The Day of the Zombie Bambi

For kids, the 1950s were a simpler, but occasionally horrifying time. We walked to school (uphill, both ways!) and crossed busy streets under the sole supervision of 6th graders serving as crossing guards. What motorist wouldn't be intimidated by a 12 year old in a reflective (safety was paramount) white belt and shoulder strap with a hand-held stop sign?

The whole street crossing thing didn't scare me (even as a 1st grader when those mean 5th graders thought it great sport to jostle the littler kids onto busy Pittston Avenue while waiting for the light to change). I was however traumatized by The Day of the Zombie Bambi.

We 5th graders were divided into groups of ten, assigned an adult chaperon, handed bus tokens and directed to to go the Scranton School Administration building in Center City for fluoride treatment. In return for sitting in a dentist's chair and having our teeth swabbed, we got a bus ride and half a day off from school. It was better than Christmas morning.

Our route from the bus stop to the Admin Building took us past the YMCA. In those days, there weren't Holiday Inns at every highway interchange. In fact, the most economical lodging for single guys was the local YMCA. The Village People's immortal song has a historical basis. The week after Thanksgiving, then as now, was deer season in Pennsylvania and the Scranton YMCA was packed with hunters who ventured into the nearby Poconos by day and sampled the temptations of the city by night. The YMCA had no parking so the downtown streets were lined with out-of-state cars. Some of those cars had a dead deer tied to their fenders.

Every group of 5th graders has a clown. Ours was Bobby Greco. Bobby decided to scare the girls in our group by grasping Bambi's head and making scary noises. Bambi responded by gurgling and vomiting on Bobby's pants. The entire group screamed. Frankly, Bobby's pants weren't the only ones accidentally stained at that moment.

Our chaperon calmed us down and pointed out that "those clowns from Jersey didn't field dress that deer" and proved that it was very dead by pummelling it with no effect. "There was still air in its lungs and some juice in its stomach. Don't worry, kids."

The remainder of the trip was uneventful, but, to this day, I swear that Bambi smiled a vengeful smile after vomiting on Bobby's pants.

Investment Advice

What can Justin Bieber do for an encore after conquering the music world, establishing the hair style for a generation, and wriiting an autobiography?

Why, star in a movie, of course! And not just any movie, but a 3-D extravaganza. And not just your average concert movie. Even Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers did that. According to Justin himself, "It's a story of how my family, friends, and fans helped me get here and every day are helping me live an impossible dream." In other words, Justin's movie lacks plot, conflict, tension, and resolution. If you want that stuff in a movie, rent "Citizen Kane".

Tickets go on sale today (just in time for the holidays!) for a special sneak preview of Justin's film on February 9. For a mere $30, the ticket package includes limited edition purple 3-D glasses, a souvenir VIP event lanyard, and an Official Justin Bieber Glow Stick and Bracelet. Imagine the squeals of delight as little Tiffany discovers this under the tree on Christmas morn.

Try to keep Tiff (or bratty little brother Josh) from prematurely activating the glow stick though. In fact, wise parents might consider keeping the entire Justin package in its original wrappings. Over the past decade, the stock market has gone up a whopping 2%. That's not going to cover Josh and Tiff's future tuition at Harvard. The only investments that skyrocketed were gold (up 400%) and celebrity memoribilia (Beatles lunchboxes sell for thousands today).

Come to think about it, Justin Bieber might be the Beatles of the 21st century. Domination of the music world? Check. Hair style progenitors? Check. Movies? Check (and Justin gets an advantage because his is in 3-D). Surely Justin memorabilia will be worth a fortune in a decade or so (and just in time to finance college for Tiff and Josh).

Parents! Withdraw Josh and Tiffany's college fund from the stock market. Invest it in Justin Bieber memorabilia. While Mr Dow and Mr Jones have to send their kids to community college because their investments tanked, your offspring will be traipsing through ivy-covered halls.

