Talking Hoods

I Haven’t the Vegas Idea

Okay, so I made a mistake. Coulda happened to anybody. The thing is, Mom, you gotta learn by your mistakes. I know I learned something. Not quite sure what, but something. I learned what?.. stay away from bad companions, never gamble with the milk money, don't try to fill an inside straight. And always approach life or whatever as an adventure. Buy the E-ticket and take the ride.

As for the indictment, don't worry about that. Coulda happened to anybody. Wasn't my fault. It was, I don't know… I guess it was just…Vegas.

My younger brother, Tim…you remember him… He thinks Vegas is an asteroid. It's out on some moonscape and you can't get anywhere from there… You can drive for days and all you see is salt flats and the bones of accountants who tried to double down on Twenty-One…

I think it's a conspiracy. The government planned it. They wanted to get all the gangsters and lounge singers in one place and set off some hydrogen bombs and radiate them so they don't reproduce… They live in neon holes in the desert and come out at night. The sand cools their reptilian blood so they can sleep.

Take All-New-Paul, for instance. His skin is leathery and cool to the touch. You could make those Tony Lama boots out of it. Or hatbands for cowboys. He looks like Vladimir Putin with hepatitis. And, what with the various death threats, he’s not your run of the mill talk show host.

Most talk show hosts have never been up on Murder One either. I know Jay bores you to death, but mostly it's not an indictable offense.

Paul, he gets real pissed when he's on camera too. Like he could kill each and every one of the studio audience and all you folks watching at home. They think it's the lights. They shine right in his eyes and he thinks they're trying to get him to confess.

THE SINATRA CLAUSE

But I'm getting ahead of myself, Mom. It's the Sinatra Clause that's the cause of this. You were in Vegas once, you know the scams they run here. Like, they can lie to you or cheat you or roll you or con you and it doesn't matter at all. The average man stays in Vegas three days, two of them drunk… then you're broke and wasted and back on the plane. You get back home to Detroit and you gotta tell the guys what a great time you had. How you got laid. ‘Scuse me, Mom, I'm just trying to communicate and if we stand on ceremony you won't know what I been through in this town.

Anyway, they got it all planned. They’ve got spotters at the airport when you come in. They look for suckers and finger high rollers, and felons and things. They fill out forms on you… a profile, like the seven deadly sins. Whatever your weakness, they’ll find it and sell it to you. You know,…women, drugs, booze… Gambling's a given or you wouldn't be there. You'd be like…the Club Med or Yellowstone, or Disneyland with the kids… not hanging around with a lotta folks who leave slime trails on the carpet.

The point is they treat everyone like a mark or a stooge. Which is what you are if you stay there long enough… like a minute or two, that is.

Where was I, Mom? I really don't know. I think the desert sun has affected my brain. I went out once during the day, which is something they never do. Tim's right, it's like outer space; a hostile environment inside and out, wherever you go. Inside, it's like the dark side of the moon, only with noise. Outside it's like a thousand degrees centigrade. It's okay, they say, cause it's a dry heat, so it's good. It just melted my new Mazda ZX but it's a dry heat…

Where was I? Oh yeah… The Sinatra Clause… The cause of this all. Well, not the cause… I musta run over some intelligent life-form with my car in some previous life… that must be the cause… Some cosmic guilt or karma that washed me up in Vegas… But the immediate engine of grief was this legal thing… this Vegas law.

Vegas law, that's a good one. It's, what d'you call it? Oxymoronic. It just doesn't go. Like Mormon coffeecake. That's sort of a Vegas joke, see. The Mormons own Vegas…They own the land. They’ve owned it for years, ever since they ran the Indians off it. So they just sort of lease it to the gangsters and the gamblers and the hustlers and the whores, cause, what the heck, it was just sitting out there in the sun anyway… And what the heck, they're all going to hell, they might as well live out in the middle of the goddamn desert and get used to it… and of course, pay rent.

