I coughed up a lung…at the movies.

My wife and I recently attended the movies.  I did this despite the fact that our financial advisor…advised against. it.  He said that if you wish to stay “liquid”,  you can’t afford a six dollar diet coke, even if it is a jumbo size 64 ounce cup.  According to my urologist, 64 ounces of diet coke is just enough soda to keep me catheterized for the better part of the year.

“Sir, for a dollar more, you can literally own a lifetime supply of popcorn and soda.”  (Getty Images)

It isn’t just the “enormo” size popcorn and soda that has changed the movie going experience .  In fact, when you think about it, movie going is a form of entertainment that has evolved perhaps more than any other over the past 100 years.

Movie watching began as an experience one did in isolation.  You put a nickel into a machine known as…you guessed it, a “Nickelodeon”.  You hunched over and turned a crank and watched classics like “Horse Galloping” and “Woman Sitting on a Bench”. (Spoiler alert, she gets off the bench at the end) “Nickelodeon’s” were also small movie houses where one could view silent movies.   Movies were in glorious black and white and they were of course silent.  (I wonder if people still “shushed” people in silent movie theatres?)  In the glory days of the silent movie, many movie houses had a piano player to accompany the film.  People would get dressed up for a night on the town, enjoying the antics of Charlie Chaplain, Lillian Gish, and Clara Bow, the “it” girl.  (Based on her reported promiscuous ways, the “it” that Clara Bow contained was probably “the clap”.)

“I didn’t care for the plot, but the effects were sick!”  (Times Union)

Once the talkies arrived, movies became a way to escape the drudgery of the “Great Depression”.  Movies also became the place where parents could send their children on a Saturday afternoon, and for less than a dollar, keep them entertained and out of their hair.  People of my parent’s generation (Born in the 1920s) could go to the movies on a Saturday, see several cartoons, Movietone News, a few “serials” such as the “Lone Ranger”, or “Batman”, or “Flash Gordon”, and then a double-feature.  In addition,  they could get popcorn and soda.  This was all done unsupervised by the way.  I would also like to point out to the “helicopter” parents out there, that despite having absolutely no parental supervision, well over 60% of these children made it back home safely….often on the same day!

Movies in the 1930s and ’40s were still mostly in black and white, and of course there was no blood, nudity or cursing.  As for sex, it was only implied.  Most couples were shown in separate beds, and thanks to the Hayes Commission, they always had to keep at least one foot on the floor when they were in bed.  Anatomically, this would have made for an excellent contraceptive, since I think those limitations would constitute a “deal-breaker”.   If you were being led into believing that sex had actually occurred, they would show the man and woman immediately fully clothed in the next scene as they did in “Casablanca” after Rick and Elsa supposedly had torrid sex.

“But how did you get your suit back on so fast”?
“I have a little trick…I never took it off”. (Times Union

When I was growing up in the 1970s, the local theatre was called the North Massapequa Theatre.  It wasn’t what you would call “pristine”.  Even as a child, I remember the floor was incredibly sticky.  I’m pretty sure that if you ever fell face first, they would have had to scrape you up with a spatula.  For a long time, going to the movies was like having a license to litter.  It was part of the experience.  Once the movie was over, you stuck the popcorn bag and the soda under your chair as if there was a magic garbage chute that would store and dispose of all consumer waste.  The sharply dressed ushers with their bow-ties and high-tech flashlights probably didn’t see the situation quite the same.  I often wondered why people who swept up popcorn and ripped tickets had to wear a bow tie and vest as if they were photographers at a gaudy 70s era Bar Mitzvah.

“Tickets please”? “I hope to parlay this look into the lucrative field of Bar Mitzvah photography”! (Getty Images)

As a teenager in the late 1970s and early ’80s, going to the movies became a regular pastime for my friends and I.  It usually started with a trip to “7-11″ where we would wait outside and keep a vigil looking for somebody who would buy us beer.  They had to be older, but not too old.  They needed to look cool, but not too cool.  Finally, they needed to look a little drunk…but not too drunk.  If one of my  older brother’s friends were to show up while we were there, that constituted a “jackpot”!  A sure thing!