Baby Shower Boom-Boom

Like most guys, I've never attended a Baby Shower. Like most guys, I figured that I wasn't missing much. Well, Sarah Palin set me straight. On Sunday's episode of "Sarah Palin's Alaska", the former governor was shattering clay pigeons on a firing range and commented. "I had a Baby Shower right here. That gets those liberals pee-peed off."

Sign me up for your next Baby Shower, Sarah! In the slack time between opening the gifts and pounding down the mimosas, there's nothing I'd like better than firing off the old 12 gauge. What better way to welcome a new Alaskan into the world than in a hail of buckshot.

But seriously folks...As a liberal, I have no problem with Ms Palin or anyone else celebrating a momentous occasion with firearms. What gets me "pee-peed off" is the NRA's intransigence regarding assault weapons and hollow point ammunition. I spent three years in the Army with an M-16. An assault weapon is very good for killing people at short range and nothing else. Hollow point ammo is good for penetrating body armor and nothing else. The NRA asks, "How can we defend our homes without assault weapons and hollow point ammo?" Liberals respond, "What if Sarah's guests bring their own AK-47s to the shower, the "auto" switch gets stuck on the upswing, and hollow point ammo is sprayed over the gift table? It would make a mess."

Sarah, I'm not "pee-peed off" about your firing range Baby Showers and since I'm out of range, your guests could use AK-47s and hollow point ammo for all I care. I just think that we should be a little careful with weapons and ammo that are only good for killing people.

4 AM Blues

4 AM is an ugly hour.

Most of my 4 AM experiences were in the Army. Whether rising for KP duty or to make the last rounds of the sentry posts in Korea, 4 AM, particularly in the winter, is wretched. The warmth of sunrise is still two or three hours away. I felt utterly alone in a cold, dead world. I have avoided 4 AM ever since.

That may all change this year. Target Stores is showing a TV commercial wherein a sprightly young lady does stretches and shopping bag arm curls in eager anticipation of the store's 4 AM opening on Nov 26. Apparently, there will be bargains galore for those who storm Target's doors at an hour when the rest of the world (even our brave military) is blissfully abed.

I'm willing to give 4 AM another shot. My previous experiences with that hour have been miserable but those were in a foul-smelling mess hall or a muddy, barbed wire perimeter. Now, I'll be in a bright, cheerful store jam-packed with merchandise and surrounded by happy (and well-conditioned if the commercial is correct) shoppers.

Still, I wonder if the poor souls tapped by Target for 4 AM duty will be as enthusiastic as the shoppers. In years to come, they may look back on their pre-dawn experience with the same distaste that I do.

Reality Bites (or Spits)

Sports Radio is the preferred advertising medium for all things manly. I heard a commercial this morning for "Brewmasters", a new reality TV show on the Discovery Channel. Not content with showing conventional brewing processes, "Brewmasters" will demonstrate the use of the exotic and incredibly macho items like surfboard shavings and even human saliva in making beer. Move over, "Survivor" and "The Amazing Race". This is true reality TV.

Or is it? The radio commercial noted that human saliva is a critical component in making a particular Peruvian beer and we will just have to tune in to "Brewmasters" to get the full low-down. That sounds almost educational. Gross and disgusting, but educational. Educational doesn't get ratings, though. To get eyeballs on your show, you need competition, and I know just how to inject some life into "Brewmasters".

Back in my college days, a fraternity brother was so cheap that he would spit in his beer before traipsing off to the mens' room for fear that one of us would take a quick, free sip in his absence. Of course, we would respond by adding our own saliva to his and chortling uncontrollably when he came back and drank it down. But that trick only works once and leads to non-fraternal harsh words and possibly fisticuffs. We soon advanced to other bar-available additives like salt, pepper, and pickled egg juice. Alas, those added detectable flavor and led to the same unbrotherly result. A Chemistry major finally settled on the ultimate beer additive - phenolphthalein. It was tasteless and a strong laxative. Our cheap brother learned his lesson, and subsequent beers were one for all and all for one.