I'm getting to the point, Mom, I really am. I know you got your soaps and all and I'm taking up valuable-viewing-time with this cause they gave me the pencil and paper and all… and I may not be going anywhere for some time to come… But I just want you to get the flavor of this town, which is somewhere between linguini and liquid plumber on ice.

Every other town I’ve been in, they have like, January first on the news, the first baby born in the year… Five pounds seven ounces, proud father and all. Here, January one, they have the First Body Found. No shit. Twelve oh three A.M., Male Caucasian, approximate age 35, found out Desert Inn Road, three small caliber holes in the back of his head. This breaks the record set in 1978 with the old torso-stuffed-in-the-cactus case, still unsolved…"

They got a big chart like annual rainfall. No shit.

Okay, the Sinatra Clause. I'm sorry, this stuff is just running out of my brain like a fever. I do have the sweats, I'll tell you that…It's just that…

All-New-Paul wouldn't have been famous at all except for the Clause. Which would have suited him fine, believe me. He would have just handled the skim for the mob like he was supposed to. And, of course, whacked out the occasional deadbeat… Just to keep everything kosher and on the up and up.

Only thing was, they caught him. And that wasn't good. Well, they didn't catch him. He doesn't handle cash. Except for the occasional Cecil he lays on some broad for some head. A tip really… Sex is comped too. Like lunch and parking and drugs. When you're a Big Boss at a Casino it's all really clean; a barter economy like, you know, you lend me your wife, I let you live… real basic. Tit for Tat.

They didn't catch him. They caught one of the Town Boys, I call them. I call them that cause they all did stuff for Paul and they all had funny names… Like Danny Detroit and Sammy Miami and Fast Framingham Phil. For some reason, nobody's called Joliet Jim or Lenny Leavenworth. I guess that's too close to home. They all had ample reasons for adopting Nom de Hoods. Sammy had been on the far side of the law so long he thought his middle name was AKA.

Anyways, some of the boys, I forget which exact ones, got caught with like Seven Round Ones on a charter flight to Miami. And of course, they acted like it was a surprise…Like, you know, they went out for Chinese and, you know, looked inside for the Chow Mein and it was like cabbage, you know, mostly unmarked Grovers at that. So they were like, already in the air and watching the movie so like, what were they supposed to do, ya know, report it to the government or something? Well, of course they was gonna do that but, what with the excitement of landing and all… they forgot.

So when the agents came up to them, they thought it was like a misunderstanding, you know. Like nobody made the call.. So they hit them with a Cecil or two…And like that was where they went wrong. Cause these were not Casino Cops, these were like Federal Agents… Hey, an honest mistake! But what you don't wanna do is like hit the Feds with a couple of Cecils cause, like, they take offence! Ya gotta show 'em at least a Grover or six, or like get their kids into Harvard… Cause like anything else is just in the nature of an insult…

Much better than that is to clam up and smile and, like, fake a brain seizure.

So the Feds had a wire and all that. They knew what was coming. There's probably more FBI in Vegas than in Washington, what with the weather being so good and all. They’re watching these things. And they just got pissed off at Paul cause it just wasn't cool. Like, you know, you don't show them up. Like taking a strike, three and oh, and starting to walk to first. The umps don't like that and neither do the feds when you skim Seven Large off just the slots in a few weeks and walk it to the Bahamas. Shows them up in front of the crowd. They're gonna call you out.

So Paul was in the soup. A new job, new responsibilities and here the Feds wanted to put him under indictment for fraud. Welcome to Town! Really!

Worse than that, they started going into all the old stuff. Stuff that really wasn't fair… cause none of it had ever stuck. And like he had laid out quite some bread over the years… His legal fees, if laid end to end like his victims, would stretch from Columbia Law to Columbia Pictures. If converted back, they could have reforested the Golan Heights in dwarf pine.

And, he enjoyed his good name and rep. Being an Un-Indicted Co-Conspirator had a certain cachet among peers. It meant not only had you done it, but they couldn't nail you on it. It made him a big scary man about town. And he could give you that cold fish-eye stare and your dentures would lock.

