A HAUNTED HONEYMOON

A few weeks ago, just in time for Halloween, the Heene family in Colorado devised an elaborate hoax that they hoped would land them notoriety and a financial boon. Their scheme was to report that their six-year old son Falcon had accidentally been whisked away in their homemade helium balloon.

In reality, the Heene's arranged for the child to hide. At a great cost to taxpayers, a major search and a rescue effort was mobilized in the boy's behalf. The next scripted part of their publicity stunt had the brat coming out of hiding as if he had been pranking his folks. The opportunistic parents expected to gain media-driven sympathy from the supposed mix-up. The next logical step would be the Heene's cashing-in, by explaining their reaction to the child's "near-fatal" experience via personal appearances, books, movies etc. When the authorities realized that these jerks were full of "hot-air" formal charges were thrust upon them.

Something like could never happen at my house because you couldn't get me near a lighter-than-air balloon. However, one of my crazy ambitions is to go white-water rafting. Yes, you die-hard MGTP readers will recall my two so-called white-water trips down the Lehigh River, near Jim Thorpe Pennsylvania. But when you consider that the difficulty factor of rapids are measured on a one-to-six scale, and that the Lehigh only offers summertime "ones," the rush we felt those two times could never qualify us as dare-devils. That's right--what I really yearn for is the big time, the life and death struggles of fives and sixes.

Followers of this column like STAGE and SAMLIN have shot the rapids in our country's #2 rafting venue...the New and Gauley Rivers at Beckley West Virginia. Additionally, BADLANDS visited Costa Rica and experienced a similar sensation. YEAH BABY ! That's what I want.

When my family and I were in the Grand Canyon this past June, I was informed that the Colorado River which flows through the bottom of the Canyon, is the #1 white-water rafting spot in the US of A.

RAFTING IS POPULAR ALL OVER THE WORLD, THESE BRAVE SOULS ARE ON THE AMAZON RIVER IN BRAZIL.

Our time in Arizona was limited to three days. Plus, it seemed I was the only one who wanted to squeeze a mega-thrill ride in. Perhaps the slim possibility still existed until we went to a campfire lecture. During the presentation, we were told of the true Dr. Jekyll-like story of Mr. Glen Hyde and his newlywed bride, Bessie. THE HYDE'S, GLEN (30) AND BESSIE (23), IN THE EARLY PART OF THEIR DARING HONEYMOON.

The Hyde's were married on April 12, 1928. When they had the time six months later, they decided to have their honeymoon, rafting through the Grand Canyon. At the time, less than 50 people had TRIED white-water rafting that section of the Colorado River. More specifically, none of them were women.
WE WERE SO HIGH UP THAT OUR TINY GLIMPSES OF THE COLORADO MADE IT LOOK LIKE A MEANDERING BROWN LENGTH OF DENTAL FLOSS.

Bessie was a novice rafter. But Glen a native Idahoan, had experienced white-water rafting on the Salmon and Snake rivers. In the 20-foot sweep scow he built, their unique and romantic trip began on the Green River in Utah. THE MIGHTY COLORADO FLOWS FROM COLORADO TO CALIFORNIA.

The early portion of their trip was easy and served as hands-on instruction for Bessie. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.

In mid-November, BEFORE the adventurous couple hit the heavy-duty rapids, they landed their boat at the foot of the Grand Canyon's Bright Angel Trail. The nine-mile hike up, took them to the heart of the tourist center, the South Rim Village. They stayed one night at the El Tovar Hotel and bought supplies.

THE FRONT OF EL TOVAR HOTEL. BUILT INTO THE ROCKY SOUTH RIM WALL, THE BACK END STUNNINGLY OVERLOOKS THE CANYON.

Before returning to their boat, they met the famous photographer Emery Kolb. He took pictures and later introduced them to reporters. Similar to the contemporary Heene's of Colorado, the Hyde's wanted to become famous. Glen eyed the speed record for running the canyon and wanted Bessie to be the first woman to try...and survive the ride. NOW A MUSEUM, EMERY KOLB'S INSPIRING STUDIO HOME IS AT THE HEAD OF THE BRIGHT ANGEL TRAIL, A FEW HUNDRED FEET FROM THE EL TOVAR.

The historian Adolph G. Sutro accompanied the Hyde's down to their boat. He rode a couple of days with them to get a feel for the experience and to prolong his interview opportunity. On November, 18th, he was set ashore. Glen and Bessie Hyde were never seen again. Their people didn't hear from them for weeks and a search party including airplanes was organized. About 142 miles upriver, their scow was found upright, intact with all the supplies snugly strapped down.

The common belief is that they were swept from the boat in intense rapids 15 miles downstream, got caught underwater on rocks and drown. However, there has also been a weird assortment of legends, rumors and theories which have all been scientifically disproved. Additionally, down through the years there have been impostors claiming to be the Hyde's. ITS TOO BAD. NOT FOR THEM BUT FOR ME. IF WE DIDN'T HEAR THEIR STORY, MAYBE I COULD HAVE LIVED-OUT MY WHITE-WATER FANTASY.

