The world has been so full of bad news these past few years, I thought it would be nice to brighten up your day with some good news. Obama is going to run for re-election. Isn't that just hunky dory?
You know, and all kidding aside, things have been so screwed up with this President that it seems as if we're just going from day to day waiting for the next shoe to drop. This country has been turned upside down in the last couple of years and I'd swear that Obama subscribes to the "divide and conquer" philosophy of leadership. He's got blacks against whites, conservatives against liberals, gays against straights, rich against poor, unions against non-unions... this nation is so fractionalized that some people have been diced up and spit out a dozen times!
I think the country has been awakened to the fact that we need to pay closer attention to the qualifications of the people we elect. Here's a guy, ensconced in the White House, who has refused all educational records, won't cough up a birth certificate, voted "present" in the Illinois Senate, and whose chief claim to fame is that he managed to shove a $1 trillion health care up our rears ends without our consent while bowing to our enemies.
Hopefully, this tragedy will never happen in this country again. When you stop and think about it, this country has not had a decent President in 22 years. But, we've sure had some winners as Vice President, haven't we?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
THE LANDMARK
Here's another tale or two of my past.
When I was working at the Landmark Hotel in Las Vegas, my favorite of all places I have ever worked, I was the Executive Casino Host. A very good friend by the name of Bill Hofferd was a casino host there and we got along pretty well with each other. One night, I had just heard from my girlfriend that she was on her way over from work, so I parked myself at the bar to wait for her. Along came Bill with a hooker on his arm and he gets to where I am sitting and introduces her to me, adding, “He’s a very high roller and looking for some good company.”
Well, of course, this gal was all over me like glue when my girlfriend came sauntering up to the bar, and Bill was ducking out the side door on his way home. Thank God my girlfriend knew me well enough to know that, when I told her what had happened, I was telling the truth.
The next night, I was standing in the casino when an irate woman came up to me and asked me if I worked there. “Yes, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”
Well, she started off on this long laundry list of complaints just about the time I saw Bill walking through the casino. I called him over to where we were standing and told the lady that she was in luck, here was Bill Hofferd who owned the place and he could help her with her problems. Then I ducked out the side door.
Yes, the two of us got along just fine.
I had a customer by the name of Morry who used to come in from Denver once a year. He was a consultant for a land sales outfit operating out of Pahrump, Nevada and was semi-retired. He depended on his Social Security and consulting checks to live. One night, he came in on his annual bender to the Landmark and sat down at a blackjack table next to a very inebriated high roller from the San Diego area I’ll call Jack.
Jack was betting $200 and $300 a hand at blackjack and leaning over to the roulette wheel behind him playing that at the same time. He was really stacking up the chips, winning almost every hand. Morry, always a $5 to $15 player with a $1,500 credit line, was soon drinking and betting $25 and $50 a hand. I could see trouble coming.
And, trouble did come. In the wee small hours of the morning, the hotel called me. Morry was up in his room on the 17th floor, handing out the window and threatening to jump. He had lost all of his $15,000 annual consulting check and instinctively knew that he was going to be in deep crapola when he got home to Denver. Security was in the room and they wanted me to talk to Morry to see if I couldn’t keep him from jumping.
So, I told Morry, “Morry, if you jump, I will never let you back into the Landmark Hotel.” He came back in from the window.
One night, I had three girls who all knew me well show up at the hotel within half an hour of each other. There was Debbi, who I had ensconced at the Sky Bar on the 27th floor, Susan who was in the coffee shop, and Tonya sitting at the Main Bar in the casino. I was going from one to the other, trying to figure out how to get out of this jam, and ended up back at the Sky Bar with Debbi, my real girlfriend, when I got a tap on my shoulder.
There was my pal Bill Hofferd with Susan and Tonya. “Bob,” he said, “These girls have been looking for you.”
See you next Wednesday.
When I was working at the Landmark Hotel in Las Vegas, my favorite of all places I have ever worked, I was the Executive Casino Host. A very good friend by the name of Bill Hofferd was a casino host there and we got along pretty well with each other. One night, I had just heard from my girlfriend that she was on her way over from work, so I parked myself at the bar to wait for her. Along came Bill with a hooker on his arm and he gets to where I am sitting and introduces her to me, adding, “He’s a very high roller and looking for some good company.”
Well, of course, this gal was all over me like glue when my girlfriend came sauntering up to the bar, and Bill was ducking out the side door on his way home. Thank God my girlfriend knew me well enough to know that, when I told her what had happened, I was telling the truth.
The next night, I was standing in the casino when an irate woman came up to me and asked me if I worked there. “Yes, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”
Well, she started off on this long laundry list of complaints just about the time I saw Bill walking through the casino. I called him over to where we were standing and told the lady that she was in luck, here was Bill Hofferd who owned the place and he could help her with her problems. Then I ducked out the side door.
Yes, the two of us got along just fine.
I had a customer by the name of Morry who used to come in from Denver once a year. He was a consultant for a land sales outfit operating out of Pahrump, Nevada and was semi-retired. He depended on his Social Security and consulting checks to live. One night, he came in on his annual bender to the Landmark and sat down at a blackjack table next to a very inebriated high roller from the San Diego area I’ll call Jack.
