It was July in the summer of 1980 when I met Eunice Kennedy Shriver. I and my public relations agency, Immedia, Inc., had been drafted by a friend of the Kennedy family to handle PR, pro bono, for a series of "Rose Parades" scheduled to be held on July 22 across Massachusetts to honor Rose Kennedy's 90th birthday and to raise money for the Special Olympics, which Eunice had founded in the 1960s.
The year 1980 was a watershed year for the Kennedy family. In the footsteps of his brothers Jack and Bobby, Ted was running for the Democratic nomination for President. And in the Kennedy tradition, just about the entire family was involved in the campaign.
A couple of weeks before the scheduled Rose Parades, I was asked to pick up Eunice and her husband Sargent Shriver at Boston's Logan Airport. After we had retrieved their luggage and settled into the limo, Eunice asked me, "So, how are we doing with everything?"
I assumed she was asking about preparations for the Rose Parade, so I started to give her an answer about event publicity.
"No, no," she interrupted, "I was asking about Teddy's campaign!"
Of course she was; I should have known better.
As I write this three decades later, "Teddy" is waging his most serious campaign, a campaign he is destined to lose. He is battling brain cancer.
It would be terribly sad and ironic if Ted Kennedy were to pass from the scene before the national debate on reforming health care is concluded. If Ted had his way, all Americans would have the same access to the kind of health insurance coverage that has paid his medical bills since he went to Washington as a U.S. Senator in November, 1962.
Maybe it would do us all some good to recall what Kennedy said in his Democratic National Convention "Party of Hope" concession speech in 1980; it's as true today as it was then:
"We must not surrender to the relentless medical inflation that can bankrupt almost anyone and that may soon break the budgets of government at every level. Let us insist on real controls over what doctors and hospitals can charge, and let us resolve that the state of a family's health shall never depend on the size of a family's wealth.The President, the Vice President, the members of Congress have a medical plan that meets their needs in full, and whenever senators and representatives catch a little cold, the Capitol physician will see them immediately, treat them promptly, fill a prescription on the spot. We do not get a bill even if we ask for it, and when do you think was the last time a member of Congress asked for a bill from the Federal Government? And I say again, as I have before, if health insurance is good enough for the President, the Vice President, the Congress of the United States, then it's good enough for you and every family in America."
I add my voice to Kennedy's and to the voices of millions of Americans when it comes to health care - let's make health care reform a reality in 2009! Let's do it to honor Ted, for sure, but let's do it, more importantly, to honor the American dream.
"For all those whose cares have been our concern," Sen. Kennedy said in 1980, "the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die."
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Nevada Easy©, the TV mini-series, and soon, the novel
A couple of years ago, I came up with an idea for a novel and a television mini-series based on the novel. As it turned out, I first wrote Episode I of the four-part, eight-hour screenplay and copyrighted that along with an outline/synopsis for episodes II-IV. I'm converting the story into a novel at the present time.
Nevada Easy© is a James Michener-style story following five generations of a family. The mini-series is written in the spirit of historical dramas, "North and South," "Roots" and "John Adams."
Nevada Easy relates the saga of the powerful (and fictional) Jericho family of Nevada, set against the turbulent history of that state as well as northern California in the Gold Rush days and even Russian Alaska. Nevada Easy is also the name of the largest chain of casino hotels in the world, run today by the last surviving member of the wealthy side of the Jericho family, the glamorous but tough-as-nails Queen of Las Vegas, Victoria Jericho.
The secret of the Nevada Easy fortune unfolds in Episode I -- two brothers are prospecting in 1859 in Washoe Territory (Northern Nevada), near what is now Reno. Together, they discover the richest lode of silver in history. That night, alone on the mountainside, they revel in their find, drinking themselves drunk. Old rivalries and jealousies flare, and they begin to fight. The older brother Zebulon takes a rock and strikes his brother Ezekiel dead.
Two weeks after his brother's funeral, Zebulon returns to the site of the discovery and files the claim as if he had found the silver by himself. He names his claim the "Nevada E-Z" -- "E" for his late brother Ezekiel and "Z" for his own name, Zebulon. Zebulon's (not Ezekiel's) heirs share in the huge wealth that the silver generates, and his sons and grandsons use the fortune to become railroad barons, wealthy ranchers, and finally in the 20th and 21st Centuries, owners of the Nevada Easy Casinos.