Unlike the Heene's, the Hyde's laid their lives on the line...and lost...even worse, they never became famous. To prove it, if you didn't read this, you probably would have never heard of them.

The Hyde's never got what they wanted out of their haunted honeymoon but, their unsolved mystery has been glamorized many times in print...most recently by a Lisa Michaels book, "GRAND AMBITION." If you'd rather wait for the movie, there's one in the conception stage now.

I don't think I'm being even a little cynical but the Heene's, the other hollow-wieners, will probably get more than their ten minutes of fame after all. I'm certain some weasel will buy the rights to their story, pay-off whatever fines they incurred and supply a dream-team legal staff to keep those gutter-snipes out of jail.

FRED GWYNNE REMEMBERED...

While on vacation this past summer, I spent a couple of hours with a long lost friend. I hadn't seen him in 25 years and was disappointed that he wasn't fun to be around, entertaining or interesting. In fact, I thought he was still dopey...which was okay in our hey-day (1979-1984). But in nowadays, it was disturbing that he hadn't changed.

During our short conversation, I brought up the time, (August 2, 1979) that he incorrectly told me that Herman Munster had died. Dopey being Dopey, didn't recall. So I reminded him how on his say-so, I felt a sudden sense of loss because I liked that actor (Fred Gwynne) from 50's and 60's sit-coms.

When I found out that my genius friend was dead wrong...the situation became oddly funny. I'm guessing because Dopey wasn't a sports fan, he got confused and substituted Herman Munster with baseball player Thurman Munson who's plane had tragically crashed.

Fredrick Hubbard Gwynne was born in New York City on July 10, 1926. A Harvard man, the six-foot-five giant became a respected character actor in both film and TV. He is most famous for portraying the goofy Frankenstein-esque patriarch in, "THE MUNSTER'S," along side the lovely and talented Yvonne DeCarlo and "Grandpa"Al Lewis.

"THE MUNSTER'S," premiered in 1964, one week after its direct rival, (my preferred), "ADDAMS FAMILY." "THE MUNSTER'S" did better in the ratings and aired six more episodes (70). In 1966, both of these black and white shows were killed in the ratings war by the colorful, "BATMAN." Despite its mere two-year run, Fred Gwynne as lovable Herman made a lasting impression on me and a generation of baby-boomers.

"HERMAN" (center), TYPE-CAST GWYNNE AND HURT HIS CAREER BY RESTRICTING HIM TO GHOULISH ROLES.

In 1955, Gwynne got his big TV break on the "PHIL SILVERS SHOW." He received glowing reviews as a competitive eater (Private Honigan) in Ernie Bilko's platoon. In 1961, he was selected to star as patrolman Francis Muldoon in, "CAR 54 WHERE ARE YOU." Which was filmed on a sound-stage in the Bronx. "CAR 54" only lasted two seasons. It frequently used outdoor scenes in New York City which in retrospect, when viewed today are more interesting than the show itself.

JOE E. ROSS (left) WAS GWYNNE'S MISMATCHED PARTNER, GUNTHER TOODY. TOODY'S CATCH PHRASE, "OOH OOH FRANCIS, FRANCIS," BECAME A LASTING PART OF THAT ERA'S POP-CULTURE.

Let's see how well you know you're Fred Gwynne TV trivia. What role did Gwynne have on 1960's, "SHARI LEWIS SHOW?" (Scroll down to bottom of the column for the answer).

Luckily Fred Gwynne survived my friend's imagined visit from the Grim Reaper for another 14 years. Although Gwynne used this time to fly beneath the radar screen of mainstream acting, he made a late career renaissance when he resurfaced in time to leave us with two memorable movie roles. First in 1989, Gwynne played Judd Crandall in Stephen King's, "PET SEMATARY." Then a 1992, as conservative Judge Chamberlain Haller in, "MY COUSIN VINNY."GWYNNE'S FIRST MOVIE APPEARANCE WAS A SMALL ROLE IN THE 1954 CLASSIC, "ON THE WATERFRONT." IN HIS LAST FILM, "MY COUSIN VINNY," HE PROVED HIS ACTING RANGE...FROM SERIOUS SOUTHERN GENTLEMAN TO COMEDIC STRAIGHT-MAN OPPOSITE JOE PESCI.

On July 2, 1993, Fred Gwynne at 66, passed away from pancreatic cancer in rural Taneytown Maryland. His long and great career was compressed into just a few highlights but thanks to DVD's and our ever-advancing video technology, he'll never be forgotten.

My dopey friend in Las Vegas...well let's just say...25 years from now, I'll be in no hurry to see him again.

*

What role did Fred Gwynne have on the "SHARI LEWIS SHOW?"