This made him doubly pissed when they refused his Gaming Card in Vegas. Come on! What's seven million? It didn't seem fair. Hey, it coulda cost him his job, for Chrissakes!

Ya see, since this stuff is all totally legit now, what with the Hotel Corps and the pension funds and whatnot, and so that nobody should think for one nanosecond that gambling and whoring and drinking and drugs might attract, say, your… unsavory characters… they went out of their way to show that, well, Gaming had got nothing to do with, like, Gambling. Losing those two letters made it legit. Gaming was, you know, like something a WASP or English person would do, like snooker and stock fraud, whereas Gambling was for Negroes and WOPs. So the scam was, like, there aren't any gamblers hereabouts. And that all the hoods and gunsels died out years ago… say in the early Pleistocene with the dinosaurs. Presumably all those pit bosses that glom at you from the tables learned the gaming rules at Princeton. And your basic bust-out degenerate gambling is like just another healthy non-contact sport… good for your heart, like bowling, or a jog down the I-15. In fact,I saw them ask one of the guys, Vito the Torch, I think it was, if he knew the King's English.

Sure I do! said Vito, "And far as I know, the Queen is too!

Anyway, since everything is totally on the up and up, Key Executives have to be licensed. Anybody near the casino operation has to have first seen Sonny and Clemenza in that movie. And they definitely shouldn't be seen in the company of any alleged perps from back east. Except for Sinatra.

Ya see, years ago, when Circus Sodom was just opening up, they needed an act… you know, a headliner, someone who would bring in the High Rollers. Frankie got, what, 200 Large per engagement across the street at the El Gomorra in the Great Gattara Depression Room? His contract was solid; 25 years to life.

But Circus Sodom was intent about this. It was not to be denied. It was new, it was flashy. It not only had the Flying Wallendas over the 21 pits, it had a restaurant in a diving bell descending twenty-five feet into an actual scale replica of the Marianas Trench. It had a trout stream winding through the casino, a golf course on the roof. And it wanted Frankie Sinatra to kick off the opening.

No problem. They gave him a couple a points in the casino. They made him an executive. Frankie was happy as a clam. He now could charge hookers directly to his room and it went down as parking.

It was the wedding that killed it for Frankie. The bride was an angel. But her father was Carmine the Weasel. The groom, Little Augie Two Fingers, later got in on the ground floor of a bridge. It was that picture of Frankie with his face full of cannoli and his arm around Mrs. the Weasel that did it, I think. The Feds tried to look the other way and found the last three-fourths of a horse. Once again, Mom, one thing I learned is to learn not to show up the Feds.

Anyway, they yanked his license, and he had to sing at the White House and get a few girls on the line for the Pres before they would let him back in. So then they all hadda come up with something, and what they came up with is something called the Sinatra Clause, which roughly is: You can't license bad guys for the casino, but if the guy is an entertainer, then it's alright.

That's some clause and Paul got right on it because, after all, there was quite a bit of moola in question. So Paul became the Entertainment Director of the Starburst…The only problem was the Hotel only had one show, the Lido de Paree. And that show, since it featured both disappearing elephants and naked bouncing tits, had run for 28 years without a hiccup.

Legal Brains

2. The legal brains for the place, Ollie Hamlin, knew it wouldn't stick, seeing as the Feds were so pissed off and all. What was he gonna say, I'm checking that the tits are okay? Casting new lions? What?

Ollie Hamlin practiced criminal law. So he hung out with criminals. Why are you surprised about that? And the worse the criminals, the more they needed him, and the more they paid. And the more he hung out with them. And the more he talked to them, and reasoned with them and, let’s face it, schemed with them, and maybe bribed a judge or two. Not in an overt way, not so you’d be embarrassed or indicted or anything like that.

Okay, Ollie grinned, dollar signs flipping over in his head. We can use the Sinatra Clause, it’s the best Clause since Santa. Whatever it is that you may claim to do, we just say it’s entertainment and they have to prove it’s not. So, what do you want to do?