“Excuse me sir…could you buy a six-pack for me, and six-packs for nine of my friends please?” (Getty Images)

We would then hike down all the way from Jerusalem Avenue in North Massapequa to the “Mid-Island Theatre” in Bethpage.  The great thing about the “Mid-Island Theater” in Bethpage was that in 1979, the cost of a movie ticket was 79 cents.  On New Year’s Day, 1980, the cost went up to 80 cents a ticket.  Thanks to these prices, my buddies and I were able to view such classics as “Friday the 13th,” (parts 1-3)   “Halloween,” (parts 1 and 2) “Death Wish,” ( part 2) and “”Caddyshack”.  (Definitely not part 2!)  Great pieces of art like these can only be described in one word, “Cinematifique”!

“Curses, why do I always move my vulnerable family into neighborhoods where the punk to middle aged Dad ratio is so damn high?!? (Getty Images)

Today of course, movie’s are high tech, big budget, and very, very LOUD!  My wife and I went to see “Interstellar” in “RPX”.  The music was so loud, we couldn’t hear the dialogue.  Not only that, it was much more expensive.  I paid more to hear less!  I know I sound like an old man, but hey, is it asking too much to hear what the actors are actually saying?  (And while we’re on the subject, why isn’t the soup ever hot enough?)  Many movies today are done in “3-D”.  This means I have to wear glasses on my glasses.  That’s not known in the world of fashion as a “hot look”!  Hear’s a sentence people who wear “3-D” glasses over their regular glasses are not likely to hear during this millennium: “Hey six-eyes, how’s about coming to my place for some hot action?”

“You boys see the way those dames are checking us out?” (Associated Press)

More disturbing than the outrageous high prices for tickets, soda, and popcorn, more bothersome than the 30 minutes of previews, worse than the fact that most movies seem to last two and a half hours minimum, is the fact that leaving your trash behind is no longer acceptable.  I actually have to throw out my trash.  What is this, Stalinist Russia?

“Comrades…make sure you purge trash, or I will purge you.” (Associated Press)

Many people are fighting back.  They bring their own candy and drinks into the theater to fight back against the high prices.  On this front, my nephew  has emerged as my newest hero.  He took “food smuggling” to a championship level.  He smuggled Chinese food into a movie.  I’m not sure the people next to him appreciated it though.  Apparently he was slurping his soup so loud, the gentleman behind him could barely focus on his texting.  While lo-mein with your chopsticks may not be easy or convenient in a Movie Theater, there is one benefit that cannot be denied.  You can throw your spare ribs on the floor!  Your move…cine-plex.

1975: The worst year ever?

Let me clarify.  Obviously, the years of the Civil War, (1861-65)  the year 1968, (Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. assassinated) and the years of World War Two, (1941-45) were pretty horrible.  But I'm a selfish creature.  Those years were either before I was born, or occurred before I can accurately remember.  So while I give them their collective due, those years didn't impact me directly. 1975, however,  that one I still remember pretty accurately, and I don't remember it as being very good.

Pete Rose understood what fashion meant in 1975...it was all about the collar! (Associated Press)

From a foreign policy standpoint, 1975 was not a particularly strong year for the United States.  Both Cambodia and South Vietnam fell to the Communists.  It reflected a decade of failed policy by Democrats and Republicans alike.  Economically, the U.S. suffered from significant inflation.  How bad was it you ask?  It was so bad, that unelected President Gerald Ford issued an Executive Order that all Americans had to wear one of these:

These were known as "WIN" buttons. "WIN" stood for "Whip Inflation Now". According to the Congressional Budget Office, "WIN" buttons had zero impact on the economy. (Associated Press)

In fairness to Ford, he did inherit this mess.  He was only President because both President Ricard Nixon and Vice President Spiro Agnew were forced to resign in disgrace.  I believe we had a right to demand more from two candidates who ran on the issue of "law and order".

"They can't get rid of both of us....can they"?  (Associated Press)

Musically, 1975 was a peculiar year to say the least.  "Punk Rock" hadn't quite made its way over from London, "Disco" was in its infancy, and something called "Glam Rock" was approaching its death rattle.  So who were the top selling artists of 1975?  Well, here they are...turn your head and cough:

1. The Captain and Tennille - "The Captain", aka..Daryl Dragon was one of the top keyboardists in his band
2. Glen Campbell - Imagine if Billy Ray Cyrus didn't have a mullet and had talent
3. Elton John - How popular was "Sir Elton" in the mid 1970s.  He once accidentally coughed up phlegm and it landed on the recording machine...it came in at #9 on the Billboard charts.
4. Freddy Fender - He sounds more like a Mafia "hit-man".  "Yo, it's Freddy the Fender"!

