CHEF PATRICK CLARK: # 61 IN YOUR PROGRAM AND #1 IN OUR HEARTS

Patrick Clark was the first black celebrity chef. Before the TV superstar status shined on the likes of Emeril, Patrick placed his image on the stamp of the burgeoning industry. Clark's influence and award winning credentials are owed mainly to fusing his classic French culinary training with Southern cuisine to become a passionate innovator in, "New American Cooking." TO ME, PAT WAS A FELLOW CANARSIAN, FRIEND, TEAMMATE AND COWORKER.

Pat and I had mutual friends, saw each other in Junior High School and around the neighborhood. In the late 60's, we began playing sandlot football together. Pat was a year ahead of me and joined the Canarsie High School football team. He became a dedicated weight-lifter when it wasn't overly popular and developed a superman physique. His confidence grew and he became a no-nonsense competitor.

The following year, he encouraged me to try-out for the JV. I was overrun by uncertainty but I put a lot of faith in Pat's opinion...and he was right, I could play organized football.

IF IT WASN'T FOR PAT BUGGING ME, (#72), I MIGHT'VE MISSED FOOTBALL AND ITS MANY GREAT LIFE LESSONS...(left) QB JAN SOODAK #17.

The following season, I made varsity. As teammates, I witnessed Pat (#61), etch a place in our school's earliest success. He displayed great leadership qualities while starring on both offense (center) and defense, (linebacker). His talents helped earn our team its first ever winning season while also garnering him recognition as an honorable mention selection, on the New York City public school All-City Team.

Pat was teased a lot because his allergies frequently left his eyes teary. At first his intensity wouldn't allow for jokes at his expense...especially those involving crying. Eventually he became more comfortable with himself and handled the razzing with his famous infectious smile.

After Pat graduated, during the summer before my senior year, he recommended me and another friend, DRJ to work at "BUCK'S ROCK WORK CAMP," in New Milford, Connecticut. Pat was the assistant chef and my other friend Jay and I were kitchen utility men.

My position unfortunately led me pot washing. The work was hard but the camp was generous with all the kitchen staff and let us have full use of their facilities in our spare time.

AT BUCK'S ROCK, AUGUST 1972, I APPEARED FOR THE LAST TIME ON STAGE IN A PLAY CALLED, "EMPTINESSES."

The director of the play wanted a bagel to use as a prop. He sent me to the kitchen to get one. Pat thought an actual bagel was too small for a theatrical production. So he bored different sized holes into kaiser rolls until he found the right affect...thus delighting the director.

At the end of the season, Pat capped the summer by buying DRJ and I steaks. After the kitchen was closed, he prepared it, with a big salad, garlic bread, saucy asparagus and twice baked potatoes. We washed the whole business down with one Heineken each. I was 17 and loved the whole meal...except I wasn't sophisticated enough to enjoy the asparagus and I hadn't yet developed an appreciation for beer.

Patrick Clark's dad Melvin was also a chef. Inspired by his father, Pat entered the culinary program at New York City Technical College. His education then took him to both England and France where he served an apprenticeship under the intense tutelage of Michael Guerard.

Professionally, Pat (25) opened people's eyes as the head chef at the Odeon Restaurant, in the area of Manhattan now know as Tribeca...before it was cool. He then gained prominence at the Luxembourg restaurant. His shooting star to success continued to rise and in 1988, he opened his own upscale restaurant, METRO, on the upper east side.

In the early 1990's, Patrick Clark was a household name in the cooking world. He traveled and worked extensively in the best restaurants like Bice of Beverly Hills and the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington DC. While in Washington, President Bill Clinton invited Pat to be the White House chef. However, he turned the offer down.

CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO SEE CHEF PATRICK CLARK'S 1996 APPEARANCE (12 minutes), ON JULIA CHILD'S PBS SHOW, "BAKING WITH JULIA."

http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CB8QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fplaylist%3Flist%3DPLDD752A30E7961F76&ei=zlZmUPj7CaeY0QH4-oGIAg&usg=AFQjCNGy2_DTl2aCyQ8Hi3OoFtA4FKNtcQ

Fate would return Pat, along with his wife and five children to New York City . He became the executive chef at Tavern on the Green, in Central Park. At the busiest restaurant in the USA, he was responsible for fifteen-hundred meals daily. Although he preferred a smaller work environment, he flourished there until the long hours and pressure effected his health.