ANSWER - Gwynne was Lamb Chop's doctor.

LUCKY'S GREAT ESCAPE

Based on truth, "THE GREAT ESCAPE" was a classic WWII movie from 1963. If you strip away its plot and individual performances, you're left with the simple concept of, freedom at all costs.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CjF8sjuPLxU&feature=related
TO GET IN THE MOOD, CLICK ABOVE, FOR "GREAT ESCAPE" THEME MUSIC.

I will now relate...life and death struggles for freedom with pre-school birthday parties.

Before my son Andrew entered first grade, typical places for kiddie parties included: Diane's Tot Spot, Kidz at Play, Tunnels of Fun and the Children's Museum. More upscale gatherings were often punctuated with clowns, face-painters and magicians. While the artistocrasy might have rented a pony ride or a Moon-Bouncer.

A common finale to such festivities was the vaunted gift opening ceremony. The funniest part of this ritual is that overwhelming, attending parents diluted themself into believing that their offering was the most generous, beautiful, clever, useful and/or memorable. It's almost unavoidable that these invitees would call attention to their tribute as to prepare everyone for the recipient or parent's...WOW !

In such matters, it is my experience that these expectations of grandeur are over-stated. More specifically, the gifts at children's parties are predictable because they are recycled from a narrow range of ideas. However at age three, my son Andrew did receive one unique gift that has always stood out in my mind. Its aesthetics were so subtle that at the time, nobody recognized the potential of this plaything's practicality, artistic nature, educational value and long-term hands-on fun.

To those without imagination this cool and enchanting gift seemed nothing more than a mail-away certificate. After our big event, even we over-looked it as we sifted through our boy's latest haul. Until a few days later, my wife Sue took a closer look.  She realized its potential and sent away for...a live froglet. 

That's right, a real baby frog was delivered to our frontdoor in a packet labeled, "PERISHABLES" by our omni-creepy postman, Ed, (whose obvious curiosity made him seem hungrily to eager to ask what was inside). 

At the dining room table, we unwrapped the prize.  Included with the mini-amphibian was...of all things...a lifetime guarantee. Which meant you could indefinitely get new froggies, each time one met its demise.

To support the experience, we bought a small plastic "frog-house" and left it Andrew's room. When it was cleaninng, feeding or fresh water time, the tank's snapping lid was opened at the kitchen sink. Sometimes the cage stayed there for a few days.

On a rare occasion when a worm was found in the garden, there was high drama as we watched and waited for the circle of life to be demonstrated, in a spaghetti-like slurp. This tradition started with Frog-I, (aka Frenchy). Yes, I admit it was wrong of me to teach my son political incorrectness...but I ask you, what else do you name a frog?

After Frenchy left this earth, he was replaced...as per the froglet company's policy by Frog Deux, (aka Pierre). Unfortunately, Pierre croaked well before his time. I'm no therapist but perhaps he didn't acclimate well to the responsibilities of being a pet.  Or maybe life in Jersey which isn't for everybody, didn't meet his high expectations. 

Soon there after, Frog Trois arrived in our mailbox, (I speculated that Ed lost his fascination in these mysterious parcels, he already had his lunch or was on vacation).   This last little green amusement in the series was named by Andrew. My son varied from the trend I had started and named his little buddy: *Lucky. 

*You might note that my Luckypierre computer screen-name, came directly from the combination of the latter two froggies.

In our backyard, we have the final resting places for Frenchy and Pierre, (as well as two guinea pigs...Zhitnik and Picasso). But the big question is...where's Lucky's crypt ?

                     INTERNET PHOTO...THIS ISN'T FRENCHY, PIERRE OR LUCKY.

Like the mistreated prisoners of war in, "THE GREAT ESCAPE," the instinct for freedom can't be measured. When the alternative is considered, risking your life to break the shackles of unjust incarceration is as obvious to animals as it is to humans. Just try catching a butterfly. Or even better...understand why a wolf caught in a bear trap will intentionally cripple itself by gnawing through its own paw to get away.

IN THE GREAT ESCAPE, THE ALL-AMERICAN BOY, STEVE McQUEEN PERSONIFIED THE FREE-SPIRIT IN ALL OF US.

At this point, to strengthen the mood, I recommend you clicking on the blue link above to hear the film's famous theme music again.

Unlike his brothers before him, Lucky was quite cunning. His petite mastermind must have been working in overdrive until all the right circumstances came together in a mixture of "THE PERFECT STORM" and the escape scene from the dentist office in "FINDING NEMO." (My most clever readers will see, the "Finding Nemo" screenwriters clearly stole the idea from Lucky).

Lucky's opportunity came at the kitchen sink when his water supply was accidentally too high AND his tank's lid wasn't snapped properly. It wasn't difficult to get out of the cell block...but how would he free himself of the penitentiary's walls. He needed an accomplice...or in this case, an unwitting one, like me.