"Brewmasters" should do the same. After we see how the beer is made with surfboard shavings or Peruvian saliva, each episode should end with competitors choosing among the genuine exotic brew and conventional beers adulterated with preferably disgusting additives. Shavings from the neighborhood dogs' favorite telephone pole could substitute for surfboard shavings. Non-Peruvian saliva could be used. It will be a TV ratings bonanza.

Back in the 60s, the chairman of the FCC called TV "a vast wasteland". Imagine what he would say about today's Reality TV.

The Prince Who Saved Christmas

The truest measure of parental devotion is to stand in line for hours to purchase that "must have" Christmas gift for your child. How many cases of frostbite and/or the flu resulted from the vigil outside Toys R Us seeking hard-to-get Cabbage Patch Kids or Tickle Me Elmo back in the day? Even the long-forgotten Teddy Ruxpin (a talking caterpillar) was quite the craze back in the 80s though Teddy and his accompanying cassette now gather dust in innumerable attics. "Dad won't be with us on Christmas morning. He's recuperating from hypothermia in the hospital, but he got that Atari for the kids. We'll visit him after this game of Pong is over."

There hasn't been a real "must have" Christmas gift for several years, and we really need one to spark the economy in 2010. Of all people, the British Royal family came through. The morning news shows reported today that replicas of the engagement ring that Prince William gave to Kate Middleton (the same one that Prince Charles gave to Lady Diana) are literally flying off the shelves. The housing market may not lead us out of the current recession, but the jewelry industry has a shot.

Of course, this means that sapphire and diamond rings are now in incredibly short supply. Soon we will see lines of eager shoppers camped out in the cold outside jewelry stores on the rumored availability there of Kate Middleton / Princess Di rings. It will be an arduous and possibly fruitless ordeal, but acquiring that precious ring will make 2010 "the best Christmas ever".

Better yet, what with the bull market for scrap jewelry ("Trade in those old class rings for tons of cold, hard cash!), the Kate/Princess Di ring will not end up in the attic alongside those Cabbage Patch Kids. You will get at least some of your money back when its allure fades.

Thanks for saving Christmas, Prince William!

Viewing With Alarm

A great way for a politician to get on the nightly news and not coincidentally, to make a name for himself is to "view with alarm". It is not necessary to propose a solution. All that is required is to frighten the people.

With the advent of full-body scanners at New Jersey airports, the Garden State Legislature passed a resolution urging Congress to review the program. The resolution claims the scanners are "a gross violation of the fourth amendment right against unreasonable search and seizure" and that they pose a health risk with radiation exposure to pregnant women and small children. Those are reasonable arguments, but reasonable arguments don't get you on Action News or give you a good video clip for your next campaign.

A legislator expanded on the argument. If a passenger declines to go through the scanner, he/she is subject to a pat-down "that involves touching of the genital areas. If this occurred in another setting, someone would be going to jail!" First, the government refuses Grandma her Social Security COLA. Now they are fondling her as she passes through the airport.

Grandma is not the only one in danger. Those scanner images of little Josh and Tiffany before they boarded the plane to Disney World "can be transferred to a server where they could be viewed by many people!" The government is stopping miniature terrorists, but is providing a bonanza for pedophiles.

But I'm not a Grandma, a pregnant woman, or a small child, what do you have to frighten me? "What's to stop them (the government) from doing this kind of thing (full body scanners) on buses, or trains, or at shopping malls? Where does it end?" OMG, I will be scanned when I walk into Wal-Mart and, if I refuse, that kindly retiree in the blue vest will grope my genitals!

With the "viewing with alarm" and political posturing out of the way, New Jersey can address this problem in typical Garden State fashion. The Legislature can require that attractive members of the opposite gender be available for those pat-downs. Sales will boom at NJ malls. Thrill-seeking New Yorkers and Pennsylvanians will flock to the Garden State for shopping. Hey, it already works for out-of-state motorists who don't want to pump their own gasoline.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Tattoo

Drunken sailors and "Harry Potter" cast members appear to have little in common. A news report indicates otherwise. To commemorate completion of the final film in the series, the cast of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" might all get the same tattoo much like sailors of old pledged their undying brotherhood with matching "tatts" after a difficult voyage.