Present-day Reno newspaper reporter Lee Jericho, the last of the poor side of the Jericho family, discovers Zebulon's previously unknown confession, in which the guilt-ridden murderer decrees that after his death, BOTH sides of the family ought to share equally in the Nevada Easy wealth.
Also in the present day, Dian DeLeo, the young and sensual daughter of Arizona's nationally respected governor finds out that she was actually given up for adoption at birth by a woman identified only as "L. Jericho of Nevada." The young woman sets out to find her birth parents and becomes involved in the Jericho family fight, and -- with her new lover, Lee Jericho -- she and he encounter a series of deadly confrontations with a mobster determined to maintain his behind-the-scenes hold on Victoria and her Nevada Easy casino empire.
Why am I telling you all of this? Simple - I'm hoping that somewhere out there, someone is, or knows, a Hollywood producer willing to take a look at my screenplay. Can YOU help me out?
If you can help, please contact me, or have someone write to me, at peretsky@verizon.net.
While I'm waiting for that producer's call or email, I'm converting Nevada Easy into the novel I dreamed about.
Here are the beginning paragraphs in Chapter 1 of the book... (I'd re-print the opening act of the screenplay, but it's easier for you to read it in straight prose.) Enjoy!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
NEVADA EASY© By Burt Peretsky
Chapter 1 – The Confession
“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Sullivan.” Lee Jericho was already talking as he reached to shake the lawyer’s hand. “I have a hell of a story to tell, and I promise it won’t be a waste of your time.”
“Nonsense, Lee. There’s no clock on us. And, please... don’t call me Mister. It’s Jack.”
Attorney John Joseph Sullivan’s baritone spoke authority. He motioned to a sofa and the two upholstered chairs that were set in front of a highly varnished redwood stump coffee table. “Have a seat,” he ordered.
Two end tables with ornate Chinese lamps on either side of the sofa and a magnificent Oriental rug complemented the half of the office that simulated a living room. A massive mahogany desk set in front of a black leather, high-back swivel chair, a matching mahogany credenza, and two five-foot rubber plants anchored in Chinese porcelain filled the other half. Through the floor-to-ceiling double window in Sullivan’s office and its horizontal Venetian blinds that were open to the morning sun, the city of Reno bustled in a fresh-fallen snow some 20 floors below. Beyond in one direction, Slide Mountain rose over the valley; in another, the Virginia Foothills rolled outward from the high desert. “Can Theresa get you some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Lee chose to sit on the sofa and immediately regretted his choice. His thin frame sunk uncomfortably in the too-soft cushions. His knees went up, as his ass went down. He felt foolishly inconspicuous as Sullivan settled into one of the chairs, his eyes at least a foot higher than Lee’s.
“You told me at the newspaper office that you had a good story, and frankly, I was intrigued. That’s why I made some time to see you today.” Sullivan was lying, of course. He was more than intrigued; he was hoping this particular reporter’s “good story” would yield some work outside of the norm. And business was slow, extremely slow.
Sullivan occasionally picked up a piece of personal legal business in the course of his representation of the Reno World Journal. While it was interesting work, representation of the newspaper wasn’t making him rich. And Sullivan, proud of his Stanford Law School pedigree, was jealous of his classmates in San Francisco, in Sacramento, and even two of them living in Reno who were racking up the big cases, and importantly, the big fees. To make matters worse, his wife Susan seemed fond of reminding him that he was not a partner in the firm; “not even a junior partner,” went her refrain.
Most of Sullivan’s days were spent keeping reporters out of libel trouble. Wary editors would flag stories to be faxed to Sullivan for his comments prior to their being printed. Sullivan would occasionally suggest a change of wording, or he would insist on a second or third corroborative quote or fact for the story prior to it being used.
Once in a rare while, he would actually see the inside of a courtroom, more often than not to wrest documents from the power structure into the “right to know” domain of the press, but most often to play second fiddle to TV station lawyers arguing for cameras in the courtrooms. The World Journal would always back the stations with briefs of its own when the question of news media access was being debated.
Serving the public, or at least serving the prurient interests of the public, had its charms, but it wasn’t making Jack Sullivan rich.
“You also said it had nothing to do with your job at the paper. I assume you need some legal advice.” The lawyer’s voice rose. “Am I correct?”