While waiting for a heart transplant, Pat was interviewed and asked about being a role model for young blacks. He said that many feel, a lot is against them. So he wanted to be an example of somebody who succeeded by working hard and believing in himself.

When complications set-in, Pat was deemed ineligible for a transplant because another problem, amyloidosis had to be controlled first. On February 11, 1998, Patrick Clark died of congestive heart failure...he was 42.

Way ahead of his time, Pat should have survived to see himself as a gazillionaire, hawking his cookbooks, designer coffee, steak sauce and a line of soups. Instead, all I have to offer are memories of a wonderful person, this blog and a suggestion to google "Chef Patrick Clark," for a more complete image of his genius. Then you can see what he, his family, friends and the general public missed out on.

THE GLENDANIAN CONNECTION TO FAST-FOOD

My son Andrew's recent class trip to Ellis Island left him with more family heritage questions than it answered. He wanted a better understanding about our clan so he asked me. I guess he forgot that I am a storehouse...if not the quintessence...of useless information.

ELLIS ISLAND WAS OUR COUNTRY'S BUSIEST IMMIGRATION PROCESSING STATION FROM 1892-1954.

Andrew' s objective was to have me navigate him through the morass of speculation that concerns my step-great-grandfather Rufus Edelblum and his wife Oxana. IN THE SHADOWS OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY, ELLIS ISLAND HAS BEEN AN IMMIGRATION MUSEUM SINCE 1990.

First my boy wanted to know where Rufus and Oxana were between leaving their native Schmuckyzstan in 1913 and arriving in America in 1920. And more importantly: how did such illiterate, starving peasants skyrocket into the business world, become filthy rich and manage to hide their fame?

I'm not proud of it but in the past, I have mislead my son into thinking I know everything. So it was a major disappointment to him when I admitted that I had no idea of Rufus and Oxana's background. Nevertheless, I did offer to try to unravel this mystery with one condition that my boy understands that with all the resources fingertip-wisdom has to offer...even computers have limitations.

By chance, the riddle was solved, when I mentioned Andrew's quandary to DEDNOT...one of my loyal readers. Coincidentally, he was about to fly to Europe and tour the continent by train, using a Eurail pass. I laid out my son's dilemma and like Sherlock Holmes, DEDNOT dropped his original sophisticated plans for Rome, Paris and London, in the name of satisfying Andrew's curiosity.

DEDNOT's first stop in this regard was the tiny village in Schmuckyzstan called Kvetch. This poor suburb of Anatevka had only one brick building. It served as a combination glue factory and Hall of Records. Despite the loud painful neighing in the next room, my friend discovered that Rufus Edelblum and his wife were NOT peasants...they were kruds. Their hamlet was so underprivileged that peasants were considered upper middle-class. And it was the kruds who were at the bottom of Kvetch's socio-economic totem pole.

In addition to leading an utterly destitute krud lifestyle, the people at the stump of my family tree were also devout Unitarians. Therefore as a minority with opposing religious affiliation, they were targeted, oppressed and persecuted by the bigoted ruling locals. Even worse, unless their tiny, rocky, pestilence infested parcel of potassium dominated dirt could produce an abundant crop of mud-laded turnips, they starved. RUFUS AND OXANA (cute one in middle) TRY TO OUT-RACE THE COMPETITION TO MARKET, ( 9 MILES AWAY).

A heavy thinker, Rufus wanted to break the cycle of despair and leave the land that had chained his ancestors to poverty and intolerance for generations. He and Oxana decided to risk death and walk across the great frontier's tundra and over glacial mountains to the progressive, fun-loving country of Freedonia. So he gathered up all his schmuckyzstanis (money) but came up a hundred short of what they needed for the perilous journey.

That amount of money seemed out of reach to Rufus. He decided to quit but Oxana wanted a family and for her children to grow-up tall, strong and happy. So as a last resort to solve their problem, she offered to prostitute herself. Rufus wouldn't allow it. But the young bride vowed to leave him if he didn't permit this secretive sacrifice. After she convinced him that it would only take a couple of generous men, he reluctantly agreed.

It was a long, nerve-racking night for Rufus. At 8:AM, Oxana returned to their hovel with a 100 schmuckyzstani banknote and 50 sentinkis. He said, "Wow, I can't believe that you made all that money in one night." Oxana crashed onto her straw mat and muttered, "I'm exhausted." Rufus then laughed, "But who gave you the 50 sentinkis?" She yawned, "They ALL did!"