Completely prepared, Lucky was aware of all my late night movements and tendencies. So, he had already made his Herculean leap from the counter to the floor before I got home. He knew I came home from work around 4:30AM and that I take off my shoes at the front door. Knowing I would not open the lights, the tiny mathematician painstakingly calculated the exact spot I entered the darkened kitchen. Intuitively with the help of his folding slide-ruler, desperate Lucky risked his survival to position himself...with a 3% margin of error...to be under the softer, arch side of my right foot.

When I stepped on Lucky, it felt squishy like a rotten apricot. I turned on the light and was shocked and repulsed by thought that I killed Andrew's little pet. In a panic, due to the graphic nature of the situation and my reluctance to face many difficult questions, I had to think fast. I couldn't return the corpse of Kermit's cousin to his tank. The undignified trashcan was out of the question. So I arrived at a good and logical final solution...burial at sea. I got the dust pan and squeamishly nudged the lifeless body on it with a broom. 

Luckily, Lucky was a excellent actor, under close scrutiny, he never moved or took a breath. I'm guessing that Hannibal Lecter in "SILENCE OF THE LAMBS," learned that talent from him.

I advanced to our ground floor powder room. I muttered, "bon chance, mon ami" and bid Lucky a fond adieu. Just before he splashed into the water, he looked back at me and snidely said, "Au revoir!" And added, what I later learned was...the French word for; sucker !

Lucky had indeed earned the name bestowed on him by my son.  He swam into hole and made a mad dash for the Galloway sewer system before I could even flush the toilet...voila...Cue up the music again, for Lucky's great escape!

MANSION AVENUE

What's better than talking your way out of a driving summons? Answer...getting out of two in a row. Read on, to find out what's even "more" better than that?

In May, I was stopped in Hazlet NJ for of all things...failure to proceed. The officer must have been really bored to bust my stones over such pettiness. He saw I wasn't wasted, heard my story and checked my credentials. Everything was in order, so I was given a stern warning and released back in to the wild.

In July at the Grand Canyon, we stayed after dark to hear an outdoor nature presentation. After getting a snack, the road to civilization was empty...except for a peculiar "army of one," skinny, hyper-tense park ranger. He stopped me for, rolling through a stop sign. While I stated my case, I controlled myself from making a Barney Fife joke. Then, I remained courteous while his rambling safety rigmarole went on and on. He took my papers back to his jeep for an eternity...luckily, this member of Arizona's finest returned without a moving violation ticket (yay me). But Officer Fife did take the opportunity to continue reprimanding me with a seemingly 50-minute lecture.

THE HAT LOOKS MORE AUTHORITATIVE ON A MYTHICAL CHARACTER THAN IT DID ON MY BARNEY FIFE-LIKE NATIONAL PARK RANGER.

In both instances a young driver would have definitely got the citation. That is what is scaring me about the fruit of my loin (Andrew) warming up in the bullpen and getting ready to drive this spring. I've already heard from readers of this column and other friends, that their kids have gotten wacky traffic tickets...which is bad enough. But the idea of getting into avoidable...minor and not so minor accidents...tests my continence !

Up till now, I have had complete faith in my son. However, being behind the wheel will be a challenge and a whole new reality. Between his inexperience and the endless supply of morons on the road...worrying about him driving will infinitely transcend anything he's ever caused me to be stressed over.

So with that in mind, what's better than me talking two cops out of giving me a ticket? The answer LAYS both literally and figuratively, on Atlantic City's Mansion Avenue.

For the uninitiated, I work as a swing shift roulette dealer in Atlantic City, (8PM till 4AM). Like any job, casino work has its physical and mental ups and downs. So its like an unwritten bonus after a rough shift that my 20-minute commute home is overwhelmingly calm and pleasant...to the point of being mellow.

A crimp in this perk is the unnecessary delays due to the antiquated, unsynchronized sequence of traffic lights. Sometimes I think the city, in conjunction with the casinos, purposely keeps people heading out from making any of the lights. If my conspiracy theory is correct, this subliminal ploy would be aimed to frustrate degenerate gamblers...luring them back to the tables. But deep down, I doubt the local politicians are that clever.

To speed-up my nightly escape, I was turned-on to Mansion Avenue, to bypass three uncoordinated lights. This Mansion Avenue is like the seven-foot clean-up guy nicknamed "Tiny" from Canarsie's Seaview Pool. Therefore, you shouldn't be deceived by this street's name...its not a broad thoroughfare and I doubt there's been any stately manors there for a hundred years.
YOU WON'T FIND "THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES" ESTATE ON MANSION AVENUE OR ANYTHING ELSE CLEAN.