Jack was betting $200 and $300 a hand at blackjack and leaning over to the roulette wheel behind him playing that at the same time. He was really stacking up the chips, winning almost every hand. Morry, always a $5 to $15 player with a $1,500 credit line, was soon drinking and betting $25 and $50 a hand. I could see trouble coming.
And, trouble did come. In the wee small hours of the morning, the hotel called me. Morry was up in his room on the 17th floor, handing out the window and threatening to jump. He had lost all of his $15,000 annual consulting check and instinctively knew that he was going to be in deep crapola when he got home to Denver. Security was in the room and they wanted me to talk to Morry to see if I couldn’t keep him from jumping.
So, I told Morry, “Morry, if you jump, I will never let you back into the Landmark Hotel.” He came back in from the window.
One night, I had three girls who all knew me well show up at the hotel within half an hour of each other. There was Debbi, who I had ensconced at the Sky Bar on the 27th floor, Susan who was in the coffee shop, and Tonya sitting at the Main Bar in the casino. I was going from one to the other, trying to figure out how to get out of this jam, and ended up back at the Sky Bar with Debbi, my real girlfriend, when I got a tap on my shoulder.
There was my pal Bill Hofferd with Susan and Tonya. “Bob,” he said, “These girls have been looking for you.”
See you next Wednesday.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
A REAL SNOW JOB
Looking out the front window, I see without difficulty that there is a lot of snow to shovel. With a doctor nagging at me to get more exercise, I considered the situation carefully and decided that I have enough food to last until the snow melts, so screw it.
Up there in Wisconsin where all of those state workers are protesting about losing some benefits, my first inclination is to let them secede from the Union, but I like their cheese. I guess the union rabble-rousers really have things stirred up. No doubt, the S.E.I.U. and ACORN and the remnants thereof are on the scene at the behest, or at least at the blessing of, Sheik Mohamed Barack Hussien Obama. It seems that the left-wing Democrats see this issue as being a direct assault on their very existence.
They have too many bills to pay and not enough money, but Obama, the unions are the public employees don't seem to care one iota. Well, the alternative can't be to print money, since Wisconsin can't do that. The only alternative is to start laying employees off and, in a Reaganesque moment, that's exactly what I would do. Fire them... every last one of them. There are millions of unemployed Americans ready and willing to take those jobs without the benefits, just to get food on the table.
Up there in Wisconsin where all of those state workers are protesting about losing some benefits, my first inclination is to let them secede from the Union, but I like their cheese. I guess the union rabble-rousers really have things stirred up. No doubt, the S.E.I.U. and ACORN and the remnants thereof are on the scene at the behest, or at least at the blessing of, Sheik Mohamed Barack Hussien Obama. It seems that the left-wing Democrats see this issue as being a direct assault on their very existence.
They have too many bills to pay and not enough money, but Obama, the unions are the public employees don't seem to care one iota. Well, the alternative can't be to print money, since Wisconsin can't do that. The only alternative is to start laying employees off and, in a Reaganesque moment, that's exactly what I would do. Fire them... every last one of them. There are millions of unemployed Americans ready and willing to take those jobs without the benefits, just to get food on the table.
HELLO UP THERE you cheeseheads! Listen up! You CAN be replaced! And, unless you come to the table, you should be.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST: Pillow Talk
Now, we graduate from the FLAT RABBIT PRESS to more current writings of importance.
The last time I replaced pillows in this house was back before FDR was elected President. I mean, these feather pillows were getting rather raunchy. Even the mice moved out.
So, I started looking on the Internet and found what I wanted at Amazon.com and placed the order for two pillows and two pillow covers. Ten days later, four pillows arrived and no pillow covers. So, I called Amazon and got the traditional 40 days and 40 nights of hold time before I finally got to speak to a live person. They were apologetic enough, told me to keep the extra two pillows and they would send the covers right away. “Well,” I said, in that case send me four pillow covers and I’ll use the extra pillows for company.”
About ten days later, four more pillows arrived. So, I decided to switch tactics and ordered four pillow covers from Wal-Mart.com. Now, these guys are fast with the delivery. Four days later, four pillows arrived. By now, the mice had decided to move back in.
I emailed Wal-Mart. No more phone calls for me, I decided; I want everything in writing. Back came the reply, lickety split: “I can attempt to have the manufacturer send you a replacement part. It can take up to 14 days to receive a replacement part.” How many parts does a pillow have, anyway? Or a pillow cover, for that matter.
And by the way, I just got an email from Amazon.com. It seems they’re having a sale and they thought I’d like to buy some pillow covers for my recently purchased pillows.
And people wonder why I drink.
I was working in the accounting department at the Flamingo back in 1971. It was located on the third floor near the Sky Room. Just inside the door sat a fat old Jewish broad named Delores. I think the boss had her sit there to scare away salesmen; her looks would intimidate a grizzly bear in heat. And, she had the disposition to go along with her looks; she was obnoxiously grouchy and downright mean.
My wife had just delivered our second son. As it so happens, her gynecologist was also an obstetrician and he was also Delores’ gynecologist, although I didn’t know it at the time. Well, I was walking into the office after a few days off, and carrying a ton of interoffice mail in a big box. Delores nailed me. “I hope you are happy with yourself,” she snarled.