“You are, sir.”
“Then go right ahead, Lee. Tell me your story.”
“OK! Here goes.” Lee spoke quietly, as was his nature. “To make a long story short,” he paused for effect.... “I think I have proof that I am one of the rightful heirs to the Nevada Easy fortune.” This time the pause was longer; Lee wanted a response from the lawyer.
Lee didn’t look like an heir to a fortune. He didn’t look the part of a newspaper reporter either. What he did look like in those years was, like, young. Even in Reno, where many look the other way to minors drinking and gambling, at 36, Lee was constantly being carded. His typical choice of attire never helped his case, either. Incongruously, even now, sitting in – or sinking into – the sofa of Sullivan’s lavishly appointed law office, he was wearing, as he always wore, faded blue jeans, tall brown leather boots, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap. Except it wasn’t a baseball cap -- it bore the logo of the Utah Jazz basketball team.
Lee’s sandy blond hair peeked out from under the front of his cap, forming something of a curl nearly hiding his right eye. Behind his head, a shock of unruly hair – it probably looked almost matted -- hung nearly down to his neck.
Sullivan eyed the reporter, and Lee stared back. In the pause that had been prompted, the slight smile on Lee’s face turned into a grin.
Finally, Sullivan spoke. “You’re a cousin to the Jerichos who own Nevada Easy, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, but I’m in the poor half of the family. Or at least, I was ’til now.”
Sullivan pondered that for a moment. “Okay, Mr. Jericho” -- “Jack” was calling him “Mister” now -- “explain what you mean. Pretend I don’t know anything about Nevada Easy. Put it to me as if you were writing a news story, you know, who, what, when, where, and why.”
Lee laughed. “You forgot ‘how,’ Mr. Sullivan. The ‘how’ is the most important thing in this story,” he said, pausing again for effect.
This time, Sullivan bit. “Okay, don’t forget the ‘how.’”
“Mr. Sullivan,” Lee made it formal, also for effect, “I assume, that you, like most people around this state, know that the Nevada Easy fortune began with a silver strike back in 1859 right here in this part of the state. My great, great, grand-uncle was supposed to have discovered the vein of silver that led to the Nevada Easy claim. In fact, he named it in honor of himself, Zebulon, and his recently departed brother, Ezekiel, my great, great grandfather. The ‘E’ in Ezekiel and the ‘Z’ in Zebulon led to it being called ‘Nevada E-Z.’”
“I kinda remember hearing all that once or twice,” the lawyer noted, “and, if I’m not mistaken, the ‘Nevada E-Z’ later became ‘Nevada Easy,’ when the claim became one of the biggest in the state’s history.”
“Correction, Mr. Sullivan, it was the biggest in the state’s history. It even made the Comstock Lode look small by comparison.”
“So, if you’re one of the heirs to this fortune already, why are you saying you’re in the poor half of the family?” The lawyer leaned over to focus on the answer.
“That’s the rest of my story, Mr. Sullivan. My great, great, grandfather, my direct ancestor, had already died when his brother made his claim on the silver mine, and so it was my cousins, the children of my great, great, grand-uncle Zebulon, and their children who became rich; it was they whose mines helped the Union pay for the Civil War; it was they who became the railroad barons in the latter half of the 19th Century and the casino owners of the 20th and 21st Centuries. My side of the family never did share in the money.”
“I see. I’m sorry.” The lawyer was hooked. He had heard about the Nevada Easy fortune and how it began. Just about everyone who had been brought up in Nevada knew the story. But, he hadn’t heard about Lee’s unlucky side of the family. No sir, that wasn’t the stuff of history. Not at all!
Lee caught his breath and began again. “But now, I have proof that my great, great grandfather Ezekiel Jericho was actually killed by his brother Zebulon, after, together, they discovered the vein of silver that led to the Nevada Easy claim. Since 1859, everybody has thought that my great, great grand-uncle discovered the silver by himself, some time after his brother’s death, and that the death of my grandfather -- you know, my great, great grandfather -- was by accident.
“I can prove today that they discovered the silver together, before my great, great grandfather was actually murdered by his brother. It was no accident, as everybody’s believed until now. It was murder, and I can prove it.”
