Golden Touch CRAPS

The South has it in for me. I swear. Not only do the forces of evil in Mississippi, (Casino Control Commission) want to de-doodle-ate me and my company Golden Touch Craps for daring to teach people how to control the dice when they throw; but the Almighty seems to want to toy with me and throw me around like a limp Northern rag doll.

My recent trip to the South saw all sorts of annoyances plague me once again. (For a full description of my banning from all the casinos in Mississippi I refer you to my book The Virgin Kiss.)

My driver dropped me off at LaGuardia Airport in New York City. My flight was 6:40AM and I arrived at the airport at 5:20. I always use carry-on luggage because I don't want to lose anything or wait to scramble for my luggage at the baggage claim. I was flying Delta, an airline I don't particularly like.

I had my boarding pass already thanks to the invention of the computer. I got on the security line when a uniformed thick-bodied woman stopped me.

"Vell, ya goottah goo ouever deer," she said.

"What?" I asked. I had not the slightest clue as to what she was saying.

She repeated herself: "Ya goottah goo ouever deer." Now she pointed at the metal luggage checker and indicated I go there.

"I am carrying this on," I said.

"Nooh," she said.

"This is my carry-on luggage," I explained again.

"Nooh," she pointed.

"It...is...carry...on," I said slowly.

Then she said, "Doow'nt ya unnastahn Englush?"

Don't I "unnastahn" English? Don't I "unnastahn" English? What the hell? I could barely understand her and she was scolding me about my inability to understand a language she was butchering!

I walked over to the container and put my bag in. Of course it was going to fit. It didn't fit. They must have shrunk the damn container.

I turned to her. "It always fit in the past."

"Goo," she pointed to the check-in line where I would have to PAY for the luggage to be put upon the plane.

I was seated in 14C, an aisle seat. A bounteous blubberous woman sat in the middle, her bulk overflowing her seat by several miles. I had to lean into the aisle to get some room. I kept getting hit in the shoulder and head by passengers walking to their seats. To add to the annoyance, this Ms. Hindenburg kept laughing at nothing. "He, he, ha, ha," she'd screech. "He, he, ha, ha." What the hell was so funny?

The plane was only half full and the flight attendant came over to me and asked if I'd like to sit in the "exit" row. Hell, yeah. I jumped up, hit the woman's blubbery arm, and scooted to the exit row which I had all to myself. Here is something strange; the flight was only half full and my Golden Touch partner Dominator wanted to take it. They were going to charge him one thousand dollars! So he took an AirTran flight instead.

When I arrived at the Memphis International Airport, I walked to the baggage area "B" where my luggage was awaiting me. Then I sat and waited for my friend and Golden Touch instructor Skinny to arrive. I saw Skinny come off the escalator and I waved him over just as my cell phone rang. It was my wife the beautiful AP.

"Are you seated?" she asked.

"Yep," I said.

"Our niece wants us to co-sign a loan application for her," AP said.

"How much?"

"Forty-three thousand dollars," she said.

"Jesus Christ," I said. Now I don't usually use Jesus Christ's name in vain except at times when I do. "Jesus Christ."

Now, this niece is a wonderful kid; you might recall that she's the one who got married in the fundamentalist Christian ceremony (see article about her wedding) where a prophet prophesied and she then held her reception at the Kosher caterers. She had to pay for the wedding, which was a huge affair, because neither my sister (her mother) nor the groom's family would cough up a dime but still insisted on inviting ten trillion people to the festivities. My niece paid for it with the money she hoped she would get from the envelopes people would give.

Now she needed us to co-sign a loan for forty-three thousand dollars. This was something I just couldn't do. The beautiful AP and I have no debt - no mortgage, no car payments, no credit card interest payments, no debt whatsoever. A forty-three-thousand-dollar loan wasn't something I wanted to strap us with if our niece, through life's vagaries, couldn't make the payments.

"Crap," I said. "Let's talk about this later."

I told AP I loved her, as I always do, and then we hung up. I was watching the top of Skinny's head as he fiddled with his I-Phone, or Blackberry, or I-Pad, or his I-don't-know-what-hell-thing he was fiddling with. I have gotten to know both Skinny's and my friend Stickman's head-tops because half the time I am with them they are bent over looking at the damn things.