“Why, what did I do?” I asked, as I tried desperately to shuffle past her fat butt.
“Your wife made me miss my gynecologist’s appointment,” she stated. “I do not appreciate that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Doctor Eithe is not just an obstetrician, you know. He also is my gynecologist and I had an appointment last Friday at 2:00 PM and he was out of the office delivering your son, and I do not appreciate that.”
I’d had it with this woman, and she was about to feel my wrath. “That explains it,” I said.
“Explains what?”
“All of this time, we all here thought you were just fat, but it now turns out you’re pregnant.”
Kabooom! Her feet hit the floor and she went charging into the boss’ office like a bull-elephant. I heard his office door slam shut and a whole lot of screaming going on.
After a few minutes, when I was at my desk watching the rest of the staff trying not to laugh, Delores came out, grabbed some things off of her desk and headed out the door. The boss immediately hollered for me to get into his office, right now. “Did you actually say that?” he thundered.
“Well, yes.” I copped the plea.
“Do you realize that her husband is a stockholder in this hotel? Do you realize she’s been employed here for eighteen years? Do you realize that you just pissed off a former winner of the Employee of the Year Award?”
“After all she has done to this department and her attitude, I couldn’t think of any other way to handle it,” I muttered.
“Well, you know what?” he glowered. “You might think you’re God’s gift to the casino business, but I will forever be known as the one who fired her sorry ass.”
See you next Wednesday.
The last time I replaced pillows in this house was back before FDR was elected President. I mean, these feather pillows were getting rather raunchy. Even the mice moved out.
So, I started looking on the Internet and found what I wanted at Amazon.com and placed the order for two pillows and two pillow covers. Ten days later, four pillows arrived and no pillow covers. So, I called Amazon and got the traditional 40 days and 40 nights of hold time before I finally got to speak to a live person. They were apologetic enough, told me to keep the extra two pillows and they would send the covers right away. “Well,” I said, in that case send me four pillow covers and I’ll use the extra pillows for company.”
About ten days later, four more pillows arrived. So, I decided to switch tactics and ordered four pillow covers from Wal-Mart.com. Now, these guys are fast with the delivery. Four days later, four pillows arrived. By now, the mice had decided to move back in.
I emailed Wal-Mart. No more phone calls for me, I decided; I want everything in writing. Back came the reply, lickety split: “I can attempt to have the manufacturer send you a replacement part. It can take up to 14 days to receive a replacement part.” How many parts does a pillow have, anyway? Or a pillow cover, for that matter.
And by the way, I just got an email from Amazon.com. It seems they’re having a sale and they thought I’d like to buy some pillow covers for my recently purchased pillows.
And people wonder why I drink.
I was working in the accounting department at the Flamingo back in 1971. It was located on the third floor near the Sky Room. Just inside the door sat a fat old Jewish broad named Delores. I think the boss had her sit there to scare away salesmen; her looks would intimidate a grizzly bear in heat. And, she had the disposition to go along with her looks; she was obnoxiously grouchy and downright mean.
My wife had just delivered our second son. As it so happens, her gynecologist was also an obstetrician and he was also Delores’ gynecologist, although I didn’t know it at the time. Well, I was walking into the office after a few days off, and carrying a ton of interoffice mail in a big box. Delores nailed me. “I hope you are happy with yourself,” she snarled.
“Why, what did I do?” I asked, as I tried desperately to shuffle past her fat butt.
“Your wife made me miss my gynecologist’s appointment,” she stated. “I do not appreciate that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Doctor Eithe is not just an obstetrician, you know. He also is my gynecologist and I had an appointment last Friday at 2:00 PM and he was out of the office delivering your son, and I do not appreciate that.”
I’d had it with this woman, and she was about to feel my wrath. “That explains it,” I said.
“Explains what?”
“All of this time, we all here thought you were just fat, but it now turns out you’re pregnant.”
Kabooom! Her feet hit the floor and she went charging into the boss’ office like a bull-elephant. I heard his office door slam shut and a whole lot of screaming going on.
After a few minutes, when I was at my desk watching the rest of the staff trying not to laugh, Delores came out, grabbed some things off of her desk and headed out the door. The boss immediately hollered for me to get into his office, right now. “Did you actually say that?” he thundered.
“Well, yes.” I copped the plea.
“Do you realize that her husband is a stockholder in this hotel? Do you realize she’s been employed here for eighteen years? Do you realize that you just pissed off a former winner of the Employee of the Year Award?”
“After all she has done to this department and her attitude, I couldn’t think of any other way to handle it,” I muttered.
“Well, you know what?” he glowered. “You might think you’re God’s gift to the casino business, but I will forever be known as the one who fired her sorry ass.”
See you next Wednesday.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
BURNEY, GOD'S GIFT TO MANKIND
Well, if you didn't attend the American Legion Valentine's Sunday Breakfast at the VFW Hall in Burney, you missed one helluva bash. The place was all decorated up with streamers and they had roses, heart-shaped pancakes in blueberry, chocolate or strawberry flavors... It was great. It almost reminded me of that time Nancy Pelosi invited George Bush over for dinner.
Really, you did miss something special. That's one of the many great things about living in a small community in the mountains; people get along. I've never seen a single town resident flipping his finger off at a bad driver. People stand on the sidewalks and talk instead of pretending they don't see each other. The other day, a far-left liberal came through town and managed to make it from once end to the other without getting shot, which actually is a sign that most CCW Permit holders had left their guns at home that day.