The words tumbled out now. “I can prove that my great, great grandfather’s heirs, as well as my great, great grand-uncle’s heirs, ought to be sharing in that fortune the brothers discovered together, and I can prove today that it was murder that left half my family rich and my half poor, that it was cold-blooded murder.” Once again, Lee paused. He had rehearsed this speech for a week, and he figured a pause would be most effective after the word “murder.”
The word seemed to echo in the silence the two of them then shared.
Finally, the lawyer reacted. “You can prove,” he stated and asked at once, “that somebody killed his brother a century-and-a-half ago?”
“Yes, I have his confession,” again a pause, “I have his confession in writing.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I hope to have the novel ready to submit to agents and publishers some time very soon. In the meantime, I have -- for Hollywood's consideration -- Nevada Easy©, the TV mini-series.
Burt Peretsky
Nevada Easy© is a James Michener-style story following five generations of a family. The mini-series is written in the spirit of historical dramas, "North and South," "Roots" and "John Adams."
Nevada Easy relates the saga of the powerful (and fictional) Jericho family of Nevada, set against the turbulent history of that state as well as northern California in the Gold Rush days and even Russian Alaska. Nevada Easy is also the name of the largest chain of casino hotels in the world, run today by the last surviving member of the wealthy side of the Jericho family, the glamorous but tough-as-nails Queen of Las Vegas, Victoria Jericho.
The secret of the Nevada Easy fortune unfolds in Episode I -- two brothers are prospecting in 1859 in Washoe Territory (Northern Nevada), near what is now Reno. Together, they discover the richest lode of silver in history. That night, alone on the mountainside, they revel in their find, drinking themselves drunk. Old rivalries and jealousies flare, and they begin to fight. The older brother Zebulon takes a rock and strikes his brother Ezekiel dead.
Two weeks after his brother's funeral, Zebulon returns to the site of the discovery and files the claim as if he had found the silver by himself. He names his claim the "Nevada E-Z" -- "E" for his late brother Ezekiel and "Z" for his own name, Zebulon. Zebulon's (not Ezekiel's) heirs share in the huge wealth that the silver generates, and his sons and grandsons use the fortune to become railroad barons, wealthy ranchers, and finally in the 20th and 21st Centuries, owners of the Nevada Easy Casinos.
Present-day Reno newspaper reporter Lee Jericho, the last of the poor side of the Jericho family, discovers Zebulon's previously unknown confession, in which the guilt-ridden murderer decrees that after his death, BOTH sides of the family ought to share equally in the Nevada Easy wealth.
Also in the present day, Dian DeLeo, the young and sensual daughter of Arizona's nationally respected governor finds out that she was actually given up for adoption at birth by a woman identified only as "L. Jericho of Nevada." The young woman sets out to find her birth parents and becomes involved in the Jericho family fight, and -- with her new lover, Lee Jericho -- she and he encounter a series of deadly confrontations with a mobster determined to maintain his behind-the-scenes hold on Victoria and her Nevada Easy casino empire.
Why am I telling you all of this? Simple - I'm hoping that somewhere out there, someone is, or knows, a Hollywood producer willing to take a look at my screenplay. Can YOU help me out?
If you can help, please contact me, or have someone write to me, at peretsky@verizon.net.
While I'm waiting for that producer's call or email, I'm converting Nevada Easy into the novel I dreamed about.
Here are the beginning paragraphs in Chapter 1 of the book... (I'd re-print the opening act of the screenplay, but it's easier for you to read it in straight prose.) Enjoy!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
NEVADA EASY© By Burt Peretsky
Chapter 1 – The Confession
“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Sullivan.” Lee Jericho was already talking as he reached to shake the lawyer’s hand. “I have a hell of a story to tell, and I promise it won’t be a waste of your time.”
“Nonsense, Lee. There’s no clock on us. And, please... don’t call me Mister. It’s Jack.”
Attorney John Joseph Sullivan’s baritone spoke authority. He motioned to a sofa and the two upholstered chairs that were set in front of a highly varnished redwood stump coffee table. “Have a seat,” he ordered.