Other notables included at #8, Neil Sedaka.  Sedaka was not only a craftsman when it came to songwriting, but his "East coast vs. West coast" feud with his Kosher Butcher left several Passover Seder Plates without Lamb Shanks.  I would also caution you not to forget Carl Douglas at #13 with his mega-hit, "Kung-Fu Fighting":

(Editor's note: This is a really bad song)

While popular music may have hit a bit of a trough, television was in a new golden age.  Look at the top shows for 1975, and I defy you to name any show today, particularly a comedy that compares:

1. "All in the Family" - A hilarious show made with brutal honesty.  You can make an unlimited amount of "boner" jokes today on "Big Bang Theory", but god forbid a program today tries to have an honest conversation about race.
2. "Sanford and Son" - Ok, this one didn't exactly break down racial stereotypes, but it was funny.  By the way, two of the head writers for this African-American comedy starring Redd Foxx were Saul Turteltaub and Bernie Orenstein.  There's nothing wrong with that...is there?
3. "Chico and the Man" - I preferred Jack Albertson caressing the recently deceased Shelly Winters in the "Poseiden Adventure" personally, rather than him exchanging quips with a very young and sadly tragic Freddie Prinze.
4. "The Jeffersons" - The Jeffersons were like an upscale version of "Sanford and Son".  Once again, a black male was the leading character and was the butt of most of the jokes.  I don't think that would fly today.  I also think the reason nobody is named Louise anymore is because they don't want to called "Wheezie".
5. "M*A*S*H" - A comedy about war.  I doubt you would see that today either.  In fact, even "M*A*S*H" tired of trying to make fun of war.  By the last three seasons, it was pretty much a drama with most episodes including lines like, "Damn-it B.J., they're just children!"

The sports scene, in the New York City/Metropolitan area anyway saw an interesting if depressing anomaly.  Because of various construction projects, 1975 witnessed a bizarre once-in-a-lifetime home field disadvantage for New York City's baseball and football franchises.  Can you guess what it was?  Well, the New York Jets, Giants, Mets, and Yankees all shared the same home field.  All four teams played their home games in that "Mecca" of sports refuge...Shea Stadium.  The Mets and Jets both played their home games at Shea Stadium anyway, but with the "new" Yankee Stadium still being refurbished, and Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands still being completed, all four teams would play their home games at Shea.  By the end of year, the infield looked like a Staten Island landfill.  Fortunately, there was no impact on the post-season.  None of the four teams made the playoffs, further cementing 1975 as a year filled with disappointment.

The grounds crew tries in vain to get the field back in playing shape after a rare September quadruple header featuring the Jets, Giants, Mets and Yankees. Spoiler alert...they all lost! (Getty Images)

For me personally, 1975 was a traumatic year.  I was eleven years old, and  I was going into 6th grade, and I couldn't have been more excited.  At my Elementary School, (Robert E. Picken Elementary School), 6th grade was the top grade.  Beginning in kindergarten, everybody waited those long six years so they could achieve the status known as "king of the school".   The 6th graders always looked so dangerous and cool.  It looked like they shaved and smoked...at the same time!  However, fate was about to play its hand.  Fate, and changing demographics.

 The Plainedge School District, located in scenic North Massapequa, was experiencing a decline in its population as the "Baby-Boom"  generation began its final cycle through the school system.   The Board of Education announced that the district needed to close one of their Elementary schools.  They logically decided to close the newest and nicest school in the district.  (Personally, I think it was because of the name.  Kids from Schwarting Elementary were always saying that "Picken, picks their nose".  The retort, "Schwarting, Scwartz their nose",  just never caught on)  Now that our grade was being robbed of its birthright as "Kings of the School", we were shipped off to Packard Middle School along with all 400 other 6th graders in the district.  In exchange for our heartache, they gave us a Jukebox in our cafeteria.  This however was just the beginning.  From 5th grade through 9th grade, I proceeded to attend 5 different schools.  Robert E. Picken, Packard, Southedge, back to Packard and finally Plainedge High School for 9th grade.  I believe this is one of the main reasons I didn't end up attending an Ivy-League school.  This and an appalling lack of ability.

Fortunately, 1975 wasn't a leap year, and the blase' year mercifully came to an end as all year's must.  I knew things were beginning to turn around in early 1976 when my eyes beheld a most magical moment.  I turned on my television, and I became witness to one of the great cultural events of my lifetime.  The Bicentennial Minute!