When you go into the grocery store... there's only one in town... it's so friendly even the hams are smiling. The town is so small that there's really only one sharp looking babe around, and she's in a bassinet. The high school is going to graduate 17 students this year and they're going to have 14 valedictorians. The air is fresh and so are the guys.
I am so glad that I don't live in Vegas or Reno anymore.
Really, you did miss something special. That's one of the many great things about living in a small community in the mountains; people get along. I've never seen a single town resident flipping his finger off at a bad driver. People stand on the sidewalks and talk instead of pretending they don't see each other. The other day, a far-left liberal came through town and managed to make it from once end to the other without getting shot, which actually is a sign that most CCW Permit holders had left their guns at home that day.
When you go into the grocery store... there's only one in town... it's so friendly even the hams are smiling. The town is so small that there's really only one sharp looking babe around, and she's in a bassinet. The high school is going to graduate 17 students this year and they're going to have 14 valedictorians. The air is fresh and so are the guys.
I am so glad that I don't live in Vegas or Reno anymore.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
WILD WILD WORST: Bad Bird Story
Back in my days as a guest writer for the FLAT RABBIT PRESS, we were all unaware of impending disaster in the form of the Avian Flu. I have taken my story on that calamity that never happened and modified it slightly to fit today’s world.
Here's a horrible take on a coming future human disaster that's bigger than the West Nile Virus and Katrina combined. The more I dig into it, the more scared and the madder I get, and I definitely am not an alarmist.
I had vaguely heard the terms "Bird Flu," "Avian Flu" and "Bird Flu Pandemic" before I recently heard Dr. Gary C. Ridenour from Fallon, Nevada say, on a current affairs program on Reno AM Radio Station KKOH, (known locally as KOH 780), that there are imminent dangers to public health from "Avian Flu." This disease is currently raging through parts of China, all of North Korea, and other parts of the Asian Continent. Plus, it's extremely deadly.
Yes, it started with birds and it adapted itself very quickly to the human species. It is highly contagious when first contracted by a human, but it displays no real symptoms until two weeks after one is infected. This means that you can contract and carry the disease and infect hundreds, even thousands of people before you get sick yourself. That factor makes it very difficult to screen carriers out at airports and, in turn, that means the disease can and will travel all over the world very quickly. Although, as of this writing, there have been no reported cases in the United States, in could be only a matter of days… weeks at the most… before we're in the "bird soup," so to speak.
The Federal Government is aware of this coming horror. The flue is already in Russia and heading into other major parts of Europe. Sadly, not only are the U.S. Government and the news media ignoring "Avian Flu" but, the preparations for combating it are almost non-existent. According to the August 29, 2005 issue of U.S. NEWS & WORLD REPORT, this pandemic could infect 90 million Americans and kill more than 200,000. In fact, Dr. Ridenour reports that the fatality rate is running at 30% in Asia; that would tally to 30 million deaths in the United States alone!
Less than 2.5 millions doses of vaccine have been prepared, no more are in the pipeline, and it takes six months to produce. The Department of Health and Human Services has been working on a plan, not to be finished before the end of September 2005. With the coming health issues of the New Orleans area yet to be dealt with, the probability is that the bird flu plan will be pushed back into November or December.
This is tough stuff. Mass burials are inevitable. Hospitals will be unable to deal with the numbers of sick and dying. Those infected must and will be quarantined into their homes for a month or more. Food and other necessities of daily life will have to be delivered and few will want to risk the probability of infection by making such a delivery.
This story is not made up. I looked in the Internet and discovered that the Center for Disease Control and Prevention is painfully aware of what's coming. There is a whole bunch of available information to document the warning being presented here. More information is available at a number of websites; just search for "Avian Flu."
Before killing you, this disease alters your physical appearance. Below is a picture of an individual in the final stages of the Bird Flu.
*****
Here's a horrible take on a coming future human disaster that's bigger than the West Nile Virus and Katrina combined. The more I dig into it, the more scared and the madder I get, and I definitely am not an alarmist.
I had vaguely heard the terms "Bird Flu," "Avian Flu" and "Bird Flu Pandemic" before I recently heard Dr. Gary C. Ridenour from Fallon, Nevada say, on a current affairs program on Reno AM Radio Station KKOH, (known locally as KOH 780), that there are imminent dangers to public health from "Avian Flu." This disease is currently raging through parts of China, all of North Korea, and other parts of the Asian Continent. Plus, it's extremely deadly.
Yes, it started with birds and it adapted itself very quickly to the human species. It is highly contagious when first contracted by a human, but it displays no real symptoms until two weeks after one is infected. This means that you can contract and carry the disease and infect hundreds, even thousands of people before you get sick yourself. That factor makes it very difficult to screen carriers out at airports and, in turn, that means the disease can and will travel all over the world very quickly. Although, as of this writing, there have been no reported cases in the United States, in could be only a matter of days… weeks at the most… before we're in the "bird soup," so to speak.