Two end tables with ornate Chinese lamps on either side of the sofa and a magnificent Oriental rug complemented the half of the office that simulated a living room. A massive mahogany desk set in front of a black leather, high-back swivel chair, a matching mahogany credenza, and two five-foot rubber plants anchored in Chinese porcelain filled the other half. Through the floor-to-ceiling double window in Sullivan’s office and its horizontal Venetian blinds that were open to the morning sun, the city of Reno bustled in a fresh-fallen snow some 20 floors below. Beyond in one direction, Slide Mountain rose over the valley; in another, the Virginia Foothills rolled outward from the high desert. “Can Theresa get you some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Lee chose to sit on the sofa and immediately regretted his choice. His thin frame sunk uncomfortably in the too-soft cushions. His knees went up, as his ass went down. He felt foolishly inconspicuous as Sullivan settled into one of the chairs, his eyes at least a foot higher than Lee’s.
“You told me at the newspaper office that you had a good story, and frankly, I was intrigued. That’s why I made some time to see you today.” Sullivan was lying, of course. He was more than intrigued; he was hoping this particular reporter’s “good story” would yield some work outside of the norm. And business was slow, extremely slow.
Sullivan occasionally picked up a piece of personal legal business in the course of his representation of the Reno World Journal. While it was interesting work, representation of the newspaper wasn’t making him rich. And Sullivan, proud of his Stanford Law School pedigree, was jealous of his classmates in San Francisco, in Sacramento, and even two of them living in Reno who were racking up the big cases, and importantly, the big fees. To make matters worse, his wife Susan seemed fond of reminding him that he was not a partner in the firm; “not even a junior partner,” went her refrain.
Most of Sullivan’s days were spent keeping reporters out of libel trouble. Wary editors would flag stories to be faxed to Sullivan for his comments prior to their being printed. Sullivan would occasionally suggest a change of wording, or he would insist on a second or third corroborative quote or fact for the story prior to it being used.
Once in a rare while, he would actually see the inside of a courtroom, more often than not to wrest documents from the power structure into the “right to know” domain of the press, but most often to play second fiddle to TV station lawyers arguing for cameras in the courtrooms. The World Journal would always back the stations with briefs of its own when the question of news media access was being debated.
Serving the public, or at least serving the prurient interests of the public, had its charms, but it wasn’t making Jack Sullivan rich.
“You also said it had nothing to do with your job at the paper. I assume you need some legal advice.” The lawyer’s voice rose. “Am I correct?”
“You are, sir.”
“Then go right ahead, Lee. Tell me your story.”
“OK! Here goes.” Lee spoke quietly, as was his nature. “To make a long story short,” he paused for effect.... “I think I have proof that I am one of the rightful heirs to the Nevada Easy fortune.” This time the pause was longer; Lee wanted a response from the lawyer.
Lee didn’t look like an heir to a fortune. He didn’t look the part of a newspaper reporter either. What he did look like in those years was, like, young. Even in Reno, where many look the other way to minors drinking and gambling, at 36, Lee was constantly being carded. His typical choice of attire never helped his case, either. Incongruously, even now, sitting in – or sinking into – the sofa of Sullivan’s lavishly appointed law office, he was wearing, as he always wore, faded blue jeans, tall brown leather boots, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap. Except it wasn’t a baseball cap -- it bore the logo of the Utah Jazz basketball team.
Lee’s sandy blond hair peeked out from under the front of his cap, forming something of a curl nearly hiding his right eye. Behind his head, a shock of unruly hair – it probably looked almost matted -- hung nearly down to his neck.
Sullivan eyed the reporter, and Lee stared back. In the pause that had been prompted, the slight smile on Lee’s face turned into a grin.
Finally, Sullivan spoke. “You’re a cousin to the Jerichos who own Nevada Easy, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, but I’m in the poor half of the family. Or at least, I was ’til now.”
Sullivan pondered that for a moment. “Okay, Mr. Jericho” -- “Jack” was calling him “Mister” now -- “explain what you mean. Pretend I don’t know anything about Nevada Easy. Put it to me as if you were writing a news story, you know, who, what, when, where, and why.”
Lee laughed. “You forgot ‘how,’ Mr. Sullivan. The ‘how’ is the most important thing in this story,” he said, pausing again for effect.
This time, Sullivan bit. “Okay, don’t forget the ‘how.’”
“Mr. Sullivan,” Lee made it formal, also for effect, “I assume, that you, like most people around this state, know that the Nevada Easy fortune began with a silver strike back in 1859 right here in this part of the state. My great, great, grand-uncle was supposed to have discovered the vein of silver that led to the Nevada Easy claim. In fact, he named it in honor of himself, Zebulon, and his recently departed brother, Ezekiel, my great, great grandfather. The ‘E’ in Ezekiel and the ‘Z’ in Zebulon led to it being called ‘Nevada E-Z.’”