DEDNOT traveled to Freedonia and found out that Rufus and Oxana made it there in 1914. Rufus joined the beggar's union and prospered while posing as an epileptic. All was going well until Oxana developed an insatiable love for the Glendanian ethnic fast-food restaurant, YETI-DELITE. As she got fatter and fatter, Rufus could no longer support her super-sized cravings for the greasy, Big Foot meat squares, sprinkled with diced parsnips.

They were on the verge of divorce when the outbreak of WWI hit Freedonia. The little care-free nation was over-run by neighboring axis power Glendania. Under siege, the people were impressed into their enemy's military, taxed into submission and were forced to eat only beets...from dirty bowls.

DEDNOT's investigation turned-up an interesting fact. In 1918, Rufus was arrested for begging for okra, on an odd, "No Begging" day. The Glendanians imprisoned him in the dungeon-like cellars of the Grand Duchy of Freedonia's White Castle.

Oxana heard that her husband would never again see the light of day. She made a desperate diversionary plan which included "servicing" six of the guards...which allowed Rufus to escape. Amid the shrill alarm, under the cloak of a cloudy afternoon, Oxana stole a prostitute drawn cart and they made a mad dash to the western border. FREEDONIAN PROSTITUTES OF THE RESISTANCE HELPED SMUGGLE THE COUPLE OUT OF THE COUNTRY.

At a time when the Iron Curtain was a mere lacy drapery, my kinfolk...through a small slit in the fabric...fled the harness of tyranny. They eventually migrated to a seaside town near Lisbon. By the time the great war was over, Rufus had learned the sponge-diving trade. He was content there but Oxana insisted that the American streets were paved with gold. Rufus was frustrated and frequently whined, "Whats wrong with the Portuguese?" She said, "I want to go to America and I don't care what I have to do to get there." Rufus sighed. He knew what she meant and with the image of the White Castle burnt into his subconscious, Rufus could not refuse her wish.

IN 1919, OXANA WAS CROWNED 4th BEST PROSTITUTE IN THE PROVENCE.

DEDNOT proved Oxana's skill when he pointed out that seventy years later, her name and phone number remain etched on a thousand public restroom walls throughout Portugal.

OXANA'S HANDY-WORK WAS SO WIDESPREAD, HER NAME AND NUMBER MADE IT TO RESTROOMS IN GERMANY.

Oxana then subsidized the first leg of their trek, through Spain to Andorra. When they ran out of money, she had funds injected into her account by both Juans and Jeans. That foray fueled their trip through France and all the way to the docks of Southampton, England.

They could have afforded steerage class tickets aboard any trans-Atlantic ship to the new world. But Oxana read that on one ship, first-class passengers had access to a YETI-DELITE on the promenade deck. To earn the extra money, within a fortnight, Oxana's sexual exploits became as legendary to Brits as King Arthur's search for the Holy Grail.

Aboard ship, Rufus fell into the grip of YETI-DELITE'S allure. However it wasn't the deep fried yeti that he craved; he loved their tiny square yak-patties topped with minced turnips.

When the suddenly over-weight couple entered America, they still had a tidy sum left over from Oxana's carnal invasion of England. That's why it's now easy for my son Andrew to understand...through DEDNOT's tutorial, how our family survived with a small food stand.

Immediately, Rufus figured it was both difficult and costly to import yeti meat, so he switched the recipe to ground beef. Being a clever lad, he then substituted the inconsistently tasty Eastern European parsnips and turnips for Jersey-grown Spanish onions. In a few scant years, the Edelblum empire blossomed, and Rufus and Oxana became the entrepreneurial success story that few people realize.

And now you know what few people other than DEDNOT, Andrew and I know...including Harold and Kumar...the humble ingredients that made White Castle, the #18 fast-food burger enterprise in the New York metropolitan area. DON'T LET THE FACT THAT I ONCE SAW A COCKROACH VOMIT AT A WHITE CASTLE DETER YOU FROM APPRECIATING THEIR GREASY YET CAPTIVATING AMBIANCE.

The full story can now be told. Entitled, "THE GLENDANIAN CONNECTION TO FAST-FOOD," Andrew and DEDNOT have produced and sold a Power-Point presentation on the history of Rufus and Oxana. This 90-minute 3-D show, will make its premiere on Ellis Island, this 4th of July in their IMAX theatre.