The Federal Government is aware of this coming horror. The flue is already in Russia and heading into other major parts of Europe. Sadly, not only are the U.S. Government and the news media ignoring "Avian Flu" but, the preparations for combating it are almost non-existent. According to the August 29, 2005 issue of U.S. NEWS & WORLD REPORT, this pandemic could infect 90 million Americans and kill more than 200,000. In fact, Dr. Ridenour reports that the fatality rate is running at 30% in Asia; that would tally to 30 million deaths in the United States alone!
Less than 2.5 millions doses of vaccine have been prepared, no more are in the pipeline, and it takes six months to produce. The Department of Health and Human Services has been working on a plan, not to be finished before the end of September 2005. With the coming health issues of the New Orleans area yet to be dealt with, the probability is that the bird flu plan will be pushed back into November or December.
This is tough stuff. Mass burials are inevitable. Hospitals will be unable to deal with the numbers of sick and dying. Those infected must and will be quarantined into their homes for a month or more. Food and other necessities of daily life will have to be delivered and few will want to risk the probability of infection by making such a delivery.
This story is not made up. I looked in the Internet and discovered that the Center for Disease Control and Prevention is painfully aware of what's coming. There is a whole bunch of available information to document the warning being presented here. More information is available at a number of websites; just search for "Avian Flu."
Before killing you, this disease alters your physical appearance. Below is a picture of an individual in the final stages of the Bird Flu.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
THROUGH THE EYES OF A JOURNALIST
I love to write. I've been writing since I was about ten years old. Whatever comes to mind, I enjoy conveying it though the written word to whoever wants to read.
When it comes to reporting the news, sports or weather, I was taught by my mentors to either tell it like it is, the way the story actually is unfolding, or to label it as an opinion piece. The reader of news, sports or weather has an inherent right to hear the truth, and that is what the free press and journalism is all about. I get discouraged with my fellow journalists when I see their stories being slanted, either by them or by their editors, to meet the editorial policy of the company.
There are a lot of journalists from different countries in the Middle East right now as events there have moved to center stage. The journalist has the ability to tell us like it is really happening; yet, CNN tells a different story than Fox or MSNBC. The stories should all be essentially the same and the opinions should be on the editorial page, where they belong.
Our President, more than any other President in history, sees the need to control what news we get and what that news says, and the press and media seem largely to comply. It is time that journalists got back to "telling it like it is." Otherwise, Freedom of the Press is an absolute farce.
There's a certain glamor in writing, but those of us who love the trade would just as soon keep the fiction on a page separate and distinct from the news.
When it comes to reporting the news, sports or weather, I was taught by my mentors to either tell it like it is, the way the story actually is unfolding, or to label it as an opinion piece. The reader of news, sports or weather has an inherent right to hear the truth, and that is what the free press and journalism is all about. I get discouraged with my fellow journalists when I see their stories being slanted, either by them or by their editors, to meet the editorial policy of the company.
There are a lot of journalists from different countries in the Middle East right now as events there have moved to center stage. The journalist has the ability to tell us like it is really happening; yet, CNN tells a different story than Fox or MSNBC. The stories should all be essentially the same and the opinions should be on the editorial page, where they belong.
Our President, more than any other President in history, sees the need to control what news we get and what that news says, and the press and media seem largely to comply. It is time that journalists got back to "telling it like it is." Otherwise, Freedom of the Press is an absolute farce.
There's a certain glamor in writing, but those of us who love the trade would just as soon keep the fiction on a page separate and distinct from the news.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST: A Christmas Column
Another in a series of my old tails from the FLAT RABBIT PRESS, now defunct
Welcome back pal.
I'm in a predicament. The soup. A quandary. Perplexed. Dilemma. Damned thesaurus won't give me the right word. Okay, I'm downright stumped! You see, I've been thrown a curve ball.
The Chief Proprietor and Editor of this journal gave me a call and asked me to have a discourse about the holidays. "Tell some stories about Christmas and New Years, " he enticed. No problem there, I've got plenty. Now comes the proverbial icing on the crumpets, "Take as much column space as you want," he egged me on. Well you know and I know that's one sure way to shut a writer up. Give me a limited amount of space to fill; I can do that and more, lickety split. Tell me to write as much as I want, and I'm in a fix. A predicament. The soup. A quandary…. You get the picture. "Pass the scotch, Ernest! This column is going to be a happening!"
One thing for sure is that my promise to talk about the Prince, at least the Prince I was talking about in my last column, is out. That'll have to wait. My orders are Christmas and New Years. Who cares about any one individual who could, and would, lose $30 million or more at a single sitting, anyway?" Can you imagine how many hookers were hanging around that table? Lordy me!
This here "Scribbler" column appears to have some readers. A lot of readers. A multitude of readers. (How's THAT for taking up column space, boss?) If I've been asked once, I've been asked 1,000 times…. "Are all of those casino stories you tell really true?" Well, yes they are. The next question is, "How can that many things happen to one guy?"
I guess I've been lucky to some extent, but any one who was in the casino business in the '70's or '80's or before will tell you that it was "fly by the seat of your pants" management and a lot of spontaneous episodes. Yeah, those were the really fun days. They were exciting, and I do mean exciting. Believe it or not, for every story that I have related so far in this column this year, I have five or six more to tell.