“I kinda remember hearing all that once or twice,” the lawyer noted, “and, if I’m not mistaken, the ‘Nevada E-Z’ later became ‘Nevada Easy,’ when the claim became one of the biggest in the state’s history.”
“Correction, Mr. Sullivan, it was the biggest in the state’s history. It even made the Comstock Lode look small by comparison.”
“So, if you’re one of the heirs to this fortune already, why are you saying you’re in the poor half of the family?” The lawyer leaned over to focus on the answer.
“That’s the rest of my story, Mr. Sullivan. My great, great, grandfather, my direct ancestor, had already died when his brother made his claim on the silver mine, and so it was my cousins, the children of my great, great, grand-uncle Zebulon, and their children who became rich; it was they whose mines helped the Union pay for the Civil War; it was they who became the railroad barons in the latter half of the 19th Century and the casino owners of the 20th and 21st Centuries. My side of the family never did share in the money.”
“I see. I’m sorry.” The lawyer was hooked. He had heard about the Nevada Easy fortune and how it began. Just about everyone who had been brought up in Nevada knew the story. But, he hadn’t heard about Lee’s unlucky side of the family. No sir, that wasn’t the stuff of history. Not at all!
Lee caught his breath and began again. “But now, I have proof that my great, great grandfather Ezekiel Jericho was actually killed by his brother Zebulon, after, together, they discovered the vein of silver that led to the Nevada Easy claim. Since 1859, everybody has thought that my great, great grand-uncle discovered the silver by himself, some time after his brother’s death, and that the death of my grandfather -- you know, my great, great grandfather -- was by accident.
“I can prove today that they discovered the silver together, before my great, great grandfather was actually murdered by his brother. It was no accident, as everybody’s believed until now. It was murder, and I can prove it.”
The words tumbled out now. “I can prove that my great, great grandfather’s heirs, as well as my great, great grand-uncle’s heirs, ought to be sharing in that fortune the brothers discovered together, and I can prove today that it was murder that left half my family rich and my half poor, that it was cold-blooded murder.” Once again, Lee paused. He had rehearsed this speech for a week, and he figured a pause would be most effective after the word “murder.”
The word seemed to echo in the silence the two of them then shared.
Finally, the lawyer reacted. “You can prove,” he stated and asked at once, “that somebody killed his brother a century-and-a-half ago?”
“Yes, I have his confession,” again a pause, “I have his confession in writing.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I hope to have the novel ready to submit to agents and publishers some time very soon. In the meantime, I have -- for Hollywood's consideration -- Nevada Easy©, the TV mini-series.
Burt Peretsky
Monday, August 10, 2009
If it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing!
So there I was, in the Flamingo Hilton employees' parking lot, waiting for Laura, the blackjack dealer. I couldn't believe my luck. I was in Las Vegas for only half a day, and I had invited this beautiful woman to dinner. And, amazingly, she had said yes! My heart raced with excitement!
A door marked "Employee Entrance" opened and closed, opened and closed, as casino dealers, some still wearing their "black and whites," exited the hotel and headed toward their cars, the "day shift" now completed. As I watched them, I noticed, mmm, there were a heck of a lot of Cadillacs in the lot.
Can they all be casino employees' cars? Look at them! Every other car in the lot is a Cadillac!
I wondered what this Laura person drove, but I didn't have to wonder for long. Out she came, all smiles, and of course, she led me to her... Cadillac. I tried to be cool. After all, this was Vegas! And, off to dinner and to 28 years of wedded bliss we went!
Laura always had Cadillac taste, even if I only had a Chevrolet wallet. Laura never checked the price of anything. And she'd never buy just one of anything. We (read, "I") always found the money to pay for Laura's extravagance. I just couldn't say no to her.
Once upon a time when we were living in the Boston area, we went to one of those candle stores at the mall - Laura wanted to buy some piñon incense. The aroma reminded her of her childhood in the Southwest. But alas, the store didn't have piñon incense.
So, Laura went on line. About a week later, UPS came to our door with a huge carton addressed to her. Laura had ordered a case of piñon incense, 160 boxes with each box holding 64 cones of piñon incense. I'm still the owner of about 158 boxes of piñon incense, in case anyone out there wants to buy some!