If either of these two guys were ever filmed robbing a bank from on top, I could identify them. I'd know the tops of their heads without question.

"Dom will be getting his luggage at area ‘A' through the hallways over there," said Skinny.

"Well, let's go over there and wait for him," I said. So I grabbed my carry-on bag which I was forced to check and Skinny and I walked over to luggage area "A." It was through a maze of hallways.

There was no one in luggage area "A." No travelers, no luggage, only one big, tired-looking guy in a blue janitor's uniform lounging in a seat half-asleep. He was the only person in the whole deserted place.

"There's nothing here," I said.

"Wha keen I dew for you young men?" asked the big guy in the janitor blues.

"AirTran luggage is brought here?" asked Skinny.

"No, sir, you go to luggage area ‘C' for that," he said.

"But the computer says go to ‘A,'" said Skinny.

"Computer's wrong," said the big guy.

Now Skinny was faced with a dilemma. Does he believe the computer or the janitor? Skinny's brilliant mathematical, logical mind feverishly worked on answering the question - man or machine? Man or machine?

"I'm guessing the man's right," I said.

"I'm guessing that you're right that the man is right too," nodded Skinny after deep reflection.

"Thank you," we both said to the big guy and we made the trek to area "C."

Dom arrived shortly thereafter in area "C" and we called Stickman who was waiting in the "cell-phone" lot to come pick us up.

Four of the Five Horsemen (the name of our dice control team) were together again. Too bad Nick@Night was not able to make this class but we'd all get together with him soon.

"What do you say we go to Brother Juniper's for breakfast?" asked Stickman.

"Sounds great to me," I said. Dom and Skinny nodded their approval. I had eaten breakfast last year at Brother Juniper's and it was delicious. Stickman opined that this was the best breakfast restaurant in all of Memphis.

So we arrived at Brother Junipers, a homespun type of restaurant and were immediately seated. I was looking over the menu when Stickman said that the "open omelet" with pesto was just great. Now I have never had an open omelet and I usually shy away from ordering things out of the range of things I usually like. Disappointment usually awaits me when I do.

Dominator orders outside his comfort zone when we go to gourmet restaurants and as often as not he is supremely disappointed in his meal because it is out of his taste zone. I always order within my taste zone and it has worked out beautifully for me.

But I took Stickman's advice and ordered the pesto open omelet.

It was awful; it was nauseating. I was only able to eat one bite because a second bite would have ended with me vomiting on three of my best friends.

But I had a bigger problem; how do I tell my friend that his breakfast recommendation was the worst ever? I know when you recommend something you are putting yourself on the line as Stickman had done with me.

"So what do you think?" asked Stickman.

"It was..." the moment of truth had arrived, "just awful; I feel like vomiting."

"So you didn't like it?" laughed Skinny, delightfully digging into his sumptuous breakfast.

"Brother Juniper's is a great restaurant," said Stickman, but I could see he was hurt and disappointed, although he would never admit he was hurt because the "Stickman" was above the concept of being hurt.

"I feel awful," said Stickman. Feeling awful was not above his concept of feeling awful.

"It's a great restaurant," I said. "I just ordered the wrong thing."

But I had a secret plan. Dom always orders a ton of stuff that he can't finish. At this meal he ordered eggs, bacon, three pancakes and a cinnamon bun. I knew something would be left over and I was right.

"Anyone want my pancakes?" asked Dom. "I can't finish them."

"I'll take them!" I said.

So I ate delicious pancakes at Brother Juniper's even though Stickman's feelings had been...you know...(whisper) hurt.

Now we went to the Hilton Memphis, a really nice hotel; far better than the fungus-covered, small, steamy, smelly, insect swarming dump where we used to do our classes in Tunica.

We walked through the gorgeous lobby and Skinny immediately got his room, 1116. I went to the reservation desk and gave my name, driver's license and credit card. The reservation agent fiddled with her computer.

"We don't have a reservation for you, sir," said the agent, pushing back my license and credit card.