Rupert Grint, the cast cut-up, stated that he planned to get a tattoo of Daniel Radcliffe's face "somewhere on his body". Playing along, Radcliffe promised to have Grint's image permanently engraved on his skin.

Don't do it, guys! Sailors can get away with an anchor, mermaid, or hula girl tattoo. It's part of their charm. It won't freak out the other guys in the locker room. But if the guy at the adjacent locker has a "tatt" of another guy's face on his body, I'm bolting out the door and showering at home.

As our bodies sag, wrinkle, and bulge with time, the artful perfectly-proportioned "face" tattoo that we got when we were 20 becomes Munch's "The Scream" when we are 60. Unless you want to clear space on a crowded beach in your dotage, don't get that tattoo, boys.

Of course, Daniel Radcliffe and Rupert Grint have made enough money from "Harry Potter" that they could shave their bodies, dye themselves red and go through the rest of their lives as "Jolly Rancher" candies if they so desire. A tattoo probably doesn't matter.

Adding Insult to Injury

The TV commercials would lead us to believe that the biggest problem for revelers aboard a modern cruise ship is working off the calories from its endless buffet meals in its health spas, wave pools, climbing walls, and dance floors.

The 4,500 passengers aboard the Carnival Splendor are having a different experience. An engine fire knocked out the ship's power. According to reports, mealtime requires a two-hour wait for cold food. US Navy helicopters have flown in "Spam, Pop Tarts, canned crab meat, and other goods" to the famished passengers.

Isn't this adding insult to injury? How can one properly enjoy a soothing hot rock massage after a breakfast of Pop Tarts? Does a slice of cold Spam provide the energy to tackle that wave pool or to ascend that climbing wall? Who can do the Chicken Dance while digesting canned crab?

It's all a plot by the Navy. Their ships don't have casinos, jogging tracks, and stateroom balconies overlooking the sea. Clearly, sailor morale plummets when those poor swabbies look up from their harsh duties at sea to see civilian cruise ship passengers doing the Macarena and frolicking in the wave pool. Now the Navy can say to its sailors, "You may not get daily facials at the spa or be able to drive golf balls off the afterdeck, but we are sticking those civilians with Spam, Pop Tarts, and cold crabmeat while you get hot chow!"

Anchors aweigh.

A Trip to Home Plate Averted

"Working with my hands" has never been my strong point. Yesterday's struggle to erect cold weather protection for the oh-so-sensitive camellia bush outside the house once again resulted in misplaced wooden stakes and burlap cut too short on the top and too long on the bottom. How I wished that Chuckie Vohar would magically appear and make it all better.

Chuckie, you see, saved my posterior and probably several of my fingers in 7th grade Wood Shop. Our class assignment was to make a broom holder. This required use of the Monster Band Saw. In 1960, niceties like safety goggles and hand protection were not provided. Hey, what can go wrong with an untrained 12 year-old operating equipment that can slice through his wrist in a heartbeat? Loss of a body part was acceptable, but breaking the flexible saw band was not. This was punishable by a "trip to home plate". The student miscreant would straddle a baseball home plate several feet away from the shop teacher's desk, extend his arms to the desk, and Mr Piento would swat the evildoer's behind with a paddle that strongly resembled a flattened-out baseball bat.

Perhaps it was fear of home plate or just general ineptitude, but I was making a mess of my cut on the Monster Band Saw. The blade was bending and perilously close to snapping when Chuckie Vohar calmly shut down the machine, removed my mangled broom holder, inserted a fresh piece of wood and, without measuring or marking, made a perfect cut. He handed it to me with a typically Chuckie comment, "Fer Crissake, Dufton, we ain't got all day here."