What Mansion Avenue is, is a disgusting one-way alley that runs parallel to the traditional route, out of town. At 4AM, this short-cut is desolate. On the rare occasion that someone is out there, the time-saving motorist shouldn't be shocked to see; hookers, homeless people, drug pushers and their clientele. Other points of interest include; a scuzzy motel, a hand-full of dilapidated apartment houses (both condemned and in use...but yearning to be condemned), a dirty bookstore, two isolated row homes, a massage parlor and a ton of vacant lots that resemble Hiroshima after the blast.
THIS APARTMENT HOUSE IS THE CROWNED JEWEL OF MANSION AVENUE.

Over the past five years, I have encountered this narrow passage to be be partially blocked by displaced dumpsters, abandoned appliances, discarded mattresses and poorly parked cars. Although there's never been an incident, I still keep my windows closed even when there isn't anyone around.

Last month, I was once again lucky in my car. I turned onto Mansion Avenue and passed the Sluts-R-Us Motel. My eye then caught what I hoped was a skulking, shiny black cat or a possum with back problems. After passing it, I glanced over my shoulder for a second look. I was repulsed by the over-sized rodent and focused back on the road. Suddenly, I hit my brakes because a rolled-up carpet had been tossed three-quarters of the way into the street. I had time and enough room to swerve around but as I did, I noticed it wasn't a rug, it was a bum, (that's a 60's term for a drunk),. He was passed-out with his ankles on the sidewalk, his lower torso straddling the curb and his head at a 45 degree angle "facing" on coming traffic.

If I hit that guy, the vehicular manslaughter charges against me would have ruined my day. And its quite possible, HIS crushed cranium wouldn't have been too much fun for him either!

Hopefully, my son will never take such short-cuts and won't be distracted by speaking on the phone, doing homework, texting or eating his Taco Bell lunch while driving. However, checking out cat-sized rats is like watching a guy teetering on whether or not to jump off a bridge...or in Atlantic City's case, the roof of a casino garage. You know you shouldn't look...but you can't take your eyes off it. Therefore, it can happen to anyone...its human nature...I...I mean the unfortunate dude laying across Mansion Avenue and me...just got lucky this time.

THE FROSTBITTEN STIFF OF YELLOWSTONE

I understand that not everyone shares my sense of humor...but I was shocked that not everyone I told about this...thought it was funny.

This past Sunday on PBS, (don't bale-out...trust me there's tons of humor in documentaries), I saw most of part-one...of "AMERICA'S PARKS: AMERICA'S BEST IDEA." This three-part series by filmmaker Ken Burns focuses on how public officials and special corporate interest used patriotism and common national purpose to establish, expand and popularize our National Park System.

Part-one dealt with the earliest stages, starting from 1851. Burns conveyed his message with a combination of contemporary filming, period photography and vintage artwork to produce an absorbing piece of eye-candy. Added to the visuals, the narration frequently used the eloquent descriptions that were directly quoted...in appropriate accents...from eye-witness accounts.

The incident that tickled me took place in 1870, at the area we now call Yellowstone National Park.

Twenty years prior to statehood, nearly all of Wyoming's northwest frontier was a pristine wilderness. Slowly, word was getting back to civilization that this area had a hellish beauty never before seen by European immigrants, (even Lewis and Clark managed to miss it). Expeditionary groups were sent to separate fact from fiction and gauge how to harness nature's bounty and profit from it.


ITS HARD TO TAKE A BAD PICTURE IN YELLOWSTONE.

The Washburn-Langford-Doane Expedition accompanied by an army escort, arrived in early September 1870. Their main task was to survey the topography and make detailed maps while also accessing the raw splendor of the lakes, mountains and wildlife. These observations were highlighted by the thermal features of the numerous geysers...most notably the one they named "Old Faithful." It got its name because it erupted (and still erupts today) about once an hour.

"OLD FAITHFUL" GEYSER IS THE MOST FAMOUS ATTRACTION IN THE PARK.

Two members of the Washburn party, David Folsom and Charles Cook kept journals. It was their thoughts, coupled with the memoirs of Truman C. Everts that inspired me to share this darkly comedic event with you.

More importantly, their descriptions of Hayden Valley (the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone), the Yellowstone River and Yellowstone Falls, plus the elk, buffalo and other animals occupying the upper and lower geyser basin made me want to book reservations for the next flight there. APPOINTED BY PRESIDENT LINCOLN IN 1864, EVERTS WAS AN IRS ASSESSOR FROM THE MONTANA TERRITORY.

Everts was born in Burlington Vermont in 1816. Despite his position in the expedition, he was more like a nerdy accountant than an outdoors man. While the group was camped at "Two Oceans Pass" near the Snake River, he wandered off on horseback and got lost. During the next few days, the company unsuccessfully searched for him. The situation became more dire when a freak "summer-time" blizzard dumped over twenty inches of snow on the area.

The expedition continued looking but soon their own supplies dwindled. They left parcels of food and directions in the hope that Everts would find them and be helped. A final camp was made at the West Thumb area . Two soldiers continued the search without any luck, after the others left.