"My group is doing a big event here this weekend," I said.

"I don't have a reservation for you, sir," said the reservation agent.

"You have to because I made the reservation over two months ago," I said.

Now, I have found in the South when you take up a problem with employees, they get a glazed look in their eyes and offer weird solutions to whatever problem you are dealing with. Or they just stay silent or walk off like a zombie.

"I'll call Mary Myers," said the agent. Mary Myers is the head of catering for Hilton Memphis, a charming, highly competent woman who is easy to deal with.

"No need to bother her; just give me a room."

"I'll call Mary Myers," repeated the agent with that glazed look.

"You do have rooms, right?" I asked.

"I'm calling Mary Myers," said the glazed reservation agent.

"I have the reservation in my luggage; I'll get it out."

I went over to the fountain in the middle of the lobby; put my carry-on luggage on a bench (the carry-on luggage that I had to check-in because Delta shortened the luggage-size checker) and unpacked - yes, unpacked right there in public showing the world my new polka-dotted underwear and I then proceeded to riffle through tons of pages I needed to bring for GTC's class that weekend and could not find the damn reservation email which I thought I had brought with me.

But then Mary Myers showed up and saved me from any more embarrassment by making sure I got my room and the special GTC discount. The reservation agent became unglazed and Stickman, Skinny, Dom and I made our way to the elevator.

"The curse of the South," I said. "I mean I am part owner of the whole company and they lose my reservation!"

"Maybe you just think you made a reservation," said Skinny.

"I made it; I made it," I said. "When I get home I will mail you the email confirmation of my reservation to prove I am not nuts."

So Dom got off on the fifth floor; and Skinny, Stickman and I got off on the 11th floor. My room was 1111; just five doors down from Skinny's room. Stickman was not staying this night so he came to my room with me.

Ladies, I really don't mean to be indelicate here but I really had to take a dump. I had been holding it in ever since I was almost poisoned at Brother Juniper's.

I entered the room and went right to the bathroom after putting my luggage down.

"Jesus Christ!" I yelled.

"What is it?" asked Stickman.

"There's no fucking light in the bathroom; it's out!"

"Wow," said Stickman.

"I'll shut the door and go in the dark," I said. I shut the door and it was pitch; I mean pitch black; no light whatsoever. I was groping around the bathroom trying to feel my way to the bowl when my hand went right into the bowl.

"Jesus Christ!" I yelled.

My big dump went right back up into my colon or wherever big dumps hibernate. I groped; found the bathroom door handle and opened the door.

"It went back up," I said to Stickman. Stickman nodded in sympathy because all men understand the importance of good daily dumps.

I walked over to the desk and called down and asked them to send up a maintenance man to change the light in the bathroom.

I then turned on the light on the desk of my room...except that didn't work either.

"Stickman, try the light by you," I said. He did. It didn't work. I tried the light by the bed; it didn't work. Going around the room only one light worked in the whole place. Now chew on this: All the lights that didn't work were those new, super-mercury bulbs that are supposed to last for decades before they explode and kill everyone in your family. The only light that did work was your regular, everyday incandescent bulb that is going to be replaced by the deadly mercury bulbs that were currently all out in my room.

The maintenance man came up shortly, and replaced the bathroom light.

"I checked the other lights," I said. "Except for one, they're all out too."

"All your lights is out?" he said.

"Yes," I said.

"I be right back."

He never came back. I operated the whole weekend with one light in the main room and one light in the bathroom. When God exclaimed, "Let there be light!" he obviously had overlooked this particular room.

A half hour later, Dominator, Stickman, Skinny and I were at the warehouse to meet the "Two Men and a Truck" truck where two men would load the truck with all the tables and supplies we'd need for our class at the Hilton Memphis hotel. In the past, our own instructors would do the heavy work but now everyone was just too damn old or decrepit to do so. Hiring movers has become de rigueur.

We usually rent a large ballroom that can be split in two in order to have a lecture room and a practice room. Unfortunately, the Hilton Memphis main ballroom couldn't shut the movable partition in the middle, so we were given a third room as well.