In those days, South Scranton Junior High School placed its 7th graders in homerooms based on IQ testing. Homeroom numbers and IQ scores increased from the dregs of HR 301 to the intellectual elite of HR 314. Homerooms had the same schedules so we 7th graders could traverse the halls en masse between classes safe from the predation of 9th and 10th graders. Of course, boys and girls had to spilt for Gym and Shop. The HR 314 "boy geniuses" were joined by the only-slightly-less brilliant men of HR 313 for those masculine pursuits.

If not for Chuckie, HR 313 and 314 would have been decimated by the Lethal Machine Shop Lathe, the Perilous Print Shop Press, and the Shocking Electric Shop Circuit Board. Sadly, we didn't return the favor and help the Chuckster out in Algebra and Earth Science. After 8th grade, we didn't have to take Shop any more and, like an angel who has earned his wings, Chuckie quit school and joined the Army. It turned out that he was actually 15 years old in 7th grade which went a long way toward explaining how he could grow hair in places the rest of us could only dream about.

It's been 50 years and I'm still mechanically inept. How many times have I wished that Chuckie would appear over my shoulder, utter a multi-syllabic oath, and make it all better.

I remain convinced that God issues an equal ration of talent to each of us. The distribution of sub-talents is unequal though. Those who get lots of intellectual ability are shorted on mechanical know-how. Those who possess drive and ambition often lack compassion. I could calculate the allowable stress on the band saw blade to the fraction of a psi, but only Chuckie could sense when it was about to snap and stop the machine in time. Which skill is more valuable?

Banana - Rama

The latest issue of The New Yorker includes an amusing article on the general ridiculousness of eating bananas.

This struck a chord with me. When I was growing up in the 50s, banana consumption was limited to human infants and to chimps in Tarzan movies. With the Health Food Craze of the 80s, bananas became "the perfect food", full of potassium and low in calories. Air Products employees would emerge from the Cafeteria with coffee in one hand and a banana in the other. The sight of an executive "suit" carrying a banana always cracked me up. I imagined them morphing into Tarzan's pet chimp, Cheetah, and leaping into a backflip while cackling maniacally in their Brooks Brothers suit and wingtips.

Even more amusing is the etiquette of banana consumption. What do you do with the peel? Joe Executive is faced with a dilemma. He must conduct a "breakfast" meeting or interview. He needs to impress us with his health consciousness by eating that banana while we peons chow down on doughnuts. Clearly, he cannot remove the entire peel and place his hands on the white, squishy, eminently bruisable fruit itself. It would make the requisite post-meeting handshake a stomach-turner.

So he peels the fruit about half-way and takes a bite. Now he has got a stringy bright yellow peel flopping around his wrist and everyone's eyes are on it as opposed to his Power Point presentation. Will it self-peel as Joe Executive gesticulates and the fruit spurts into the air? That prospect is a lot more interesting than the Lost Time Accident Rate from our facilities in Brazil. What will he do with the peel when the fruit is gone? Will it sit on his lectern looking like a mutant yellow spider changing form as gravity flattens it? Again, that sight is a distraction from the Power Point. Then there is that rotting banana odor emanating from the peel. Not only are our eyes distracted but so are our noses.

Call it coincidence, but when American executives breakfasted on doughnuts and cigarettes, our cars, steel, and appliances ruled the world. After three decades of health-conscious, banana breakfasting, the Japanese, Chinese, and Europeans lost their fear and respect of American business and took over those markets. Save the bananas for Cheetah, guys!

Spin On

I listen to Sports Radio every morning while walking the dog. If the chilly air doesn't wake me up, the frantic commercial cries of auto dealers, "Bad credit? Forget it! If I can't make you a deal, I'll kiss your mother-in-law", usually will.

As the dog did his ritual sniffing of the corner power pole this morning "Ah, the Rottweiler from down the block was here and he's on that cheap Wal-Mart Old Roy kibble again", Sports Radio segued into an atypical soothing guitar background. A calm voice asked, "Do you know who owns the BP stations in your neighborhood? In the Philadelphia region, every one of our stations is owned by your neighbors. They employ hundreds of folks just like you. Think of this the next time you need a fill-up."