Even Tennessee Williams, perhaps through the kindness of strangers, participated in the "Bicentennial Minute"! (Getty Images)

I’ve decided to come out…..as a blogger

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Charlie Rose, accepting his award for his hard-hitting interview with me…eventually…in my imagination.

Greetings, Capital Region “Times Union” readers. This is the  first of what I hope will be many posts on my new blog, “The Hoffman Files” on the Times Union website.  I’ve been blogging on my own site– hoffmanfiles.blogspot.com– since mid-August, and now I’ve been given my shot at the big time.  We will see how I handle this awesome responsibility.

Will I thrive and ride this opportunity to celebrity?  Will I find myself  doing the talk show circuit with frequent stops on NPR, Charlie Rose, Paul Harvey (I think he’s dead) and other young hip irreverent talk shows that all the young “hip-cats” who make up today’s “scene” are known to frequent?  Or will I crash and burn on this newfound exposure, verbally duking it out with online chair-moisteners while I cry myself to sleep over my laptop, drunk on cooking sherry and broken dreams?  More importantly, why should you care?  Who is this guy who has the unmitigated gall to ask that you donate your precious reading opportunities to this new kid on the block, (I’m 50, but age is relative) when you have over 152,000,000 blogs to choose from?  Well since you asked, (and I distinctly heard you) I’ll just have to talk about one of  my favorite topics that I never seem to tire of…myself!

My story begins in a town called North Massapequa which is on Long Island, and my 50-year journey has taken me to Clifton Park. (To my Capital Region followers, North Massapequa is Clifton Park with higher taxes, more traffic and more attitude, to my Long Island/North Massapequa readers, Clifton Park is like North Massapequa with lower taxes, less traffic, and more hillbillies).  There, I’ve insulted both of my core constituencies in one quick aside.

My childhood was shaped by my parents, Janet and Seymour Hoffman, both from the Bronx.  My father was an accountant, which is even less exciting than it sounds.  The best guess my brothers and I had for what my father did for a living was that he counted things, particularly other people’s money.  One time he had to go to South Carolina and count shrimp and came home stinking of crustaceans.  Glamour and sex appeal, thy name is Accounting!

It’s not my Dad, but imagine that reading “Playboy” and you get the idea.

The coolest thing about my father other than his box of rubber bands was the fact that he was the only “Dad” amongst all of my friends’ fathers  to have a subscription to “Playboy.”  This made me at least slightly more popular.  (Not as popular as the kid who lived around the corner who had a “real”  pinball machine, but it elevated me slightly amongst the swells of Plainedge High School) My father kept his collection in a “garbage can” like canister in his bathroom.  He would always claim that the only reason he kept re-upping his subscription was for my brother, but I know he was also drawn in by the hard-hitting journalism, such as the time “Playboy” blew the lid off of the controversial world of leather bustiers.  It turns out they were made of “Pleather”.

Having a subscription to “Playboy” also helped me figure out who I was as a man.  The likes/dislikes section, filled out by the “Centerfold of the Month” made me realize that I don’t like “phonies,” “mushrooms”, and “pushy people,” while I love “the beach,” “sunshine” and “guys with a sense of humor.”  It’s also possible that “Playboy” inspired me to want to pursue a career in journalism.  I began writing for the “Red Devil,” the Plainedge High School award-winning (possibly made up by me) school newspaper.  From there I wrote for my college newspaper, “The Oswegonian” which has accurately predicted snowy, cold winters in Oswego for over 50 years.  However, none of this led to any employment in the newspaper world.

I loved history, and I believed I could make a difference and help teenagers (I”ll pause while your snickers subside) and ended up as a 7-12 social studies teacher, first in Long Island City and now here in the Capital Region.  The dream of writing however never left me, and thanks to the Internet, only a brief 10 years after blogging became all the rage, I decided to stick my toe into the primordial ooze that is “The Blogosphere!”

So I hope you will peruse and enjoy my desperate attempts to make you laugh, (hopefully a lot) think, (not too much) and perhaps shed a tear, (provided you are peeling an onion at the time or watching the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life”) as you read my thoughts and views on almost everything, all of which by the way are accurate and factual, based on extensive research done on the part of myself and my staff here at “The Hoffman Files”, insofar that we can “Google it” in less than three seconds.