I repeat that I have been fortunate. For example, there was the staff Christmas party at the Flamingo in 1970. The boss, Burton Cohen, issued an order that there would be absolutely no booze at the party because he didn't want anyone getting drunk and doing stupid things. Well, by now you know me. I'd just finished emptying the second bottle of vodka into the punch bowl at the party in the Sky Room when Burton showed up. He went straight to the punch, slipped in a cup, and took a sip. I was standing right next to him when he peeked under the table and viewed the empty bottles. You know what? Those damned things said "Smirnoff" on them!
"What are those?" he scowled, as he latched onto a brand new and very full bottle. I, of course, assumed at that point that I was toast.
"Water bottles?" I croaked.
"Well, the Goddam punch needs more water, then!” he thundered and emptied the jug into the punch bowl. “And you? You’re just lucky I didn’t catch you putting booze into this punch bowl!” He took a fresh sip of what was almost pure vodka by now and told me I’d better start mixing up some more because this stuff was going to go fast.
A fellow had dinner with his girlfriend in the Sky Room on Christmas Eve. They ran up a $350 tab, which was quite a lot in 1970. He signed the tab to his non-existent room, "S. Claus." The two came back on New Years Eve and the waiter vaguely remembered them, so he let the guy sign the tab again. This time it was "Hap E. Nuyear."
New Years Eve at the Sahara, December 31, 1986 was an event to remember. We had two wonderful bands in that convention area, one on each side of the room. There were almost 2,000 people there, all dancing and carousing and partying like animals, (giraffes, to be particular,). As for me, I was used to smoking like a chimney and the pack was empty. I went down stairs and paid $3.00 for a pack at the gift shop and arrived back to the New Years Party just in time for Auld Lang whatever. "What're you resolving for New Years?" one of my high-roller friends asked. "Why don't you give up smoking?"
"I do quit," I agreed, and threw the unopened pack on the table.
"Thanks," he snatched them up. "I DON'T!" By the way, after a lifetime of heavy smoking, that was my last; I quit cold turkey and I still remember almost every miserable moment of the days that followed.
On New Years Day, the Security Chief grabbed me and told me that one of my players had been hauled off to the hospital. "He got drunk last night and fell down the escalator."
Of course, I spent a great deal of investigation trying to identify the hapless soul, in order that I might at least offer my sympathy. Well, I came across Larry as he was checking out at the Front Desk. I knew immediately that he was the victim; he had swollen, red escalator tracks up and down his bulbous nose.
A very, very, very, very…. (Did I say "VERY?"), attractive looking cocktail waitress at the Aladdin came over to me at the New Years Party of December 31, 1976. They all wore very skimpy, see-through lace uniforms in those days. She wrapped her arms around me and stroked my hair so softly as she allowed the sultry scent of her enticingly perfumed self to waft into my welcoming nostrils. Every sensory ending on my body was alive with fire as she stuck her warm tongue into my ear and whispered, "It's New Years. Don't you really want some wild, kinky sex?"
What can you say? I suppose that, being a writer of great talent, I could have responded with some eloquent, poetic verbiage. However, I just gurgled. I mean, pal, I just gurgled. "That guy over there told me to give you his room number," she cooed.
One last holiday story before I get into the meat of this column, no pun intended. This story is a good story. At least, I hope that you take it as a good story. It starts with a good friend of mine by the name of Ed.
Ed used to come to Vegas and let it all hang out. He'd get totally schnnnnockered and lose his $5,000 credit line and usually much more, go home with a flat wallet and with his head tucked down, and then he'd send me a check. Well, this particular holiday weekend, I wandered by the blackjack table where Ed was wrapped around his usual glass of booze, and I noticed two things. For one, he had about $15,000 in chips in front of him. As for the second, he had a face card and an ace turned up and he was scratching for a hit.
"Ed! Why are you asking for a hit? You already have a blackjack!"
"Those other guys all have more cards than I got," he explained, nearly falling out of his chair. "The more cards you got, the more you win!" Actually, his words were slurred so badly that I couldn't possibly describe them here. "Anywhoooo," as he used to say, I had the pit boss count the chips in front of him. Then, I collared two security guards, one to take Ed up to his room and one to take the chips to the cashier's cage. I placed them in a safety deposit box, for which I took the key.
The inevitable call came the next afternoon. It was Ed. "I think I got a little drunk last night," he said, as usual. "How much do I owe you this time?"
"Ed," I lamented, "You got carried away. You owe $20,000."
There was a silence. Then, there was a sucking noise, followed by a four-letter expletive starting with "F" and ending with "C." "Uhhh, Bobby. Uhhhh, I really need to talk with you. Uhhh, can we meet at the cashier's cage?" And, we met. And, he was embarrassed and so sorry and he explained to me that he couldn't pay the $20,000 at that time. He was trembling.
"You know damned well, Ed, we in the casino business don't take kindly to people who gamble more than they can pay," I said, as sternly as I could. "And, you know what happens to people who don't pay up." His eyes rolled back into his head. "Here, Ed" I said, as I handed him the key to the safety deposit box, "Have the cashier open this box."
His eyes almost popped out when he saw all of the chips inside along with a slip describing the total as being $15,160. "What's this?"
"Ed, they're yours. You don't owe us a dime. You won this last night," I explained. "Merry Christmas."