In Helena Montana, Everts' cohorts doubted the "tender-foot" with minimal survival skills could persevere under the harsh conditions. Nevertheless, they advertised a generous $600.00 reward for anyone who would bring him back alive.

The travails of Truman Everts worsened after the unexpected snowstorm. His horse with all his food and supplies wandered off. He was left to roam the rugged terrain with only a magnifying glass and the clothes on his back.

THE ABUNDANT WILDLIFE IN THE PARK TODAY IS STILL BOTH BEAUTIFUL AND DANGEROUS.

Oddly, the geysers not only kept Everts warm but made his predicament somewhat luxurious. Resembling a steam-bath, he found a middle ground between the geothermal pots and the frozen elements. Therefore, he was close enough to stay warm without getting burned and too far to be exposed to the frigid conditions. Still his hands sustained burns before he learned that lesson and he also developed frostbite on his bare feet.

Fearing Indian attack, bears, mountain lions, wolves etc., he slept several times in a tree.

His food intake was also highly limited, he avoided starvation by eating thistle plants.ONE OF EVERTS ' LAST TWO SEARCHERS, ARMY PVT. CHARLES MOORE SKETCHED THE LOWER YELLOWSTONE FALLS.

Although his actual starting weight was never mentioned...this documentary and wikipedia agreed that he was 50 pounds and delirious when two drifting mountain men, "Yellowstone-Jack" Baronett and George A. Pritchett came upon him 37 days into his ordeal.

Unable to travel, he remained with one drifter as the other walked 75 miles for help. When Everts safely returned to Helena, the mountain men were proclaimed heroes. But Everts, citing that he could have made it back safely without them, DENIED his saviors the reward.

The unappreciative, inconsiderate bastard then made a big chunk of change by selling his "37 Days of Peril," to Scribner's Monthly Magazine. Everts lived another thirty years. He became the postmaster of Hyattsville Maryland and died there on February 16, 1901.

In retrospect, splitting a big reward like that in the 1870's would have changed the drifters lives. It kind of makes you re-think the notion of being a good samaritan. With that in mind, I think no jury could have possibly convicted the kindly duo if they murdered Everts after he stiffed them !

SERIAL LITTERING ALONG ZZYZX ROAD

In my day (1979-1984), the traditional jumping-off point when driving to Los Angeles from Las Vegas was the Tropicana Avenue on-ramp for Interstate-15. This spot was highlighted by a mileage sign that read: L.A. 285 miles. So distance-wise, you knew immediately what you were against.

Due to the time factor, boredom plays a major role in this journey. So, unless this was your first trek across the desert, the scenery is a repetitious blend of brown deadness surrounded by dull, barren mountains. Nevertheless, within a half-hour, even rookies are ready for a nap before they pass the prison hamlet of Jean. Beyond that, the next incorporated town...which is only a dot on the map, is aptly called Stateline. Its at that spot that the Nevada portion of the trip ends. In the blink of an eye, you zoom by the two dusty, miniature casinos squashed inside the border as you enter California.

Despite its Utopian reputation for lush fruit orchards, fertile valleys, Pacific beaches and big cities, California's eastern side is dominated by deserts. And the bulk of the next three and a half hours to LA-LA-Land will be dominated by the nothingness.

100 miles into the trip, the excitement mounts as you near the thriving megalopolis of Baker. Boasting a Denny's, McDonald's AND a coffee shop in the Husky Truck Stop, this two gas station town, complete with a single flashing yellow traffic light, has billboards all along I-15, proclaiming Baker to be the: Gateway to Death Valley. I'm not certain that's something to be proud of...however, it is the first oasis since Vegas. So, whether you're burnt-out from the road, have a legitimate need for a pit stop or just want to fluff-up your butt, this opportunity is rarely passed-up by travelers.

Five minutes before Baker, just when the thought of being there has everyone agog...anticipating the experience of 113 degrees, you pass the oddest sign. At first you try to recall the spelling...then try to pronounce it. Inside the truck stop, you ask the chubby waitress the same question she's answered 10 thousand times, "Can you tell me about Zzyzx Road?"