Let’s hear it then…a toast to me, “The richest man in town!”

Categories: General

Tags: Clifton Park | North Massapequa | NPR | Oswego | Playboy | Mor

I'mmmm Movin' Out!

As previously mentioned, I'm not a fan of change.  Some change is so traumatic,  that it literally wrecks your life.  Death of a spouse, divorce, twisters, (tornados or nibbies) are of course dreadful for everybody.   But sometimes, we  encounter  change that's supposed to be exciting and fun.  Moving for example is something that most people view as a step towards bigger and better things.  Most people move as a result of a new and better job, or an increase in family members, or being offered a new FEMA Trailer, but to me, moving is simply another unnerving change that has to be negotiated successfully and with as little pain as possible.

The first big move of my life (not counting being born) was when my family moved from New York CIty to Long Island.  More specifically, from upper Manhattan's Washington Heights to Long Island's North Massapequa.  If you want to be really specific, from Bogardus Place to Banbury Road.
Banbury RoadBogardus Place

Our move to North Massapequa was not without its struggles.  It was 1966, and Americans were rocking out to the sounds of "Revolver", Sgt. Barry Sadler's "Ballad of the Green Beret's", and "96 Tears" by "?".  Many Americans were on the move as a result of a phenomena called "Urban Flight".  Washington Heights had been a working class neighborhood in the most upper part of Manhattan, and it had been populated mostly by Jews, Italians, Germans, and Irish.  By the mid-1960s many people of Dominican ethnicity began to move in, and things began to change.   Out went the old fashioned "Candy Store" and Kosher Deli, and in came the bodegas.  The handwriting was on the wall.   My parents decided we should move, and while it didn't bother me much considering I was two, my oldest brother who was 14 didn't take it in stride.  The low point might have occurred when we were closing in on exit 29 on the Southern State Parkway, and we saw the sign for  "North Massapequa, Hicksville Road", and my brother who loved city living exclaimed, "HICKSVILLE!!! You're moving me to "HICKSVILLE"?!?!?!  Though I am not a religious man, I believe we all witnessed a true miracle that day,  in that my father did not toss my "lithe" brother out the car window.  (They were open since it was about 100 degrees) I should mention, it wasn't just any car, but our 1962 Royal Blue Chevy Impala, our first new car.  We called her "Rosey", which was my mother's mothers' name, which gives new meaning to the old Television show, "My Mother the Car"!

Ironically, several years later, my brother was driving "Rosey" and the tire blew out and he dove out of the now out-of-control automobile, a-la Mannix:



My father, ever the understanding "Ward Cleaver" type, was quick to accuse my brother of ruining his beloved "Rosey", the car not his mother-in-law.  He definitely liked the car better.

For my parents, who knew nothing about suburban living, moving to North Massapequa was truly a learning experience.  Not only did they have to deal with my brother's intense unhappiness, (which to be fair only lasted until his wedding day) but the purchase as well as the move had pretty much cost them every last dime.  It was a nice house to be sure,  purchased for the princely sum of $20,500.  My father's commute went from a 20 minute subway ride to the (at that time) un-air-conditioned L.I.R.R. which took over an hour.  As an investment by the way, the house paid off big time seeing that my parents sold it in 1998 for over 10 times that amount.  But we could have hit the mother lode.  My father confessed to me years later that we could have bought one of those houses on the canals in Massapequa Park for only $500 dollars more.  Eventually, the payoffs on those homes would have dwarfed what they eventually made from the house on Banbury Road.   However, my mother put the kibosh on it.  She was worried I would leave the house, open the gate, walk down the block, fall into the canal and drown.  Considering I was raised like milk-fed veal, the odds of me being alone and unattended for that long seems remote, but if you've ever wondered where my paralyzing stockpile of caution comes from....

At any rate, the move from city to suburb only got trickier for my parents.  When you live in the city, every building has a Superintendent, or "Super", who fixes everything.  Many city dwellers grow up without ever needing to learn basic handyman skills.  So when my parents moved to Long Island, they had to buy everything including a  lawnmower, hoses, garbage cans, tools etc...The garbage became a particular source of consternation for my father.  In the city, you simply take your trash and throw it down the incinerator.  In Long Island, there's garbage pick-up.  One time, when our  extended family visited from the city, we ordered in Chinese food, (Probably from Kwong Ming, which, health inspections aside is still my all-time favorite Chinese restaurant).  My father filled a big "Waldbaums Paper-Bag" and handed it to my cousin to take back to the city.  My cousin was all excited thinking he had Chinese leftovers, instead it was filled with garbage.  My father wanted him to dump it down the incinerator, just like the good old days.
Ah, what to give for a "Pu Pu Platter"?

