
Now that we have voted half of Congress out of office, we’re getting another payback, this in the form of sabotaging legislation that is essential to carrying on the business of the nation. I’m talking about the Bush tax cuts, the government budget, immigration… good God, man, the list is endless. And we elected these people to lead our country?
The best thing we could do to end this mess is to arm every damned one of them with an AK-47 and then lock the doors until the bullets quit flying.
Childish? If I had been Bush, I would have rounded them all up and sent them off to prison for a week weeks for destroying government property, and the fact the Bush did not do just that was one of the first clues that he was not going to be a “no non-sense” President which we desperately needed after eight years of Lewinsky, et al.
Now that we have voted half of Congress out of office, we’re getting another payback, this in the form of sabotaging legislation that is essential to carrying on the business of the nation. I’m talking about the Bush tax cuts, the government budget, immigration… good God, man, the list is endless. And we elected these people to lead our country?
The best thing we could do to end this mess is to arm every damned one of them with an AK-47 and then lock the doors until the bullets quit flying.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
THE HERMIT TAKES A NEW DIRECTION
Around six years ago, give a day or two, I was living in northern Nevada managing the Yerington Paiute Tribe in Yerington. Along came a dude from Smith Valley who was starting up a fun newspaper known as “THE FLAT RABBIT PRESS.” Since he was familiar with my journalistic prowess, he asked me to write a weekly column. I jumped right to it.
When I started the BURNEY MOUNTAIN HERMIT, my intention was to do a daily bit of humor and insight, but my vocation got in the way of things and I had to give up the daily gig and start writing as time permitted. That’s a shame, because my audience was growing rapidly and I really enjoyed what I was doing.
The other day, I was moving things around in my office and ran across some old copies of “THE FLAT RABBIT PRESS” and I thought to myself that I had enough material here to post as a blog on a weekly basis for a few months with just a little rewriting and I know people would enjoy reading it. The reason I know that is people were writing the editor, calling him in the middle of the night and chasing him down the streets of Virginia City screaming at the top of their lungs, “I just love the Unknown Scribbler!” That’s how I know.
So, every Wednesday I’ll rehash one of those old columns and stick it…. on this blog. What follows is what was my opening column; I chopped off the first paragraph or two, inasmuch as they are purely irrelevant here:
In the natural course of journalistic events, of course, you must sense that this column has been started and restarted countless times, as have the other columns that appear upon these illustrious pages, I'm sure. At this very instant and as you read, all of us whose writings appear in this publication are as nervous as a feline on a hot asbestos roof. For example, I fully understand that those other guys whose columns are appearing here are anxious to know what the "new kid on the block" is going to churn out. For that matter, we're all anxious to know what kind of publication that the owner, editor, and publisher is going to put to print, particularly after he chose the name for this journal.
We also surmise that His Royal Highness, His Majesty, (the guy with the money), is wondering what in God's name his star columnists are going to open with. I should begin with few biographical lines about my background and why I'm doing this gig. The plain, simple fact of the matter is that there's not enough room on the page to do that. Well, darn it, from my standpoint I am a man with a very deep and rich history. I have many interesting and intriguing stories to relate, as would anyone who grew up on an Indian reservation, who had a dad with his Doctorate's Degree from Columbia, whose mom had a very rich sense of humor, whose step-mom is Chocktaw, who spent 30 plus years in the gambling business, who manages a northern Nevada Indian Tribe, who has seen his share of UFO's, and ad infinitum.
Back to the "FLAT RABBIT" name for this journal. How does it relate to me, and where's it going to point this first story? Let’s roll!
Once upon a time, I was the Executive Casino Host at the Landmark in Vegas. We were having a "New Orleans" themed party for high rollers and it was to be a costumed event. I chose to wear a pink bunny outfit. There's a long, and much more interesting background that leads up to this story, but His Highness, the Editor, has limited my space. Pftt!
The party was held in the main show room of the Landmark. There were steps leading up from one end of the casino pit directly into the showroom. The showroom, as most were in those days, had ostentatious and heavy wooden doors at the top of the steps. For this event, the open bar and the welcome table were draped in plush velvet and located directly inside the doors.