WHEN YOU HAVEN'T SEEN A TURN-OFF OR MUCH OF ANYTHING ELSE FOR 80 MILES, CURIOSITY OVER THIS SIGN IS QUITE NATURAL. ALSO, THE 2006 MOVIE, "ZYZZYX ROAD," (note the different spelling), STARRING KATHERINE HEIGL DOES DEAL WITH THE SAME ZZYZX ROAD.
My waitress opened by correcting the pronunciation: "Zee-ZIX."
I can understand why a waitress or anyone in the hospitality business might become sarcastic. First, being sardonic is not an offensive weapon. Its a defense mechanism designed to protect against...in this case, the annoyance of being forced to respond to the same stupid question over and over. On the other hand, the most industrious souls, especially those who work directly for their own tips, have put them self into an interesting position by insulating the sarcasm with cleverly devised lies. The double benefit here is...she comes off as sincere and receives a more generous gratuity while entertaining the troops and giving impetus to a budding urban legend.
That's what my waitress did. After she confirmed the pronunciation she said, "To the naked eye, it looks like Zzyzx Road don't lead nowhere but..." She then rattled off quite a fantastic yarn. Down through the years, I have spread the word and have also heard many other versions it. That's why I always believed her story to be the McCoy. Nevertheless, 29 years later, I decided to find an objective source. After exhaustive research, I announce to you, the TRUE truth regarding the settlement called Zzyxz.
Numero Uno...it was NOT where NASA had a friendly close-encounter of the third kind with aliens from Planet Xenon. Part Deux...it was NOT a sex, drugs and rock 'n roll infested hippie commune and thirdly, at NO point did it serve as a hideout for Charles Manson and his legion of zombie-like, serial littering followers.
ITS A PROVEN FACT THAT LESLIE VAN HOUTON, LYNETTE "SQUEAKY" FROMME AND THE REST OF THE MANSON GIRLS HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH CRAPPING-UP THE MOHAVE DESERT WITH GARBAGE.
Actually...prior to 1944, the area was called Soda Springs. It attracted mainly elderly tourists who sought the therapeutic advantages of its natural spa. Back then, access was almost completely limited to rail service. Earlier, it was a watering stop for stagecoach lines and wagon trains.
In the early part of the 20th century, Soda Springs became an important prehistoric quarry, specializing in the recovery of ancient native American items. Later, salt mining became an important local industry as well as associated mills.
After 1944, Curtis Howe Springer took control of the enterprise and renamed it, "Zzyzx Mineral Spring and Health Spa.". He chose the word Zzyzx for the sole purpose of inventing the last entry in the dictionary. Due to tax problems and misuse of the land, he lost control in 1974 and the federal government seized the property. It's been overwhelming uninhabited until 1976. That's when the state university system was permitted to put its Desert Studies Center there.
In the heart of San Bernadino County, the entire four and half mile ride on Zzyzx Road from I-15 is still only partially paved. Despite providing no roadside services, curiosity seekers are still always welcome. It won't exactly be a Kodak moment but the remnants of the old mines and mills are still there. Plus, you can also check-out Lake Tuendae which is known as the home of the nearly extinct Mohave tui chub (fish). And if you're completely lifeless...the area code is (760), the zip code is 92309 and Baker...the Gateway to Death Valley...is seven miles north.

HOW DO YOU SAY, "THE THIRD TIME IS THE CHARM," IN CHINESE?"

EDITOR'S NOTE - The irony is striking...I ended a week of constipation, in of all places, the Wo Hop Restaurant's men's room, in NYC's Chinatown.

Twice in the last six years, I have had disastrous (well...unpleasant might be more accurate), trips to Chinatown. On October 13, 2008, this column addressed these misspent adventures from October 2003 and July 2006 in a piece called, "NOTHING SAYS COLUMBUS DAY...LIKE CHINESE FOOD."

Since that last time being burnt, I actually considered taking Chinatown trips off my to-do menu-of-life. Luckily, this past Friday, my son Andrew had no school on my day-off, so we were free to gamble and give C-Town one more chance.

Under threatening skies and a stinging raw wind, we left South Jersey armed with foul weather gear. A sprinkle or two couldn't dampen our spirits as we persevered north, on the Garden State Parkway past the exit for Herbertsville. Later, in an unlikely turn of events, the bright sun greeted us on the Outerbridge Crossing as we entered Staten Island (New York's last frontier). By the time we got to Brooklyn to visit my mom, a beautiful day had thrust itself upon us.

My mom loves Chinatown and was disappointed that she couldn't join us. But she was more green with envy when we said that we also going to the San Gennaro feast in Little Italy...especially because she'd be missing out on her favorite, "rum baba" from Ferrara's Bakery.

One of the tell-tale scars of previous Chinatown debacles was the curse of parking. This time we made an unsuccessful, preliminary sweep of Mott Street, (the heart of Chinatown). Then went off the beaten-track. With kismet on our side, we quickly found a legal, free spot on Henry Street. The weather was so pleasant that we wished we were wearing shorts and tee-shirts for the ten block walk to lunch.

Our favorite restaurant in Chinatown is Wo Hop, (it translates to... harmonious union). Established in 1938...with few added amenities since, this 24-hour Cantonese-style eatery occupies the basement at 17 Mott Street.
NO! I AM NOT STANDING IN A HOLE...IT'S ONE FLIGHT DOWN TO THE PALATIAL PARADISE.