Be there...or be square. Or as they say in Schmuckyzstan, be there or be a krud !

KITTENBRICK

Our dog Roxy (aka Muttzilla), is famous for her hatred of pampering. While she loves being petted, stroked, scratched, rubbed and massaged, she lives up to her nickname when these luxuries aren't done by hand. The heart of her dislike/fear centers on brushes, combs, clippers and similar weapons of mass destruction. This makes trips to the groomer both sad and dangerous. Sad for us because its obvious that she encountered major problems as a pup...which translates to deep-seated psychological problems, (which at age six, she hasn't grown-out of).

Groomer visits are also dangerous for the pet store staff...based on reputation...they muzzle her. Then three of them hold her still so a fourth can do something simple, like trim her nails.

For more complex procedures like getting bathed, poor Roxy goes berserk. I guess she associates getting wet with pain. So at the suggestion of our veterinarian, we prep her by hiding a Benadryl tablet in cream cheese. Supposedly, its a safe method to help take the edge off and reduce her chances of trashing the doggy beauty salon.
ODDLY, ROXY'S WATER-PHOBIA, ALLOWS FOR SPLASHING AT THE BEACH?

If I was a dog whisperer or that nutty "PET PSYCHOLOGIST" on TV, perhaps I could learn the origins of Muttzilla's problem. I would hate to think that as a puppy, she was used as a pawn, in some obscure ritual in which desperate Eastern Europeans find a mate. Especially if that rite involved luring a young dog into submission with a lavish brushing before tying it to a brick and submerging it water.

My son Andrew has been influenced by Roxy's peculiarity. While I am not certain when he became motivated to delve into this mystery, I do recall a catalyst that might have sparked his interest to move forward.

In September 2009, Absegami High School invited parents to meet the teachers. One of Andrew's sophomore year courses was, "ADVANCED CREATIVE WRITING." The teacher explained the curriculum, grading system and expectations to us. He then identified some of the highlights. He climaxed his spiel by mentioning a contest. This school-wide competition would encourage the kids to write a play...and the winner would have their show produced and performed in the spring, (now).

The next time I saw Andrew, I told him Creative Writing sounded so good that I tempted to audit the class. He said, "Yeah, it would be so cool to win that play contest and see actors interpret my work."

THE CHALLENGE OF THIS CONTEST TURNED MY BOY UPSIDE DOWN.

Andrew entered into a committee with four friends and wrote a comedy called, "How NOT To Ask Out A Girl." Several meetings took place at our house and I got to see, the metamorphosis of their production. I can NOT stress enough the fact that parents...in an attempt to encourage their children, subjectively exaggerate the quality of their work. This is NOT one of those occasions. Because, I couldn't help but laugh at the clever dialog and marvel at its relevance and original approach to the agelessness of this teenage angst dilemma.

The group of playwrights evolved into a core of three, (Andrew, Billy and Glen), after one completely flaked-off and another took a much more passive role. The three boys persevered and in January were declared the contest winners.

As a part of Absegami's, "NEW VOICES: A NIGHT OF ONE ACT PLAYS," their play, along with one other student winner and one professionally written show were performed by the school's theater troupe, the Emanon Players, this past Thursday and Friday, (April 16th and 17th).

"How NOT To Ask Out A Girl," adapted well to the stage. Despite last minute re-writes, logistical obstacles and slight deviations by the actors, Andrew maturely handled the imperfections in his concepts. Then the audience rewarded Andrew's comedic repartee by responding with appropriate bursts of laughter. They were also engaged with the sympathetic characters and displayed it by moaning over their plights. More importantly, the audience showed their relief by switching from a hushed nervous anxiety when they recognized the absurdity of the kittenbrick climax and applauded in approval.

When the show was over, I was thrilled to hear the out-going audience talk-up the kittenbrick sequence and to see Andrew, Billy and Glen so pleased. Perhaps the inspiration of Roxy's irrational, excessive and persistent fear of getting wet etc., guided the young writers down the path to successful humor. After all, the staunchest PETA member and even Michael Vick could see the ridiculousness and get past the implied mental trauma to a kitten tied to a brick...who is shot-putted through the fair young maiden's window...and laugh.

If we needed more proof of Roxy's role in the kittenbrick idea, two days ago, under the influence of Benadryl, she went for the full treatment at the groomer; bath, ear cleaning and tooth brushing. On the way, her instinct for disaster caused her to whine and cry. In the parking lot, our dog automatically clicked onto Muttzilla-mode and fought the whole way into her perceived torture chamber.