Well, for a start, said Paul, I’m the Entertainment Director. That means I direct entertainment.

Yeah, I get that. We need something, you know, just a smidge more…like, you know, leaning into the area of reality.

Reality?

Into the arena, as it were, of things that you might argue…are real. Like it, whatever it is, should actually, maybe really happen. Just so they can’t nail you on a fraudulent something, you know. Like if you were to, say, do something, and they come in and investigate and do forensics and look under the carpet and all, and you aren’t actually doing anything…then that would be bad.

"So what you’re saying is…

You have to produce… something, insisted Ollie.

I’ve seen producers. They don’t do anything.

No. It’s something. It just doesn’t look like anything.

Well, if it doesn’t look like anything, why can’t I just say I’m doing it. How can they tell I’m not?

Well, like if nothing got produced, that might be considered a dead giveaway.

I get it, said Joey. "You gotta be like Sinatra. You gotta be an entertainer."

In some, as yet undefined…way. added Ollie. You don’t dance, do you?

Not for nobody.

Or sing?

What are you calling me?

Nothing. No offense. Sinatra. He sings. He dances, he acts. See? He’s an entertainer.

They sat there for a moment. Dead air.

I set the line.

You set the line?

What are you, stupid?

I think so, yeah.

Look, I set the betting line. I set the odds. I’m an oddsmaker.

Ohhhhh. he said.

You see this sports book here, that’s my personal innovation. Paul turned with an expansive, Moses-like gesture, encompassing the cavernous room.

And they’re off! the screens yelled. Horses digging for the first turn, wide receivers down and out, slap shots on goal…all at once, with sports chatter and screams and shouts from the gambling addicts in the aisles. Paul’s eyes positively lit up from pride and the blinking No Vacancy sign in his brain.

You come here, you can see all the games, all the races. On TV! All at once. Everything! And with drinks! You can get a bet down on anything. Anytime. 24 hours a day.

They looked. There were gamblers, bleary eyed, locked into the screens, some collapsed on their tout sheets, dead to the real world, with bells and whistles going off in their heads. It was a drug, this gambling thing. A pure adrenaline/dopamine rush. All peaking in a nanosecond of bump; the batted ball, the nose on the wire, the clock running out. All in. And All New Paul was into it. He was part of it, but above it all. He had created his own universe. But, still…Technically, it wasn’t entertainment, argued Ollie.

What do you want, the horses to strip off their saddles and blow you? Would that be entertainment? Paul was getting a little cranky. He wasn’t used to two-way conversations.

So Paul was gonna entertain. But what was he gonna do? He didn't sing! At least he better not if he knew what was good for him. He didn't dance. And he didn't tell jokes, at least not real funny ones. The ones he told just got that nervous laughter, which was not so good for crowds. Like, his funniest line was: Hey, so, ya wanna die or what?

Sure, all his guys laughed. They had to, ya know. But sometimes the other guy didn't laugh.. Just sort of froze up and made choking sounds. Anyway, that sort of thing didn't work in a crowd, although it's been tried. And, you know, being Vegas, the audience was made up of Federal Agents and, you know, they didn't have the best sense of humor where Paul was concerned. He'd go for a joke and wind up with an extortion rap, you know what I mean?

So the only thing Paul could do was, he could talk. Only he don't talk if he knows what's good for him. And he knows just that, believe me, that's one thing he knows. Day and Night. He's been trained this way for years. It's implanted in his genes by now. He don't talk. He just don't talk! A grunt. A look. A growl. A nod. Could be anything, you know. He could have the entire population of Casper, Wyoming whacked out and stuffed into garbage bags by intimation, but on the transcripts it would just look like…you know, something intestinal.

The Butt Factory Spa, Rub Joint & Casino

3. They liked to meet in the steam room, and while half-naked gangsters left something to be desired in the visual aesthetic spectrum, it seemed to insure the absence of any recording equipment that couldn’t fit up your ass, and which could attenuate the muffled booming from a mic situated there.