Good job, BP! You are not the foreign-owned despoilers of the environment who nearly killed the Gulf of Mexico while cutting corners. You are not the CEO who "wanted his life back" and participated in a yacht race while your well was dumping hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil into the Gulf. You are that hard-working guy down the block with grease under his fingernails who keeps the family SUV running and has a job for our high school age son Kyle manning the cash register next summer. How could I have thought ill of BP?

One wonders whether the money spent by BP on "feel good" commercials might be better devoted to compensation to those Gulf Coast residents whose lives will never be the same. Actually, the BP "spin" is a better investment. When the shrimpers and fishermen complain that there aren't as many shrimp and fish as there used to be, the BP "spin" may result in the rest of us viewing them as whiners against that nice BP. We will buy BP products anyway because, after all, BP station owners are our neighbors.

Would that we humans had noses as sensitive as our canine companions so we could detect insincerity.

Objectification

Senior Day was a big deal for the Scranton Central HS Class of 1965. After the morning Awards Assembly, the PTA sponsored a free lunch for us at the Century Club followed by an afternoon dance. It was a particularly big deal for me. I actually won the "Walking the Dog" dance contest. "Walking the Dog" was a dance fad of the day based on Rufus Thomas' recording of the same name. My dance partner, Ellen Levy, was the only person who knew how to do it and I was essentially along for the ride.

Still, that victory opened another potential career path to me. Maybe I could become a professional dancer. It wasn't all that difficult standing there while my female partner did all the work. Alas, primeval macho instinct kicked in, and my dancing career ended before it began.

Still, as I soldiered on in Korea and engineered my way through the swamps of New Orleans, I occasionally wondered whether abandoning a terpsichorean career was a mistake. At least, I'd be dancing indoors where there were fewer snakes and bugs than where I was engineering.

All doubts have ceased now. "Dancing With The Stars" issued awards at its 200th show earlier this week. I was shocked (shocked!) at the objectification of its male dancers. Awards were given TO GUYS for Biggest Dancer Transformation (won by the guy who used to have Fabio-style hair), Best Bleached Hair, Whitest Teeth, Best Hair Style, and Best Transformation From Scrawny to Buff.

Yo, DWTS! Females can be objectified, but not us guys. It brings on this urge toward physical fitness and improved personal grooming that cuts into our sports-watching and beer-drinking time. Limit male "beauty" awards to professional dancers, please.

Now I know that I could never have made it from Walking the Dog Champion to Dancing With The Stars Partner. I lack the hair, teeth, and, worst of all, went directly from scrawny to pot-bellied, bypassing buff.

A True Win - Win

Another Election Day has come and gone. The average voter feels relief that TV commercials will switch from the nastiness of political opponent bashing to the joys of toenail fungus remedies. He also feels guilt. Once again, less than half the electorate took the time to vote. Soldiers died so that you have this right! 100% of the voters in Iceland cast their ballot. Why can't you?

There is a way to bring maximum voter participation - food. Years ago, I was in the coal regions on company business on Election Day. When lunchtime rolled around, the guys at the plant invited me along with them to go and vote. "I'm not exactly registered to vote here, " I demurred. "Come anyway, it will be worth it," they responded.

We pulled up to the local Fire Hall to see cars overflowing its parking lot. Folks were lined up outside awaiting entrance. The deal was that if you voted, you got a pork and sauerkraut dinner for $3. It was $5 if you didn't cast your ballot. The Fire Hall Ladies Auxiliary did themselves proud. The magical aroma of pork and sauerkraut pervaded everything. Desserts were plentiful. This being a "private club", beer was available.

Clearly, this was a win - win. Voter turnout was high. The Fire Hall made money. The people got a good, cheap meal.

Could this concept work elsewhere? Why not? It may be sponsored by the PTA or a Church Womens' Group if a school or church is the polling place. The menu will have to change depending on local taste, but the non-profit makes money and the voters have the satisfaction of doing their patriotic chore on a full belly.