AFTER DOZENS OF RORSCHACH TESTS, SOCK PUPPETS, THE USE OF REMOTE VIEWING AND WORD ASSOCIATION GAMES, THE FATHER OF CANINE PSYCHO-ANALYSIS, SIGMUND McDOGG DEVELOPED A THEORY THAT LED TO THIS HELLISH PROJECTION OF WHAT ROXY ENVISIONS AT THE GROOMER.

Our little girl barked, clawed and snapped at anyone who came near her. After she was pinned down by the dungeon-master and three robust hench-women, her morning at the spa began. Even when it was over she was still angry. They put her temporarily in a crate. While waiting to get picked-up, Roxy was still so tense that she had diarrhea. And being the genius that she is, she rolled in it....thus causing her agony to be doubled because they had to re-bathe her.

The top of the groomer's receipt has a typical itemization list and the bottom has a report card theme. They gave her a "C," and added, "She was not bad today." I can't imagine what the "D's" and "F's" do but there is an item on the list for an extra, "Behavior Problem Charge." Ours was blank...yay us...yay Roxy.

Maybe next time, we'll shoot for a "B." To help Roxy improve, I think we should have them hook her up with a St. Bernard with a full keg of brandy...or just tie the old girl to a brick.

LIFE LESSONS AT THE PINEWOOD DERBY

The Pinewood Derby is one of the highlights of Cub Scouts. The brainchild of Californian, Dan Murphy in 1953, this program was designed as a wholesome, constructive activity that would foster a closer father-son relationship and promote craftsmanship and sportsmanship through competition.

The basic idea is for a father and son to team-up and carve a race car from a block of soft pine. When the speedster is fully shaped, a standardized, weighted under-carriage and wheel kit are added. To complete the assembly portion of the assignment, a customized paint job is the final touch.

The project comes to a thrilling climax when rival area scout packs get together and actually race the cars. Our Pinewood Derby was set three months later in January 2002, at the Smithville Elementary School.

Prior to the races, the dad's stand around and crow about their secret ways to speed-up cars. The real obnoxious ones brag how they tip-toe around the rules to lubricate their axles and use extra items to weigh-down front ends. Simultaneously the boys, (third graders), including my Andrew, made more practical use of their time by screaming and chasing each other.

I was left alone, holding our cherished black #77 "LONE STAR" car in a plastic supermarket bag. I searched the crowded multi-purpose room, (gym, auditorium and cafeteria), for a familiar adult face. That's when I focused on some of the other dads wearing NASCAR jumpsuits, mechanic's overalls or something else to suggest that they were a member of a pit-crew, I became depressed.

Full of dread, I stared off into space. I projected my son's disappointment that because of my lack of expertise and/or initiative, his beautifully painted car would fail miserably. Suddenly I was jostled by a fat guy wearing a oil-stained Firestone Tire cap. Without excusing himself, he held a silvery #1 car aloft and blithered to a bunch of other men, "This year's version of my Thunderbolt Grease-Slapper will be the fastest car again!"

I slunk away and recalled seeing the plain block of pine for the first time. I knew I'd never carve that wooden rectangle into a car. My wife knew I couldn't either. So she went to a hobby store and bought a pre-formed car. I sanded it down and my wife took out a couple of chunks from the back end. All that was left was adding the wheels, under-carriage and painting it.

I came back from orbiting Pluto when a dad from our den called me over. During our conversation, it was announced that the races were starting in fifteen minutes. The man then confided in me that he didn't have the time, patience or talent for this sort of thing. I took our car out of the yellow bag to let him see it. Then he showed me his boxy, green #17 car with a three-leaf clover sticker on the hood and whispered, "We're not supposed to but, I found a place that sells pre-fab pine cars." I played dumb. He added that several of the other dad's in our den had done the same thing. Being the cool customer that I am, I dropped our car and one of the plastic wheels snapped off.

The blow-hard with the #1, Thunderbolt Grease-Slapper annoyingly retrieved the wheel for me and said, "Tough luck, Butterfingers." He opened his deluxe tool case. In it was a separate foam-insulated compartment which safely housed his fancy, Indianapolis-500 inspired car. He handed me a tube of super-glue and condescendingly grinned, "Try this, you wouldn't want to disappoint your kid."