When I arrived, the room was rapidly filling with participants. Most of them were players who I had met over the years and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that this was going to be "the party of all parties." Now, my friend, play along with me and picture a big, pink bunny who doesn't want his valued guests to discover who he really is until the official unmasking and judging. Picture a very big and round pink bunny head. Picture the inhabitant of the costume as being very, very, very warm in the furry outfit. Picture the bartender asking the bunny what he wanted to drink. Picture the bunny, most confidential and soft-spoken, choosing something cool, such as a gin and tonic. Now, and most urgently, picture the issue of getting the liquid from the glass through the big round head and into the salivating mouth of the occupant. Here's how the conversation went:
"Whad'dya want?
"Gin and tonic."
"Anything else?"
"Straw." The bartender, thinking I had said "Strong," poured a triple shot. I fended for myself and managed to get three straws stuck together to fit through the rabbit mouth. Damned, that drink went down the pipes lickety, rickety split!
"One more!" I gasped.
The bartender whispered, "Scribbler? Is that you?"
"Shut the hell up, you idiot!" I groaned. "I don't want everyone to know who I am! Just make me another one."
Halfway into the second drink, the heat of the moment and the gin of my choice joined forces to cause the room to spin counter-clock-wise to the Earth's orbit around the sun and…. I backed up myself up against the wall of the showroom to steady myself against the onslaught of sensory perception. Problem was, the wall that I was backing myself up against was the double-door entry into the showroom and yes, things were about to get exciting.
The doors flew open behind me. I hit the carpet like a ton of adobe bricks as my "head" popped off and went rolling down the showroom stairs and into the gambling pit. There, it eventually stopped rolling, resting, of course, snugly up against the patent leather shoes affixed to the feet of the General Manager of the joint. Yours truly was stretched out helplessly and like a wet dishrag at the showroom doors, surrounded by peacocks and elephants and a giraffe or two. Wow, what a moment! Truly, what a moment!
A few years later, I landed in Reno as Executive Casino Host at the Peppermill. That was in January of 1989 and the GM there was in a firing mood on my third day at the job. He had unceremoniously fired most of the sales department and a good chunk of the management staff when his secretary, Harrah, (truly her name), called me in to his office.
Phil Bryan’s reputation had preceded him and I was literally shaking in my cowboy boots as I slithered in. "Shut the door," he growled. "Sit down." My shorts were by now giving me a most severe wedgie. "Closer. Lean across the desk so I can see you better." Well, there I was, literally nose to nose, leaning across the desk and staring the steel-blue eyes of the General Manager of THE Reno Peppermill eyeball to eyeball.
"Scribbler," he whispered as he moved his lips up against my right ear. Oh, dear God, what a predicament I was in! I was stuck in a new house with big payments and in a new town and I instinctively knew that I was about to get fired. You know how it is; you can always sense awful and portentous things; those foreboding moments just chill your bones to the marrow. It my case, even my liver quivered.
"Scribbler! Pay attention!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Scribbler," he whispered so softly that I could barely make out the words. "Tell me the story about the pink bunny outfit."
Everything that you read on these Wednesday blogs will be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and I have some great stories to tell. In between Wednesdays, I’ll try and throw in some other posts as time and reason permit. I hope you enjoyed the start up. Regards, The Scribbler.
When I started the BURNEY MOUNTAIN HERMIT, my intention was to do a daily bit of humor and insight, but my vocation got in the way of things and I had to give up the daily gig and start writing as time permitted. That’s a shame, because my audience was growing rapidly and I really enjoyed what I was doing.
The other day, I was moving things around in my office and ran across some old copies of “THE FLAT RABBIT PRESS” and I thought to myself that I had enough material here to post as a blog on a weekly basis for a few months with just a little rewriting and I know people would enjoy reading it. The reason I know that is people were writing the editor, calling him in the middle of the night and chasing him down the streets of Virginia City screaming at the top of their lungs, “I just love the Unknown Scribbler!” That’s how I know.
So, every Wednesday I’ll rehash one of those old columns and stick it…. on this blog. What follows is what was my opening column; I chopped off the first paragraph or two, inasmuch as they are purely irrelevant here:
In the natural course of journalistic events, of course, you must sense that this column has been started and restarted countless times, as have the other columns that appear upon these illustrious pages, I'm sure. At this very instant and as you read, all of us whose writings appear in this publication are as nervous as a feline on a hot asbestos roof. For example, I fully understand that those other guys whose columns are appearing here are anxious to know what the "new kid on the block" is going to churn out. For that matter, we're all anxious to know what kind of publication that the owner, editor, and publisher is going to put to print, particularly after he chose the name for this journal.