I was told by the custodian that the new room would be for the craps tables and the ballroom - a VERY LARGE ballroom - would be used for the lecture. The new room had a weird shape, kind of like a triangle, with mirrors covering all of one wall.

The "Two Men and a Truck" movers brought everything into the weird new room but Dom and I realized immediately that the weird new room would be better for the lectures and the big ballroom would be better for the craps tables. Our only problem was that the ballroom had a meeting going on and we'd have to wait a couple of hours before we could set up in there.

So our instructors put together all the throwing and receiving stations which we would move when the big ballroom became available, while Janis "Alligator Rose" put together all the brochures and handouts we'd give to the students come class time two days from now on Saturday.

We just had to inform the custodians what we intended to do. Dom called maintenance and a few minutes' later two custodians showed up.

"We are going to switch rooms. We'll put the craps tables in the ballroom and the classroom in here," I said.

"This here is your room," said one of the custodians.

"Yeah," said Dom. "But we want to make this the classroom and the ballroom the practice room."

"This here is for your tables," said the other custodian.

"I know that's what it was originally," I said. "We just want to switch it around."

"The partition in the middle don't work in the middle there," said the first custodian.

"I know, I know," I said. "But all we have to do is switch rooms. The partition doesn't matter. Make this one have the tables for the classroom and the other one we'll have our craps tables in there."

"There's a meeting in there," said the other custodian.

"When the meeting ends, we'll bring our tables in there," said Dom.

"This is the room for your tables," said the first custodian.

Now I glanced over at Dom. His face was starting to turn red but thankfully the veins were not yet pulsating on his forehead - which would be a dangerous sign. Dominator is easily frustrated. He whispered under his breath to me, "What the fuck is wrong with these people?"

"The meeting in the other room ends at three o'clock and we'll set up our tables in there and then you set up the classroom in here," Dom said, his voice now clearly showing his irritation.

Then an administrator came in. He had seen us talking to the custodians.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"We have the ballroom and this room for our event this weekend," I said. "We want to make this our classroom and the ballroom our practice room. We just want to switch them around."

"So you want to switch the practice room into here and make the boardroom the classroom?" he asked.

"No, no," steamed Dom, "just the opposite."

"I don't understand," said the administrator.

"This here is their practice room," said the first custodian.

"Yeah, that's right," said the other custodian.

"Yes, no, look," I said. "Come back at 4:30 and we'll finish this."

"Finish what?" asked the administrator.

"We'll tell you then," I said.

"Glad we could be of help," said the administrator as he walked out, content that he had solved the problem. The custodians wandered out several seconds later.

"At 3 o'clock we'll set up the other room and they'll have to figure out this one will then become the classroom," I said.

"I wouldn't bet on it," said Dom taking out a cigarette. When Dom is frustrated he smokes. He was frustrated now. Actually when Dom is happy, sad, thinking, dreaming, concentrating, working, watching the Yankees, dumping or doing nothing, he smokes.

By 4:30, the tables were in place in the big ballroom as was the big craps table. We hadn't yet done the chips or the "store" where we sell our books, dice, tapes and other products. But I figured on doing those the next morning since the tune-ups on Friday didn't start until 2PM.

When I called the custodians at 4:30, luckily they understood immediately that the weird room would now become the classroom and thus they saved themselves the agony of being shot by a frustrated, smoking Dominator.

Finally at 5PM, Stickman and I sat down to have chilled Belvedere vodka in the lobby bar at the Hilton Memphis. As I mentioned, this is a very nice hotel and the lobby bar is a very nice touch. There were four people sitting at the bar; Stickman and me, and a couple at the other end of the bar. The bartender was a pretty, blue-eyed blonde young lady who looked like the classic Southern high school cheerleader.

"What can I get you boys?" she asked.

"A Belvedere, chilled, straight up in a Martini glass, nothing else in it," said Stickman.

"We don't have Martini glasses. We ordered some a couple of weeks ago and they haven't come in yet," she said.

"You don't have Martini glasses?" asked Stickman.

"No, sir, but we can put your vodka in a regular glass," said the cheerleader.