It will also cut down on voter fraud. That guy with sauerkraut juice dribbling down his chin and loosening his belt is clearly a repeat voter. "One Man, One Vote, One Dumpling" could be the latest Supreme Court ruling.

Campaign Ad Rules

Election Day is upon us at last. Come tomorrow, the airwaves will be blessedly free of campaign ads. This year, those campaign ads followed a format as strict as that for a haiku.

They began with a most unflattering photo of one's opponent usually with his/her hair disheveled and mouth open. The campaign ad then tied that opponent, however illogically, to the current economic misery. "When he served as dogcatcher for the Borough of Macungie, Candidate X implemented policies that led to the mortgage crisis. He is Wall Street's candidate, not ours!"

The next photo is of good old Candidate Y, perfectly coiffed and corporate casual, surrounded by his adoring family and an ethnically diverse group of supporters. Candidate Y gets extra points for adorable children and/or ethnically diverse pets. He loses points for mistresses and/or attractive lobbyists of the opposite gender.

Two words appeared in every single campaign ad - "Fight" and "Jobs". Candidate Y will fight for jobs for you! One would think that Harrisburg and Washington are a canvas surrounded by ropes and governed by the Marquis of Queensbury rules and that employers will come begging to your door for you to join them as soon as Candidate Y is in office. Not to be cynical, but if past history holds, Candidate Y is mostly fighting for his job and if he gets it, lobbyists will be coming to his door for a return on their investment.

If the candidates were truly "fighting" for "jobs" would the public have been better served if the billions spent on campaign ads had been invested in infrastructure or new programs? Of course, the public would have missed out on the entertainment value of candidates in unflattering photos.

Casino Dreams

In one of the early James Bond movies, a SCUBA-equipped Sean Connery plants an underwater bomb, fights off enemy frogmen, emerges from the Mediterranean in a wet suit, unzips it to reveal white-jacketed formal wear, and walks into an elegant casino where everyone else is well-dressed, fit, and well-groomed. This was the image of casino life that I carried with me for forty years. It was reinforced when casinos came to Atlantic City. All the TV commercials showed supermodels in slinky attire seductively lounging around the gaming tables. I never made it to Monte Carlo or to Atlantic City for that matter which was just as well since my white dinner jacket has been at the cleaners since that unfortunate episode at the Senior Prom. How could I fit in with the Beautiful People at the baccarat table when I couldn't dress the part?

The first indication that a trip to the casino wasn't exactly a night at the opera came when "slots parlors" came to Pennsylvania. I joined the denim, "#1 Grandpa" sweatshirt, and John Deere hat-clad crowds. There was nary a slinky Woman of Mystery or dashing secret agent in sight, but that was understandable. These are only slot machines after all. Wait until table games come to our local casino. That will surely draw The Most Interesting Man in the World.

Yesterday, my dreams were shattered. We stopped at Hollywood Casino near Harrisburg. There were blackjack tables, craps tables, and funky Oriental gambling games aplenty. Surrounding the tables were what appeared to be the Dauphin County Senior Citizen's Brigade and several local motorcycle clubs. I realized that it is impossible to be underdressed at a Pennsylvania casino. Polyester stretch pants, appliqued sweatshirts, and velcro walking shoes were the uniform of the day. The level of grooming was somewhere between "I just rolled out of bed" and "If I comb my hair, I'll just have to do it again tomorrow". Fashion accessories were oxygen tanks as opposed to Gucci handbags. The clientele consisted of Ma and Pa Kettle rather than Sean Connery and Ursula Andress.

It is a relief to know that I don't have to break out that white dinner jacket to go gambling in the Keystone State. I would have to lose a few pounds to fit into it anyway. Still, I dream of vanquishing an Evil Genius at the baccarat table and driving my Aston Martin into the night with a Bond Girl at my side. It just won't be in Grantville, PA.