Almost lost in their photo clad and graffiti scribbled walls, I noticed a blue-ribbon poster boasting Wo Hop as; "THE BEST CHINESE RESTAURANT IN THE WORLD!" And they get no argument from me. My cronies and I have been braving long lines up their outdoor steps, in all kinds of weather, since in mid-70's. While its true I have strayed to a few wannabes over the years, these days, I wouldn't think of eating anywhere else in C-Town.

Due to previous difficulties, Andrew hasn't eaten there since he was four. So it was a new experience. He loved what he ordered, (Egg Drop Soup, General's Chicken and fried rice) as well as everything he sampled from our plates...he especially liked the tasty, giant soup noodles and the thinner-styled duck sauce.

WOULD YOU LIKE AN AFTER-DINNER MINT? ...IT'S WAFER THIN !

He even drank the hot Chinese tea without sugar and called it the best too! His appreciation was proven when he spent 15 minutes in the restroom...texting his friends to describe the "culinary orgy."

THE BUSTLE OF CHINATOWN NEVER ENDS

I used their bathroom facilities too...but I didn't text anyone. I was strictly business and I'm happy to report that in regard to cleanliness...Wo Hop scored a vast improvement. Since my last visit, their "sparkling" toilet area jumped all the way up to a "1" on the "1 to 10" scale...with 10 being the highest.

DURING CHINESE NEW YEAR, MOTT STREET GETS EVEN CRAZIER.

To walk off our meal, we searched and found the "chicken" arcade. This arcade got its nickname because you could pay a quarter to watch a live "dancing chicken" or play tic-tac-toe against a different live chicken. Since we were there last, PETA, the Board of Health or common-sense put an end to that. We also cruised through the ubiquitous tee-shirt shops and souvenir stands...Andrew bought-up some gifts and mementos.

SHORTLY AFTER THIS PHOTO WAS TAKEN, WE WERE ASKED TO LEAVE AFTER HE KNOCKED A DISPLAY DOWN WITH A TOY SAMURAI SWORD.

Then we crossed the great ethnic cultural divide called Canal Street and walked one block west to Mulberry Street. Before turning the corner, the first wisps of deliciousness wafted their way into our self-consciousness. The first full-blown whiffs of fried onions, sausage etc are almost overwhelming. For the next eight blocks, the heart of Little Italy is turned into a gastronomic pedestrian mall.

THE FEAST COMMEMORATING SAN GENNARO, THE PATRON SAINT OF NAPLES ITALY BEGAN IN NYC ON SEPTEMBER 18, 1926. ORIGINALLY, IT WAS A ONE-DAY ROMAN CATHOLIC RELIGIOUS CELEBRATION, "ORGANIZED" BY FOUR "RIVAL" COFFEEHOUSE OWNERS. THE OBSERVANCE WAS AND STILL IS HIGHLIGHTED BY A CANDLELIT PROCESSION THAT CARRIES A STATUE OF SAN GENNARO ALONG MULBERRY STREET AND BACK TO, "THE CHURCH OF THE MOST PRECIOUS BLOOD." TODAY, DUE TO COMMERCIALIZATION, THE HOLIDAY HAS GOTTEN SO BIG THAT IT HAS EXPANDED TO 11 DAYS AND ONTO EVERY SIDE-STREET IT TOUCHES.

Nearly every inch of the way is crammed with extensions into the street of existing restaurants. Added to that, booths, kiosks and tents sell everything related to Italian food. Throw in a marching band, parades, carnival rides, side-show attractions, the occasional non-food vendor and you have the San Gennaro Feast.

THE SAN GENNARO FEAST IS CELEBRATED EVERY SEPTEMBER. ITS HARD TO BELIEVE, IT GETS MUCH BUSIER AT NIGHT. ALSO, THE MAGIC OF HOLLYWOOD REALLY DIDN'T HAVE TO EMBELLISH MUCH WHEN THEY FILMED "THE GODFATHER PART TWO." IN THOSE SCENES, DON CORDELEONE IS A YOUNG MAN ON THE ACTUAL MULBERRY STREET DURING THE SAN GENNARO FEAST.

While there, our eyes popped out of our heads and our taste buds followed as we strolled past the sea of temptation. I even regretted our great lunch because I wanted to eat everything I was seeing. Soon, we took our last picture of food, did a little more shopping and as we began to peter-out...it was time to decide where (and what) to have for dessert.

AS THE DAY TURNED TO NIGHT THE CRUSH OF TOURISTS MULTIPLIED.

We slipped into Ferrara's Bakery and went cannoli-happy. We also got an assortment of pastries for friends back home. Our cannoli-fueled walk through Chinatown back to the car went fast except for my detour to Chattam Square to photograph the famous the statue of Confucius. You can imagine my shock when we got there...the statue was some other "unknown" dude. At least nobodies feet were killing them, so I only got a little teased.

Yes, the third time was the charm! The trip went so well that the hour-long cross-town jaunt just to get to the Holland Tunnel couldn't deter our warm afterglow.