"Okay," I said. "Remember, chilled and nothing else in it. No olives, no fruit; just chilled Belvedere. Nothing else in it."

She went to the other end of the bar where she served the other two patrons their bottles of beer. She then engaged them in conversation with her smiling face and blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. I wondered if we'd ever get served. I was getting antsy.

"It's going to take a month to get served," I said.

"You know, none of this happens except when I am with you," said Stickman. "You bring this on, not the South. There is some curse on you. I live here and nothing like this happens except when you're around."

Finally, the cheerleader brought over our drinks swimming with olives and totally murky because she had dumped olive juice in the glasses as well. These are called "dirty" Martinis.

"We didn't want any olives in our drinks," I said.

Her eyes glazed over. She smiled and walked down to the other end of the bar. She had a very pretty walk even in her glazed condition.

"I did say nothing in it, didn't I?"

"This only happens with you," said Stickman.

That night we ate at Corky's, the actual, original Corky's, which is a BBQ ribs place known the world over, although I had never heard of it until I traveled down South. I had once eaten at the Rendezvous in downtown Memphis, a place of surly waiters and dirty glasses that Dominator wants us to eat at next year when we do our class in Memphis.

Billy-the-Kid, No Field Five, Dr. Crapology, Alligator Rose, Dom, Skinny, Stickman and I had a nice large table in the rear of the restaurant where the plastic tablecloth in front of me had a hole in it, revealing the cotton underlay.

"My kind of restaurant," I said to Stickman as I fingered the underlay exposed by the hole in the tablecloth.

Stickman shook his head. "It only happens to you," he said.

The waitress came over; she was bubbly and friendly. "What can I get you boys?" I love that in the South the women call men of our age "boys" or "young man."

"The two of us," indicated Stickman, "we'll have Belvedere..."

"We don't have that," said the waitress.

"What kind of vodka do you have?" I asked.

"We don't got no vodka here; I got that in my car," she winked.

"No vodka?" said Stickman.

"Just beer," she said. A second waitress came over with a pitcher of beer and poured each of us a glass. I am not a beer drinker but I did have half a glass. It was just fine.

The rest of the Corky's evening was just fine too; a little messy eating those delicious ribs, but just fine.

Stickman drove Dom, Skinny and me back to the hotel and I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. But at 3AM I was wide awake. As I get older, my sleep patterns are changing. I like to go to bed at 9PM and wake up at 5AM, but if I do go to bed at nine, I usually wake up at 2AM or 3AM. I toss and turn and finally get up and do some work. If I go to bed at 10 o'clock, I usually sleep until 5AM and don't even have to get up to go to the bathroom, a growing problem with "boys" my age. But I can't keep my eyes open until 10PM on most evenings.

So I tossed and turned. I got up and looked out the window, which was actually one of the four walls - a huge picture window; with a spectacular view of trees, roads, houses and way, way off in the distance the tall buildings of downtown Memphis.

At 6:30AM, I went down to Rook's Restaurant for breakfast where my waitress never brought me my coffee. I asked her three times for the coffee - and believe me I am always polite since I was once a waiter - and three times she said she was getting it. She never got it.

After breakfast, I went to the practice room and for the next three hours I set up the store and put the chips out on the craps table. Dom and Skinny joined me at the end and helped finish up.

So it was off to the pool on a cloudy but warm late morning in Memphis, Tennessee.

I swim three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I figured I'd swim for a half hour, which is a half mile for me, and then I'd sit with Dom and Skinny and shoot the breeze.

The pool was a little difficult to find since there was only one sign with an arrow that lead into a maze of hallways with several doors, some saying "emergency exit: alarm will sound." We went in and out of doors that didn't say "emergency exit: alarm will sound" and finally we found the staircase leading to the pool.

"I don't think they have a handicapped entrance to the pool," said Stickman when we were exiting later that morning.

I swam for 35 minutes, which was 50 laps or a little more than a half mile, and then I sat in the Jacuzzi and enjoyed the warm rushing water. Skinny said, "I swam five laps in order to keep up with Frank!" He spent far more time languishing in the Jacuzzi.