We weren't a financially wealthy family, by any means. My father did have his Doctorate's degree from Columbia University, but he'd spent his life working for the government in a relatively low-paying job trying to help Native Americans obtain a better education so that they could survive in the modern world. Nevertheless, every Thanksgiving and Christmas saw the house fill with 20 or so guests for dinner, most of which were single. "Everyone needs to be with friends or family for Thanksgiving and Christmas," he'd say. "That's what life is all about."
My mother was one of those rare people who saw the humorous side of everything in life. She had the ability to turn the utmost dire circumstances into something to smile about; to lighten the load, to touch some unhappy soul with the gift of love. Together, those two were awesome.
At Christmas time, we would place the tree in front of the big window so that all of the neighbors could see. That was the tree that we men, my brother and father and I, had gone into the woods to find, to chop down, and to drag home. After which the family would spend hours together, decorating that tree, talking about its shape, sipping hot chocolate during the cold winter night. Each ornament would have its special nook and cranny, each icicle had to be draped with the greatest of care. There would always be the smell of minced meat pie in the oven, and the record player would be churning out Christmas songs in the background, (often in conflict with the voices of carolers outside in the snow).
Long after the chores were done and we'd been tucked into bed, we would sneak down the hallway in anticipation of catching Santa sliding down the chimney. And, there they would be, our mom and dad, sitting on the couch in each other's arms. The lights would be out except for the tree, and there wouldn't be a sound except for the crackling of embers and the popping of fresh popcorn in the black, cast-iron kettle in the fireplace. Yeah, it was good. We'd end up sitting next to mom and dad, in their arms, one happy family, each one of us soaking in the glowing heat of Christmas love. I can almost feel it now.
Have some popcorn for me, my friend, and have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy and Patriotic American New Year. See you soon.
Welcome back pal.
I'm in a predicament. The soup. A quandary. Perplexed. Dilemma. Damned thesaurus won't give me the right word. Okay, I'm downright stumped! You see, I've been thrown a curve ball.
The Chief Proprietor and Editor of this journal gave me a call and asked me to have a discourse about the holidays. "Tell some stories about Christmas and New Years, " he enticed. No problem there, I've got plenty. Now comes the proverbial icing on the crumpets, "Take as much column space as you want," he egged me on. Well you know and I know that's one sure way to shut a writer up. Give me a limited amount of space to fill; I can do that and more, lickety split. Tell me to write as much as I want, and I'm in a fix. A predicament. The soup. A quandary…. You get the picture. "Pass the scotch, Ernest! This column is going to be a happening!"
One thing for sure is that my promise to talk about the Prince, at least the Prince I was talking about in my last column, is out. That'll have to wait. My orders are Christmas and New Years. Who cares about any one individual who could, and would, lose $30 million or more at a single sitting, anyway?" Can you imagine how many hookers were hanging around that table? Lordy me!
This here "Scribbler" column appears to have some readers. A lot of readers. A multitude of readers. (How's THAT for taking up column space, boss?) If I've been asked once, I've been asked 1,000 times…. "Are all of those casino stories you tell really true?" Well, yes they are. The next question is, "How can that many things happen to one guy?"
I guess I've been lucky to some extent, but any one who was in the casino business in the '70's or '80's or before will tell you that it was "fly by the seat of your pants" management and a lot of spontaneous episodes. Yeah, those were the really fun days. They were exciting, and I do mean exciting. Believe it or not, for every story that I have related so far in this column this year, I have five or six more to tell.
I repeat that I have been fortunate. For example, there was the staff Christmas party at the Flamingo in 1970. The boss, Burton Cohen, issued an order that there would be absolutely no booze at the party because he didn't want anyone getting drunk and doing stupid things. Well, by now you know me. I'd just finished emptying the second bottle of vodka into the punch bowl at the party in the Sky Room when Burton showed up. He went straight to the punch, slipped in a cup, and took a sip. I was standing right next to him when he peeked under the table and viewed the empty bottles. You know what? Those damned things said "Smirnoff" on them!
"What are those?" he scowled, as he latched onto a brand new and very full bottle. I, of course, assumed at that point that I was toast.
"Water bottles?" I croaked.
"Well, the Goddam punch needs more water, then!” he thundered and emptied the jug into the punch bowl. “And you? You’re just lucky I didn’t catch you putting booze into this punch bowl!” He took a fresh sip of what was almost pure vodka by now and told me I’d better start mixing up some more because this stuff was going to go fast.
---
A fellow had dinner with his girlfriend in the Sky Room on Christmas Eve. They ran up a $350 tab, which was quite a lot in 1970. He signed the tab to his non-existent room, "S. Claus." The two came back on New Years Eve and the waiter vaguely remembered them, so he let the guy sign the tab again. This time it was "Hap E. Nuyear."
---
New Years Eve at the Sahara, December 31, 1986 was an event to remember. We had two wonderful bands in that convention area, one on each side of the room. There were almost 2,000 people there, all dancing and carousing and partying like animals, (giraffes, to be particular,). As for me, I was used to smoking like a chimney and the pack was empty. I went down stairs and paid $3.00 for a pack at the gift shop and arrived back to the New Years Party just in time for Auld Lang whatever. "What're you resolving for New Years?" one of my high-roller friends asked. "Why don't you give up smoking?"