There were other adjustments as well, such as shoveling snow, termites, the infamous playroom flood of 1967,  our trees getting toilet papered,  and of course, our next door neighbors, the Gallaghers.  The Gallaghers were somewhere between 70 and a 1000, and they hated the new "Jews" who had just moved in.  When my brothers or I would have a catch between our two houses, the Gallaghers could often be heard telling us to knock it off, since after-all, "This isn't the Polo Grounds"!  There was also the tried and true, "What do you think this is, Ebbets Field"?  Eventually though,  my mother discovered a new "Mah-jong" crew and we were on our way.

As an adult, my wife and I reached a crossroads after six years in beautiful Flushing, New York.  It's hard to encapsulate what life in Flushing is like, but imagine the worst aspects of suburbia and city living, and you've captured life in Flushing.  We weren't even near a subway, we had to take a bus to the subway, which is expensive and difficult.  Once our oldest boy Andrew was born, we knew the clock was ticking, so in the summer of 1993, we took the plunge and moved to Clifton Park, New York, somewhere between Albany and Saratoga Springs.  (I don't want to get into any more detail than that for fear of being stalked by my multitudes of "Hoffman Files" fanatics, the  "Hoffmanphiles")  Many people asked us why the Capital region?  Well, I'm from Long Island and my wife is from western New York, Jamestown area to be precise, and this seemed like a fair compromise.  We waited for one of us to get a job, and my wife got one in Human Resources for "Montgomery Ward".  If you're too young to remember "Montgomery Ward", then you know why it's out of business.  They catered to customers too old to watch "Wheel of Fortune".  According to "Hip Replacement Quarterly", many octogenarians feel that "Wheel" has gotten too loud and upsetting, plus when people land on  "Bankruptcy", seniors can find it disconcerting, too much like the "Hoovervilles" of their youth.   Still, they offered to move us for free, and we will be forever grateful to both Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Ward.


Moving day arrived.  It was August, and I say with complete confidence and not a hint of exaggeration it was the hottest day ever recorded on any planet not named Mercury.  The movers put everything we owned on a Mayflower moving truck including my Buick Skyhawk, or as it was known in my "Fast and Furious" days, "The Hawk"!  All of our worldly possessions on one truck, rather humbling.

Moving from our 3 story walk-up with no dishwasher, washing machine or dryer, and one small air-conditioner in our bedroom , to Hollandale Apartments in Clifton Park with its balcony, central air-conditioning, dishwasher, washer-dryer right in our building, plus a pool and tennis courts, it was like being born-again.  Still, the stress of relocating without really knowing anybody, plus taking care of a 2 year old was no day in the park.  Where was the Waldbaums"  No Kosher Deli??  Why aren't people driving faster and more aggressively?  There would be two more moves after Hollandale.  We've been lucky enough to be able to buy two houses.  Since we've left Flushing, we've been able to increase our number of bathrooms with each successive move, and that's helped balance out the stress of moving.  In the end, it all goes back to "Flushing".

"Odd Job"

The teenage job is one of the true character building experiences in a young person's life.  It teaches responsibility.    More importantly it teaches you early on that you often have to choose between fun and work.  Other then death, the coldest fact we have to deal with is simply this:  If you want to have fun, then you're going to have to get up and go to work.

Before one embarks on their eventual career, there are many pitstops along the way.  Not only do these experiences provide you with a little spending money and the freedom that comes with that, it allows you to figure out which professions that you definitely wish to avoid for a career.  Case in point, my first stop on my climb to the middle, the kitchen of Necrotos.

Necrotos was a family style Italian restaurant located on Hicksville Road in North Massapequa.  I walked in, and they gave me a job as a dishwasher for 2.50 cents per hour...cash!  The only time I was asked to do any critical thinking was when the bus-boy came in with a lobster claw and said, "Don't throw it out, they want to take it home".  I proceeded to throw it out since I was like a dishwashing robot and just tossed everything out before I put the dishes into the nuclear dishwashing machine.  I quit after two weeks over creative differences.