With Laura, if it was worth doing, it was worth overdoing!
But who could get mad at her? She was the most loving person anywhere.
Animals were Laura's great passion. At one time, we owned five dogs and three horses - simultaneously. The horses were boarded at a nearby stable, and I nearly went broke paying their expenses - stable fees, feed, tack and gear, horseshoes, you name it -- it was like having a second mortgage.
When she worked at Petco, she fell in love with a rat! No, not me... a real rat! His name was Buddy (", the Rat"), and he was as fat as rats can be. Buddy's original owner left him with Petco, so that somebody would adopt him. Laura adopted him and came home one night with Buddy and a huge rat cage (the cage had three bedrooms, a den, two bathrooms and a finished basement). As nice as his rat cage was (it could have been a House Beautiful feature story), Buddy often spent hours sitting outside the cage, on Laura's shoulder. You see, Laura felt bad for Buddy, considering that he was unjustly confined to a cage.
Laura loved Buddy so much that she adopted three more rats - all females. We had to get another great big rat cage for the girls. (You can't put male and female rats together, or they would fRATernize to no end!)
A door marked "Employee Entrance" opened and closed, opened and closed, as casino dealers, some still wearing their "black and whites," exited the hotel and headed toward their cars, the "day shift" now completed. As I watched them, I noticed, mmm, there were a heck of a lot of Cadillacs in the lot.
Can they all be casino employees' cars? Look at them! Every other car in the lot is a Cadillac!
I wondered what this Laura person drove, but I didn't have to wonder for long. Out she came, all smiles, and of course, she led me to her... Cadillac. I tried to be cool. After all, this was Vegas! And, off to dinner and to 28 years of wedded bliss we went!
Laura always had Cadillac taste, even if I only had a Chevrolet wallet. Laura never checked the price of anything. And she'd never buy just one of anything. We (read, "I") always found the money to pay for Laura's extravagance. I just couldn't say no to her.
Once upon a time when we were living in the Boston area, we went to one of those candle stores at the mall - Laura wanted to buy some piñon incense. The aroma reminded her of her childhood in the Southwest. But alas, the store didn't have piñon incense.
So, Laura went on line. About a week later, UPS came to our door with a huge carton addressed to her. Laura had ordered a case of piñon incense, 160 boxes with each box holding 64 cones of piñon incense. I'm still the owner of about 158 boxes of piñon incense, in case anyone out there wants to buy some!
With Laura, if it was worth doing, it was worth overdoing!
But who could get mad at her? She was the most loving person anywhere.
Animals were Laura's great passion. At one time, we owned five dogs and three horses - simultaneously. The horses were boarded at a nearby stable, and I nearly went broke paying their expenses - stable fees, feed, tack and gear, horseshoes, you name it -- it was like having a second mortgage.
When she worked at Petco, she fell in love with a rat! No, not me... a real rat! His name was Buddy (", the Rat"), and he was as fat as rats can be. Buddy's original owner left him with Petco, so that somebody would adopt him. Laura adopted him and came home one night with Buddy and a huge rat cage (the cage had three bedrooms, a den, two bathrooms and a finished basement). As nice as his rat cage was (it could have been a House Beautiful feature story), Buddy often spent hours sitting outside the cage, on Laura's shoulder. You see, Laura felt bad for Buddy, considering that he was unjustly confined to a cage.
Laura loved Buddy so much that she adopted three more rats - all females. We had to get another great big rat cage for the girls. (You can't put male and female rats together, or they would fRATernize to no end!)
With rats, dogs, horses, piñon incense, and assorted other follies and frills, life with Laura was never boring! We lived and laughed well and often.
Sure, I loved her, but more to the point, I liked her very much!
Sunday, August 9, 2009
What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" I actually spoke those words to Laura the first time I saw her. She was stunning, and I was intimidated. So, I opted for corny and carny over smart and slick.
Let me back up a little...
I needed to get away for a few days - by myself - and I had just arrived in Las Vegas after a long flight from Boston. In those days, the cheapest ticket to Vegas was aboard one of the "junket" flights, and my air and hotel package had me staying at the Flamingo. I checked in, showered off the travel cobwebs, and dressed in clean clothes. Then, I headed for the lobby and looked for a restaurant.