Dom didn't go in the pool. Instead he was reading a business book. Dom is motivated to make the business end of our company the best possible model in the gambling industry and we are both dedicated to making our classes the best possible classes. Indeed, all of our instructors want GTC to be the "gold standard" in dice control and advantage play and I know we have accomplished that. Still, we are always looking to improve what we do.

GTC, as all of you know, rejects the stupid trend-betting systems now being sold by scammers as sure-fire winners - these are just repackaging of phony systems used for hundreds of years by hopeful but hapless, losing gamblers. We don't advocate any betting schemes apart from the proper bets for the edges you have using our advantage-play methods.

We are now discussing having a special Friday series of advantage-play classes on our GTC weekends in slots (telling our students in what casinos advantage machines actually can be found), Pai Gow poker, introduction to dice control, Speed Count in blackjack and where the best casinos are for playing this great method, and video poker. (http://www.goldentouchcraps.com/ap_friday.shtml)

Friday evening the 5-Horsemen, minus Nick@Night, ate at Brenans or Brenahams or something like that. We had gone to Stickman's room for a chilled glass of Belvedere, no olives in it or anything else, and then we headed over to the restaurant.

The place was an interesting mix of pub and gourmet, depending on where you wanted to sit, with a high ceiling; and the place was decorated in a News Orleans theme.

I order filet mignon medium. My steak arrived and it was so rare I thought it was still alive. When I mentioned to my friends that the steak had actually quivered on my plate, everyone laughed, except Stickman whose recommendation this restaurant had been.

"I just can't win," said Stickman.

"It's not your fault the place serves live meat," I said. I could see that Stickman was not happy about this new restaurant turn of events.

I asked the waiter to have the meat cooked some more. When it came back it was still really rare so I ate around the actively bleeding areas and let that be that. I didn't want to complain anymore for fear Stickman would punch me in the face. I also made a big show of loving the desert, which was actually a desert to be loved, Pecan pie with ice cream on top.

Friday night, I am just drifting off and there are bangs on my door. I awaken, heart racing. Then a key is put in my lock; I can hear it rubbing up and down. Then silence. Somebody has the wrong room, which was obvious. I start to drift off again. "Boom! Boom!" go the knocks and I again hear the key being inserted into my lock.

I now get up and go to the door and look out the peephole. Some drunken kid is staggering down the hall.

I go back to bed and it takes me two hours to fall asleep.

Saturday class. It amazes me that three people who paid for the class don't show up. Although Memphis is our discounted class, it still costs a pretty penny and to just not appear amazes me. No phone call to explain an emergency, no apologies since we make it clear we hire instructors based on attendance; "no nothing" as they say in my old Brooklyn neighborhood.

Still, the class is packed with students - both primers and refreshers. Our instructors and mentors are raring to go to work and so am I. Dom said to me the other day, "You know the two of us are beginning to live through our students," and he was right. I don't play anywhere near as much as I used to but I love to hear the success stories of the students who have become advantage players and taken the casinos' money. Those are OUR people out there!

There are no problems with the class, other than the fact that no podium had been placed on the stage and the coffee and cookies didn't arrive until it started - which means they arrive a half hour late. I was surprised to discover that each cookie cost three dollars. Although they were good cookies, they weren't three dollar cookies because such a cookie should be gilded with gold.

There was one stunning moment in class for me. A young woman, petite, pretty, quiet, respectful and obviously in good shape, although not the least masculine, gained my attention. Since we don't have more than a few women in class, and rarely a young woman, I wanted to know something about her.

During the Box Number competition I said to her: "So [name of student] what do you do for a living?"

In her quiet, lady-like voice she replied, "I am a drill sergeant in the army."

The others at the table went silent; my jaw must have dropped open. "What?" I said.

"I am a drill sergeant," she nodded.

"I mean, like, you handle all those recruits? Like those tough young guys who join the army?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. How could this young lady, petite, quiet, possessed of a classy poise, be a drill sergeant?

"How do you do that?"

"It's like turning off and on a switch," she said. "When I am here, I am one person; when I am a drill sergeant I am another person."

"I can't picture that," I said. "Give me an example of how you would treat a disobedient recruit."