Paul was swathed in a towel, radiating naked power like God in that chapel roof thing. And he acted like God, if God was just a bit more arrogant about running stuff.

But, as far as entertainment, pressed Ollie, what do you actually do?

I produce the Lido Show.

The Lido’s been running for 28 years without a burp. The producer lives in Palm Springs. He comes in twice a year!

Yeah, well, maybe he disappears.

No, I wouldn’t say that, Ollie said. In fact, don’t say stuff like that ever. It’s important to rehearse this stuff. For real.

Paul just glowered. Ollie took that for agreement.

Now, let’s try again. he said. What do you do?

I look for new talent.

You check out tits, is that it? Try to sell that. Give ‘em a little credit. No, you want them to buy the entertainer bit, you’ve got to do something new. A new show.

Can’t close the Lido, there’d be a riot. said Paul. The… Um, the Boys like the Lido…

The Lounge?

‘The Legends.’ Can’t change that. It’s all the talent of the Beatles, without the actual Beatles, so it’s a moneymaker." insisted Paul.

Something new. Something that’s never been done. suggested Ollie.

Paul was up, waving at the Sports Book screens which were piped in special; football, horse racing, golf, basketball, hockey, all together in one gambling media mash-up… an adrenalin palace crank house multichannel multiverse, with all the money flowing one way.

How many people watch Monday Night Football?

Like, everybody.

Right. And how many people bet on Football?

Like everybody.

And who sets the line on football?

You do, Paul.

Right. I do. Coast to Coast.

That was true. Paul set the odds. And everything conformed to those odds and the immutable laws of the universe. He set the odds and the odds controlled everything. Well, wouldn’t that be what God would do? Paul thought about that. Who knew it would go to his head?

Why the old farts in Chicago, what do they know? he said. They know old stuff; bootlegging, extortion, loan sharking. Old stuff. Outta the Past. The future is gambling, and drinking, and pretty girls. They should know that. The boys have always been in the clubs. It’s where the action is.

His eyes lit up red and blue and pulsed like a cop car had skidded into his brain.

"Media, that’s the thing! Bugsy’s old sports wire was the basis of his fortune, but now I can set the odds on TV. On all these screens! The Gangster…ahhh…Gaming… Channel. That’s the deal! A whole channel dedicated to ‘Action’.

I don’t know, quibbled Ollie.

So we go on before the game and set the final line, Paul continued. Just enough time to get that bet down. And it’s got the Starburst logo on everything. When they come to Vegas, where are they gonna go? We set the line for the whole country. So everybody’s gonna want the show?

Where do we do this?

Right in the Sports Book, right in the action. We just put a stage up and bring in the girls. A band over there. A couch, what else?

How about some hookers? offered Joey. I like having hookers around.

Paul stared at him like at something you find under your fingernail.

What is entertainment after all? Paul then asked rhetorically.

It’s like when you laugh or gotta look at something. Joey offered helpfully.

Like would a train wreck be entertainment? asked Paul, philosophically.

If you caused it, and like, it worked. I could see where you would laugh. And you’d be sure to watch it, assuming an alibi, so I’d have to say yes.

Ollie just shook his head. But Paul was right on it.

I looked it up. Paul produced a scrap of paper and read. ’Entertainment consists of any activity, he explained, ’which provides a diversion or permits people to amuse themselves in their leisure time.’ That’s it! That’s our angle. It’s ill-defined! Who’s to say what’s amusing?

Yeah. Who’s to say? mused Ollie.

Paul nodded.

Not you, Paul. said Ollie. You’re not amusing. You’re a lot of other things. But amusing? I think not. And you don’t want to go on TV.

Why not?

For one thing, you look like Death on the Subway. He sipped his drink. You scare people, Paul. You’ll probably scare the camera and the people at home and they won’t like it. And you’ll talk. You’ll say things. It’s inevitable, should you lose your mind and host a television talk show.

I’m gonna talk sports. And headliners and comedy acts and chorus girls. What’s wrong with that? I aim to entertain.