My next stint was considerably longer.  I worked in a local old-fashioned pharmacy called, "Arlo's".  I don't know who "Arlo" was, but the job was pleasant enough and I was now being paid a whopping 3 dollars per hour....cash!  I did the usual, stocking shelves, working the cash register, hiding in the basement, cleaning up baby puke, making sure old people didn't shoplift, running out and getting dinner for the pharmacists,  running out and buying cigarettes for the pharmacists so they could smoke in the stock room, so the customers couldn't see them, so my clothes could smell like smoke, so my mother could accuse me of smoking,  and of course, going out and purchasing  porn for the pharmacists, as in , "Rob, could you go across the street to the card shop and buy me this month's copy of Penthouse," you know, the usual stuff.  When I quit, the delivery boy who was a born again Christian bought me a bible that was made for young "hipsters" like me.  It was an abridged version of both the Old and the New Testament combined together so that young people could really relate to it.  I haven't finished it yet, so don't tell me how it ends.

After returning home from college freshman year, I landed a job at a "Rock Bottom", a "CVS" type of drug store.  I was now making the legal minimum wage in 1983 of 3.35 cents per hour....cash!  It was here, where I  was yelled at on a regular basis for not working hard enough, while the other stock boys were throwing merchandise all over the stock room.  It seems breaking into the merchandise, stealing and damaging merchandise, was less important that the fact that I hadn't properly straightened out the toothpaste display.  When the store manager wasn't telling me racist and anti-semitic jokes, he would proceed to tell me that I was just a "college punk" who thought everything was a joke, but this job was how he fed his family and put a roof over their heads.  At the time I congratulated myself on my incredible self-control for not laughing in his face, but now that I've grown up and understand the pressures of providing for a family, I can honestly say that he really was a racist douche bag!

My best college job, and maybe the best job I ever had was when I drove an ice-cream truck with my good buddy Rob Greenbaum for Circus Man. Circus Man was a Long Island version of Good Humor.  In addition to the "fringe benefits" of having ice cream at my disposal, the money we made was great.  I grossed close to 4000 dollars....cash!  The hours were good, and we were our own bosses which at 20 years of age is a beautiful thing.  I did once have a kid put entire coffee can full of pennies on the windowsill of the truck, only to have it fall off,  forcing me to wait while he picked the whole thing up, this time full of rocks and grass, and say, "What can I get for this"?  It was also at Circus Man where I learned how to place my order for the daily refill of ice cream from that legendary ice cream man, Wes.  Wes knew how to order ice cream.  Toasted Almond Bars were dubbed "Toasted Ass-Holes".  Strawberry Shortcake bars were ordered as "Strawberry Short-C_cks" etc....

My last college job was not nearly as profitable.  It did however, give me a chance to participate in a politically liberal activity...canvassing for clean water.  I was walking door-to-door for the Long Island Citizen's Campaign, a non-profit group trying to protect Long Island's water supply.  Oh my god, did that suck?!  Because of my excellent timing, I quit before they fired me, apparently the people of Long Island didn't find me very convincing when it came to my description of the plight of their water supply.  I had the last laugh though, I went to work for a chemical dumping group, going door-to-door advocating the benefits of chemical waste seeping into the drinking water, for quite a lucrative sum of money I might add.

In college, I found myself doing little things here and there to make a few extra bucks.  I tutored students in history, I did videotaping for some professor for some reason that now escapes me, I swept and mopped the floor at good old McCarthy's in Oswego, I refereed intramural football....poorly, and I was a delivery boy for Dominos Pizza.  Because the pizza had to be there in 30 minutes or less, we always had to run to and from the car, although they never specified how fast we were to be running.  My favorite part was the training video which instructed us not to get out of the car if we felt we were in danger.  They showed a Domino delivery boy in his horrible orange, white and blue" uniform driving through what looked like war-torn Beirut in the 1980s having a rock hurled at his Dominos' vehicle.  Message received.  Sometimes to punish us they would make us "crew pies." Some of the other teenage drivers had wives and children, and they would try to time their visits so they could eat for free.  Ouch!

So, the next time you're in McDonalds, or Carvel, or Dunkin' Donuts, or in the grocery store, and some pimpled faced kid is moving a little slow, or is unsure what to do, or perhaps by accident messes up your order, don't scream indignities at the poor lad or lass, just call over the manager and remind them that time is money and that a monkey could do this better, faster, and cheaper.  After all, we're old, we have a right to be outraged!