We also surmise that His Royal Highness, His Majesty, (the guy with the money), is wondering what in God's name his star columnists are going to open with. I should begin with few biographical lines about my background and why I'm doing this gig. The plain, simple fact of the matter is that there's not enough room on the page to do that. Well, darn it, from my standpoint I am a man with a very deep and rich history. I have many interesting and intriguing stories to relate, as would anyone who grew up on an Indian reservation, who had a dad with his Doctorate's Degree from Columbia, whose mom had a very rich sense of humor, whose step-mom is Chocktaw, who spent 30 plus years in the gambling business, who manages a northern Nevada Indian Tribe, who has seen his share of UFO's, and ad infinitum.
Back to the "FLAT RABBIT" name for this journal. How does it relate to me, and where's it going to point this first story? Let’s roll!
Once upon a time, I was the Executive Casino Host at the Landmark in Vegas. We were having a "New Orleans" themed party for high rollers and it was to be a costumed event. I chose to wear a pink bunny outfit. There's a long, and much more interesting background that leads up to this story, but His Highness, the Editor, has limited my space. Pftt!
The party was held in the main show room of the Landmark. There were steps leading up from one end of the casino pit directly into the showroom. The showroom, as most were in those days, had ostentatious and heavy wooden doors at the top of the steps. For this event, the open bar and the welcome table were draped in plush velvet and located directly inside the doors.
When I arrived, the room was rapidly filling with participants. Most of them were players who I had met over the years and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that this was going to be "the party of all parties." Now, my friend, play along with me and picture a big, pink bunny who doesn't want his valued guests to discover who he really is until the official unmasking and judging. Picture a very big and round pink bunny head. Picture the inhabitant of the costume as being very, very, very warm in the furry outfit. Picture the bartender asking the bunny what he wanted to drink. Picture the bunny, most confidential and soft-spoken, choosing something cool, such as a gin and tonic. Now, and most urgently, picture the issue of getting the liquid from the glass through the big round head and into the salivating mouth of the occupant. Here's how the conversation went:
"Whad'dya want?
"Gin and tonic."
"Anything else?"
"Straw." The bartender, thinking I had said "Strong," poured a triple shot. I fended for myself and managed to get three straws stuck together to fit through the rabbit mouth. Damned, that drink went down the pipes lickety, rickety split!
"One more!" I gasped.
The bartender whispered, "Scribbler? Is that you?"
"Shut the hell up, you idiot!" I groaned. "I don't want everyone to know who I am! Just make me another one."
Halfway into the second drink, the heat of the moment and the gin of my choice joined forces to cause the room to spin counter-clock-wise to the Earth's orbit around the sun and…. I backed up myself up against the wall of the showroom to steady myself against the onslaught of sensory perception. Problem was, the wall that I was backing myself up against was the double-door entry into the showroom and yes, things were about to get exciting.
The doors flew open behind me. I hit the carpet like a ton of adobe bricks as my "head" popped off and went rolling down the showroom stairs and into the gambling pit. There, it eventually stopped rolling, resting, of course, snugly up against the patent leather shoes affixed to the feet of the General Manager of the joint. Yours truly was stretched out helplessly and like a wet dishrag at the showroom doors, surrounded by peacocks and elephants and a giraffe or two. Wow, what a moment! Truly, what a moment!
A few years later, I landed in Reno as Executive Casino Host at the Peppermill. That was in January of 1989 and the GM there was in a firing mood on my third day at the job. He had unceremoniously fired most of the sales department and a good chunk of the management staff when his secretary, Harrah, (truly her name), called me in to his office.
Phil Bryan’s reputation had preceded him and I was literally shaking in my cowboy boots as I slithered in. "Shut the door," he growled. "Sit down." My shorts were by now giving me a most severe wedgie. "Closer. Lean across the desk so I can see you better." Well, there I was, literally nose to nose, leaning across the desk and staring the steel-blue eyes of the General Manager of THE Reno Peppermill eyeball to eyeball.
"Scribbler," he whispered as he moved his lips up against my right ear. Oh, dear God, what a predicament I was in! I was stuck in a new house with big payments and in a new town and I instinctively knew that I was about to get fired. You know how it is; you can always sense awful and portentous things; those foreboding moments just chill your bones to the marrow. It my case, even my liver quivered.
"Scribbler! Pay attention!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Scribbler," he whispered so softly that I could barely make out the words. "Tell me the story about the pink bunny outfit."
Everything that you read on these Wednesday blogs will be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and I have some great stories to tell. In between Wednesdays, I’ll try and throw in some other posts as time and reason permit. I hope you enjoyed the start up. Regards, The Scribbler.
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