It’s not really entertainment.

Ah, but can they prove it’s not!? Beyond a reasonable doubt. I’ve seen those crime shows. A reasonable doubt. ‘Your honor, it amused me.’ Can they say you’re not amused? Beyond a Reasonable Doubt?

Ollie took a deep breath and a deeper pull of scotch. He sighed, leaned in conspiratorially. Paul, he intoned, it might not be the best tactic to intentionally and publicly insult the Gaming Commission. I’m just saying… that’s all.

Well those two-bit cowboys think they can push me around. But I got the media and I’ll get the public on my side. I can be famous as Donn Arden. I can. I can be bigger than Fluff LeCoque! Then let them try to say I’m not entertaining. Just let them try. Plus, anything happens around town that hour, I got the perfect alibi; I’m on TV!

High Atop the Hotel Purgatory

4. Ollie Hamlin was a mouthpiece, not on a trumpet or something, but for the Mob. And over his 4 PM gin, he was looking askance. Fat, yes. Rich, yes, and on hoods and gangsters, but still… askance. He was in his Strip office, high in the penthouse suite atop the Hotel Purgatory but, still, askance. And who should the askancee be but our pal Paul.

Are you fucking goofy or what, he thought but didn’t say. Paul was his best client. Trouble followed him like a sheepdog.

Ollie was still shaking his head in disbelief, setting off little wavelets of gin in his ventricles.

You want to do a talk show. And you're asking me, as your lawyer, what I think of that? A television talk show… And I would have to say, with all due respect, that you are out of your fucking mind. And I mean that sincerely, from the bottom of my so-called heart.

But I have to entertain.

What is it, some kind of Judy Garland thing?

No. It’s for real.

Well, entertain this. You could talk yourself into some serious trouble.

They can't interrogate me. It's my talk show.

They can take down what you say and use it against you.

I won't say anything.

It’s a talk show.

I have other people do it. I'll just listen.

You?

Look, they're trying to paint me as a bad guy, said Paul.

So don't wear those suits.

What's wrong with them?

Sometimes you remind me of a Creamsicle, that's all. Everything matches, pastel colors. It weirds me out.

I like to look sharp.

You sure you want to be that visible?…Purely in targeting terms…

The more visible I am the more people get used to me.

Don't be so sure.

I mean, they'll just see a guy with a wife and kids trying to make a living.

Setting odds for gamblers coast to coast.

That's okay. Gaming is legal here. And they're The Gaming Commission, for Chrissakes, they can't be against that. It's what they do for a living. It's what everybody does here, one way or another.

Yeah, but everybody's not trying to keep a Key Exec license by being extra clean. Extra clean and fluffy, because we are not starting from scratch. The Feds know all about the alleged skimming.

That had nothing to do with me.

You were the Big Boss of the Casino!

The alleged skim, if it happened, would have been handled by someone other than me. I set book and that's plenty to do. And it makes more for everybody than some penny ante skim…alleged that is. And now, I'm just an entertainer.

Again, I'd advise you against it.

"What, entertaining?

"Yep, you don't seem that good at it. You don't seem that natural.

You underestimate me.

I certainly hope so.

Ollie took a stiff pull of his drink. Paul seemed to look deep into his soul and not find much of anything there.

Look, what you say is true. They’re trying to railroad me. They’re trying to destroy my means of livelihood. It’s not only un-American, it's un-Las Vegacan. Everybody has a right to make a living.

Can't argue with you there. Ollie grabbed the bottle and stiffened his gin with scotch. He took a big pull and leaned back and threw his arms over his head in an expansive gesture.

Ahhhh, just for argument, what would be on this show?

I'd set the odds on football.

Jesus! What did I just tell you!

That's what I do.

"That's what they say you do, and in the company of…bad characters…

But this way, I'm doing it clean. It's on television! There are no gangsters in the vicinity. I can just about guarantee that! Why, when they see the lights and cameras, they'll definitely be somewhere else.

You’d draw attention. You’d make yourself a target.

