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.
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