"I do quit," I agreed, and threw the unopened pack on the table.
"Thanks," he snatched them up. "I DON'T!" By the way, after a lifetime of heavy smoking, that was my last; I quit cold turkey and I still remember almost every miserable moment of the days that followed.
---
On New Years Day, the Security Chief grabbed me and told me that one of my players had been hauled off to the hospital. "He got drunk last night and fell down the escalator."
Of course, I spent a great deal of investigation trying to identify the hapless soul, in order that I might at least offer my sympathy. Well, I came across Larry as he was checking out at the Front Desk. I knew immediately that he was the victim; he had swollen, red escalator tracks up and down his bulbous nose.
---
A very, very, very, very…. (Did I say "VERY?"), attractive looking cocktail waitress at the Aladdin came over to me at the New Years Party of December 31, 1976. They all wore very skimpy, see-through lace uniforms in those days. She wrapped her arms around me and stroked my hair so softly as she allowed the sultry scent of her enticingly perfumed self to waft into my welcoming nostrils. Every sensory ending on my body was alive with fire as she stuck her warm tongue into my ear and whispered, "It's New Years. Don't you really want some wild, kinky sex?"
What can you say? I suppose that, being a writer of great talent, I could have responded with some eloquent, poetic verbiage. However, I just gurgled. I mean, pal, I just gurgled. "That guy over there told me to give you his room number," she cooed.
---
One last holiday story before I get into the meat of this column, no pun intended. This story is a good story. At least, I hope that you take it as a good story. It starts with a good friend of mine by the name of Ed.
Ed used to come to Vegas and let it all hang out. He'd get totally schnnnnockered and lose his $5,000 credit line and usually much more, go home with a flat wallet and with his head tucked down, and then he'd send me a check. Well, this particular holiday weekend, I wandered by the blackjack table where Ed was wrapped around his usual glass of booze, and I noticed two things. For one, he had about $15,000 in chips in front of him. As for the second, he had a face card and an ace turned up and he was scratching for a hit.
"Ed! Why are you asking for a hit? You already have a blackjack!"
"Those other guys all have more cards than I got," he explained, nearly falling out of his chair. "The more cards you got, the more you win!" Actually, his words were slurred so badly that I couldn't possibly describe them here. "Anywhoooo," as he used to say, I had the pit boss count the chips in front of him. Then, I collared two security guards, one to take Ed up to his room and one to take the chips to the cashier's cage. I placed them in a safety deposit box, for which I took the key.
The inevitable call came the next afternoon. It was Ed. "I think I got a little drunk last night," he said, as usual. "How much do I owe you this time?"
"Ed," I lamented, "You got carried away. You owe $20,000."
There was a silence. Then, there was a sucking noise, followed by a four-letter expletive starting with "F" and ending with "C." "Uhhh, Bobby. Uhhhh, I really need to talk with you. Uhhh, can we meet at the cashier's cage?" And, we met. And, he was embarrassed and so sorry and he explained to me that he couldn't pay the $20,000 at that time. He was trembling.
"You know damned well, Ed, we in the casino business don't take kindly to people who gamble more than they can pay," I said, as sternly as I could. "And, you know what happens to people who don't pay up." His eyes rolled back into his head. "Here, Ed" I said, as I handed him the key to the safety deposit box, "Have the cashier open this box."
His eyes almost popped out when he saw all of the chips inside along with a slip describing the total as being $15,160. "What's this?"
"Ed, they're yours. You don't owe us a dime. You won this last night," I explained. "Merry Christmas."
---
We weren't a financially wealthy family, by any means. My father did have his Doctorate's degree from Columbia University, but he'd spent his life working for the government in a relatively low-paying job trying to help Native Americans obtain a better education so that they could survive in the modern world. Nevertheless, every Thanksgiving and Christmas saw the house fill with 20 or so guests for dinner, most of which were single. "Everyone needs to be with friends or family for Thanksgiving and Christmas," he'd say. "That's what life is all about."
My mother was one of those rare people who saw the humorous side of everything in life. She had the ability to turn the utmost dire circumstances into something to smile about; to lighten the load, to touch some unhappy soul with the gift of love. Together, those two were awesome.
At Christmas time, we would place the tree in front of the big window so that all of the neighbors could see. That was the tree that we men, my brother and father and I, had gone into the woods to find, to chop down, and to drag home. After which the family would spend hours together, decorating that tree, talking about its shape, sipping hot chocolate during the cold winter night. Each ornament would have its special nook and cranny, each icicle had to be draped with the greatest of care. There would always be the smell of minced meat pie in the oven, and the record player would be churning out Christmas songs in the background, (often in conflict with the voices of carolers outside in the snow).
Long after the chores were done and we'd been tucked into bed, we would sneak down the hallway in anticipation of catching Santa sliding down the chimney. And, there they would be, our mom and dad, sitting on the couch in each other's arms. The lights would be out except for the tree, and there wouldn't be a sound except for the crackling of embers and the popping of fresh popcorn in the black, cast-iron kettle in the fireplace. Yeah, it was good. We'd end up sitting next to mom and dad, in their arms, one happy family, each one of us soaking in the glowing heat of Christmas love. I can almost feel it now.
Have some popcorn for me, my friend, and have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy and Patriotic American New Year. See you soon.
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