You trying to talk me out of it?

No. I make a lot of money defending people who do stupid things. Why, if everybody was a smart criminal, they wouldn’t get caught at all! And I wouldn't be putting the new game room on the house.

The Town Boys weren’t much for it. You want me to go on camera? this from Joey Braintree.

Yeah, you, Phil and Me. said Paul.

I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, said Morty.

Is it even legal? I mean I’m still on parole.

Sure it’s legal. It’s TV. And it’s entertainment. They can’t argue with that!

I don’t know. I’m entertaining the thought of being elsewhere, maybe under a different name. Joey looked out over the Sports Book nervously.

You don’t understand. This makes us legit.

But Paul, you’re on camera, you could be… identified.

"No, I thought of that. Here’s how it works. You’d be in a lineup or something. All you gotta say is ‘of course he picked you. He recognized you from the TV’.

If he saw you, why didn’t he say right off, he’s that guy from the TV?

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t put it together like that. And by the time your lawyer gets through with him, he doesn’t know when he saw you, or if he saw you at all. Oh, and what about this?! Once you’re on TV, you’re a Celebrity. You can beat murder raps!

And, like, if we get them to laugh, just once, it’s entertainment.

Laugh? Treasury Agents?

You know that thing that pumps oxygen into the casino to keep the gamblers upright?

Yeah.

Does it have to be oxygen?

You’re gonna dose the audience?

It’s the only way, said Ollie.

So, all in all, in retrospect, you might say, this was the wrong guy to pick for a talk show host. You wouldn't have, say, Heinrich Himmler play Zippo the Clown, would you? Well, same thing! And that's not bad enough. They put his name on the title. Like who cares!!? But no, you're wrong. The first night it was SRO! And they all wore suits. Which was strange, because in Vegas the standard fatigues are like a halter top over a Moo Moo for the girls while Pop's got a Schlitz cap and a shirt with Foster's Meat ByProducts across the front. And if they got a kid with a shirt, it says Plotz if you like Jesus! I mean, these folks are not meeting Alistair Cooke for tea. But this audience… this audience was weird even for Vegas. This audience wore bow ties. What it was, was just wall-to-wall Feds. Somebody heard that Paul was gonna talk!

Tough crowd to work to. Most audiences want to be entertained. This one wanted to indict!

By the time I got there, which was the next year, they had a new name for the show, which was: The All-New Paul Lieberthal Show, presumably to distinguish it from the Half-New Paul Lieberthal Show, or the Original Quite Fucking Bad Paul Lieberthal Show, none of which were a success. The old show was bad. They admitted that. It had a Nielson rating of, I believe, Minus Six, which means that not only was nobody watching, but a half dozen families burned their sets.

And this was where I came in. Why, you may ask? So do I. I'm at this convention, see? NANA. National Association of Network Affiliates. Television. That's what I do, Mom. I know. All that education, for what? I musta run over an intelligent person in a previous life. It's just this big convention. Out on the Moon. You go. You look at stuff. You meet engineers. You meet everybody you ever knew in television. You tell them all the great exciting things you’re doing and then you ask them for a job.

They always have it in Vegas. Time salesmen feel comfortable there. After you been there three days, three days of sun and heat and hospitality suites, and booze and broads and Neon Psychosis, you are worn to a frazzle. You start to think in 3-second soundbites and then they have you where they want you. Your shoulders ache from slinging 93 pounds of Nakamuchi-Hitachi digital interferometer brochures into a rental Corolla. You've got sixteen cards from the chief engineer from Bay Cities Broadcasting and you don't know why.

I know why they do it. After three dayz of VegaRama, Wheel of Fortune starts to look classy by comparison.

Anyway, I had had it up to here with Boston. I didn't want to be serious or committed anymore. How many documentaries can you do? My last epic was The Southeast Corridor: Threat or Menace? Like that Nazi said, ‘When I hear the word Culture I reach for my revolving grant proposal form. So I thought it would be a change of pace and sure enough, that's just what it was.

So I