She smiled demurely; then her face changed and she barked, "I will punch your f**king teeth down your *&^%!! throat if you smile at me!"

She had twelve pairs of eyes at the craps table looking at her - astonished eyes. My God, this young woman was indeed a drill sergeant. She was Cinderella and Joan of Arc combined. She had served three tours of duty in Afghanistan too. Interestingly enough, she also won the Box Number competition in hand-to-dice combat with all the other GTC students that weekend.

The class was a great success. The refresher students loved the mentor program (groups of four students have a mentor who stays with them as they go from teacher to teacher) which had not been in place when they first took the course.

As we were taking down the tables and loading the boxes, I was explaining to our intern Timmer something I wanted him to do. I was backing up and went skidding on a rolling cart. I would have hit the floor had Timmer not grabbed me. "Whew! That was close," I said.

Sunday evening, as I was getting ready for bed, a religious group was meeting on the man-made lake that surrounds the Hilton Memphis where, by the way, catfish over three feet long swim in relative peace. These folks were dressed all in white, held their arms straight up into the air, and prayed whatever prayers they prayed to God. It was a fitting close to a weekend down South.

Unfortunately, it was nowhere near the close of anything or the end of religious expression on this trip.

The next morning, Monday, my departure day, I woke up and could barely walk. My left heel was killing me. I was limping like Achilles after he had been shot with an arrow. I wondered if I had hurt myself skidding on that rolling cart as we were cleaning up Sunday after class.

Stickman was going to drive Dom, Skinny and me to the airport. "You're going to have a nice flight. It's on time and the weather is good," he said to me. "Dom, you might be flying into a tornado." I was going to New York; Dom was going to Wisconsin. Even though I could barely walk, at least I would have a peaceful flight on which to nap before getting home to my beloved Long Island in the Northeast of the United States.

But I was still in the South. I actually thought the agonizing heel was the send-off from the gods of the South and I was willing to accept that. But the heel was only the start.

I made sure my carry-on would fit the luggage checker but no one bothered me about it. Everyone in Memphis actually spoke English with a sweet Southern accent. Dom had been let off at the AirTran gates; Skinny and I were left off at Delta. Since we were quite early we planned on having breakfast together.

Skinny decided to go to one security screening area; I went to the one next to it.

"Mine will get through first," he laughed. "I'll beat you through."

He did beat me through, except they stopped him at the end. As I went through the "let's-take-a-look-at-your-naked-body-x-ray" machine, while asking the TSA worker if I could have a copy of the picture, Skinny's luggage was scooped up by the guard and he was carted off to a checking area where they look for hidden weapons from terrorists nutty enough to want to go to Memphis International Airport.

I put on my shoes, belt, and jacket but I could see Skinny being searched and questioned. His luggage was opened; everything was taken out. The contents were put through the screening machine again and again and again. I was waiting for what seemed like half an hour. Finally, the security guards let Skinny go after he repacked his clothing but now there was no time for a formal breakfast so we went to the Delta SkyMiles lounge for a cup of coffee and a muffin so small Tom Thumb couldn't fit in it.

Okay, so that would be the final indignity leveled at me by the South.

It wasn't.

The flight that was to be on time was delayed one hour due to bad weather in New York. I stood around the boarding area watching the people occupy themselves in order to pass the time. I love passing the time watching other people passing the time.

Three teen girls and their face-lifted mother were putting on a display of being "cute." The three girls wriggled on the floor trying to lie down to "sleep," knowing old goats were gnawing their lips watching them; while the mother tried desperately to wriggle sexily in her seat. All four looked ridiculous but the mother looked totally demented. There's nothing worse than a bad face lift wriggling in order to look sexy.

Finally, after an hour wait, we boarded the plane.

My seat was 11C, an aisle seat. Now the passengers started to stream onto the plane. Although I am "slightly" overweight I have no trouble totally fitting in the sardine-sized seats. A group of African-garbed individuals now seated themselves, the fattest of which, with one of those beehive kerchiefs about two thousand feet high on top of her head, sat next to me. Why do I always seem to get Haystacks Calhoun next to me on planes?