In Vegas, of course, hotel restaurants are located so that patrons must walk through the casino to reach them. And as I walked through the Flamingo casino, a $2 blackjack table beckoned to me. The stakes were just right for my limited budget, and, as a bonus, the table sported a beautiful young woman dealer. So, I sat down.
I was Laura's only customer at that session, and after a while of wistful but silent gazing at her, I decided to try and talk with her. So I summoned some courage and asked, "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
To my surprise, she took me seriously and explained that she was working to pay her living expenses and her tuition at UNLV. She gave me a little humble pie lecture about how most people living in Las Vegas live normal lives, and I confess, I really had never considered all of that. Like most vistors to the town, I only saw the superficial Vegas; the neon had blinded me to the possibility of normal. Was there life beyond the Strip? Who cared?
Thanks to Laura, I was beginning to care. "What are you studying?"
"Paleopathology," came the answer.
Beauty AND brains - I was truly impressed!
After a while of pleasant conversation between us, the blackjack pit boss came to our table. "You're okay for an early out, Laura," he told her.
I asked her what that meant, and she explained that her normal 20-minute break was coming up at the end of her eight-hour shift, and that she was being approved to clock out early.
Again summoning courage I didn't know I had, I asked her if she would join me after work for dinner. But, she demurred. "We're not allowed to date customers," she explained.
Persisting, I promised her that I would never again sit at her blackjack table if she would agree to come to dinner with me. Pressing the issue, I told her that I would never even play at the Flamingo again, if she said yes to dinner with me that day.
I blinked my puppy-dog eyes at her and tried to look as pathetic as I could, and I guess that was the clincher for her... as finally, she relented: "OK, but you'll have to go around back to the employees' parking lot and meet me there." (Years later, she explained that she only agreed to have dinner with me that evening, because she had always been fascinated with Boston and its many colleges and wanted to hear more about both. Okay, considering how my life with Laura turned out, I'll reluctantly buy that!)
So, around to the employees' lot I went...
(To be continued...)
Let me back up a little...
I needed to get away for a few days - by myself - and I had just arrived in Las Vegas after a long flight from Boston. In those days, the cheapest ticket to Vegas was aboard one of the "junket" flights, and my air and hotel package had me staying at the Flamingo. I checked in, showered off the travel cobwebs, and dressed in clean clothes. Then, I headed for the lobby and looked for a restaurant.
In Vegas, of course, hotel restaurants are located so that patrons must walk through the casino to reach them. And as I walked through the Flamingo casino, a $2 blackjack table beckoned to me. The stakes were just right for my limited budget, and, as a bonus, the table sported a beautiful young woman dealer. So, I sat down.
I was Laura's only customer at that session, and after a while of wistful but silent gazing at her, I decided to try and talk with her. So I summoned some courage and asked, "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
To my surprise, she took me seriously and explained that she was working to pay her living expenses and her tuition at UNLV. She gave me a little humble pie lecture about how most people living in Las Vegas live normal lives, and I confess, I really had never considered all of that. Like most vistors to the town, I only saw the superficial Vegas; the neon had blinded me to the possibility of normal. Was there life beyond the Strip? Who cared?
Thanks to Laura, I was beginning to care. "What are you studying?"
"Paleopathology," came the answer.
Beauty AND brains - I was truly impressed!
After a while of pleasant conversation between us, the blackjack pit boss came to our table. "You're okay for an early out, Laura," he told her.
I asked her what that meant, and she explained that her normal 20-minute break was coming up at the end of her eight-hour shift, and that she was being approved to clock out early.
Again summoning courage I didn't know I had, I asked her if she would join me after work for dinner. But, she demurred. "We're not allowed to date customers," she explained.
Persisting, I promised her that I would never again sit at her blackjack table if she would agree to come to dinner with me. Pressing the issue, I told her that I would never even play at the Flamingo again, if she said yes to dinner with me that day.
I blinked my puppy-dog eyes at her and tried to look as pathetic as I could, and I guess that was the clincher for her... as finally, she relented: "OK, but you'll have to go around back to the employees' parking lot and meet me there." (Years later, she explained that she only agreed to have dinner with me that evening, because she had always been fascinated with Boston and its many colleges and wanted to hear more about both. Okay, considering how my life with Laura turned out, I'll reluctantly buy that!)
So, around to the employees' lot I went...
(To be continued...)
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