The other African-garbed folks sat several rows behind me.

The three "cutesy poo" girls sat in the seats across the aisle from me, while face-lifted mom sat behind me.

"Please take your seats quickly," announced the pilot after introducing himself. "Bad weather is coming in and we want to take off as quickly as possible or we're going to be delayed again." Of course, after this announcement, everyone seemed to move in slow motion.

A beautiful, really thin stewardess hitching a ride came to my row where there was an empty seat by the window and asked, "Is that seat taken?" The fat helmeted African garbed woman said, "It's empty, but I will move over to the window seat and you sit in the middle."

Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Lord!

"Wait a minute," said a big, Spanish-accented guy wearing a muscle shirt, "this is my seat."

I turned to the guy and said, "I'd rather have her sitting next to me." That brought a laugh from many of the passengers seated near me but the muscle-shirted guy got the seat and the pretty, thin stewardess had to find another seat. At least I wouldn't have to contend with Haystacks Calhoun during the flight; that was a relief. The muscle-shirted guy did not spill over his seat. It would make the flight easier having him seated next to me...or so I thought.

Finally the doors were shut and the plane taxied to the runway.

The plane took off; one of the hellish take-offs of all time! Before we were even fifty feet off the ground, the plane was buffeted to one side, angled down a bit, straightened up, and then jerked up and down several times. We were gaining altitude even with the buffeting but the plane was hop, skipping and jumping like crazy.

Right off, there were gasps and "oh, gods" coming from some of the passengers. Some babies screamed - although I think they screamed just for the hell of it.

As we climbed the buffeting got much worse. Now the cutesy-poo girls were actively screaming and so was face-lifted mom behind me. Mom was almost deafening in her screams. Rocking, falling, ascending; I was twice lifted off my seat and had I not been wearing a seat belt I would have gone straight up and probably hit the ceiling.

Then the praying and singing started. The African-garbed contingent started praying loud and the one in my row lifted her voice to the sky (or the ceiling actually) and howled her spirituals (well, they sounded like spirituals). Had I recognized the words I might have sung too.

Interestingly enough, I was not afraid. Years ago I was terrified of flying but years and years of flights have totally calmed my nerves. I've been on rocking and rolling planes before and although this was the second worse take off I ever remember (the number one occurred in Vegas) I just let it happen. Unless the pilot was suicidal, I figured he knew what he was doing - and even if he didn't know what he was doing, there was nothing I could do about that.

So I listened and watched the scene from my aisle seat.

The plane finally settled itself into calmer air and we were on our way to New York in the good ole north of our country. So long South! I would now close my eyes and sleep the sleep of the pure and innocent freed of the curse that descends upon me when I visit "down there."

Except the Spanish-accented guy fell asleep too and snored loud and long and through the whole damn flight! His snores were multifaceted; bear sounds, grump growls, staccato bursts; phlegmy ones; sniffling ones; suck-up-gallons-of-snot-into-your-nose ones. His head leaned towards me and he was bearing, grumping, staccatoing, phlegming, sniffling, sucking up gallons of snot right next to my ear. I didn't sleep a wink on the flight when the pilot got on and said, "We are now in a holding pattern and we'll be circling LaGuardia Airport for about forty-five minutes."

Jesus Christ!

But we did finally land. I limped through the airport and got in the car that would take me home. Chris, a retired-New York City narcotics detective was my driver and I always enjoyed talking to him about anything.

"I am going to prove to my friends that I did have a reservation at the damn hotel," I said to Chris. "I am going to email them a copy of the email confirmation and then they will see I am not out of my mind."

So I did that when I got home. I emailed Dom, Stickman, Skinny and Mary Myers of the Hilton Memphis the confirmation I had received. There, there, there, you see I am not crazy!

Then Skinny wrote me back: "No wonder they could not find your reservation. Did you notice how they spelled your name?"

I went down the confirmation to see how they had spelled my name. Frank Foblete. FOBLETE! Jesus Christ, they had spelled my name as Foblete; no wonder they had no record of my reservation.

And that, my friends, proves what Stickman and others have known all along, the South has got it in for me!