In an attempt to save-face, I hustled to a lunch table and tried to repair the wheel. Another announcement blared on the PA system with the sequence of races. Andrew's pack was third, so at least I had time for the glue to dry. While searching for my son, I tested the axle. It wasn't spinning free and easy and the rotation of the tire had a definite wobble in it. At that point, I was desperately hoping the car would stay intact long enough...to lose with dignity.

Andrew was already watching the races. He took the car from me to show it to his buddies. In anticipation of disaster, I cringed as the other kids pawed our ol' #77. Somehow, despite getting smeared with milk chocolate, it survived.

Twenty minutes later, Andrew's name was called with two others. The cars were set at the top of the ramp, a light bulb went on as the bar holding the cars was released. Lone Star got off to a slow start but gained momentum on the short track and rolled to a shocking victory! Andrew was beaming with pride as I examined our fragile warrior. After different cars raced, ours got to go again. Only this time, one of the fathers was the guy with the #1 car, in the oily Firestone cap.

In that heat, we came in second, narrowly beating the Firestone guy but our time qualified us for the finals. I don't know if I got more satisfaction from our success or seeing the fat man's hissy fit. Moments later, it didn't matter to Andrew or me that we lost in finals, it was a lot of fun and a great experience.
A SOUVENIR FOR THE AGES, "LONE STAR," TODAY...MINUS THE SYMBOLIC TIRE.

A few weeks later, there was an award presentation at a church on Pitney Road. IN THE CROWD, I CROSSED PATHS WITH THAT FAT GUY WEARING THE SAME OILY FIRESTONE CAP. I THANKED HIM FOR THE GLUE. HE ACTED LIKE HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT.

When Andrew and I got there two important things were brought to our attention. The first was told to us by a kid from his den who was hysterically crying, "A bunch of us from our den were disqualified from the any awards because we used a pre-formed car."

I gulped in fear that after all we went through, that we (I'd) be embarrassed anyway. My fear got worse...when we entered the big conference room, Andrew became intoxicated when saw the second important item...a dozen glimmering trophies on the stage.

Andrew had never earned a trophy so his coveting eyes bugged-out. I was under the impression that we didn't win enough races to get one, but soon realized that there were several other categories.

I had to leave early so I was relieved that we weren't disqualified before I left. My wife got there in time to see all the presentations. Towards the end, they announced the winner for "Most Original," (design).

Andrew was called up on the stage. After a brief interview plus words of encouragement and congratulations, the Scout Master handed him the trophy. He was then surprised when my boy asked for the microphone to address the audience of about 60 people.

WHO WOULDN'T WANT THIS BABY AS THE FIRST IN THEIR TROPHY CASE?

Please bear in mind that I am paraphrasing Andrew's statement but I am confident that it's close to my eight year-old's exact quote. "I can NOT accept this trophy! My friends were disqualified because they used a pre-formed car...and so did I."

My wife still gushes when she says, other mom's had tears in their eyes when Andrew said that. The stunned Scout Master then took back the mike and said, "Well, you are an honest and brave scout to tell us that. I say, you keep the trophy and you'll know better for next time."

The following year, we bought another pre-formed car. Andrew named it the "ROCKET BLAZER" and gave it his birthday number, 25. To assure compliance with Pinewood Derby rules, we were careful to overly exaggerate our modifications. The day before the race, I dropped it (again), and the car split in two, (the crack can be seen through the hood, between the front tires). THE GUY IN THE OILY FIRESTONE CAP WASN'T AROUND, SO I WAS FORCED TO USE ELMER'S WOOD GLUE. THEREFORE, 2003 WOULD NOT BRING ANDREW A SECOND TROPHY. ROCKET BLAZER LIMPED ACROSS THE FINISH-LINE IN LAST PLACE..AND EVEN MY BOY'S PATRIOTIC IMAGERY COULDN'T SWAY ANY JUDGES WITH HIS ARTISTIC ENDEAVORS.

The Pinewood Derby has indeed fostered a greater father-son relationship in our house. Hardly a month goes by that I don't recall Andrew's sincere and impromptu words of honor, respect and loyalty. That trophy which still stands on his dresser represents to me the tremendous ideals he has developed and the inner strength to live by them every day. While so many of his friends and school mates are still screaming and chasing each other to this day, my boy shines like a beacon, in a hazy world, for all to see and appreciate.

WHAT'S THE MATTER...YOU'VE NEVER BEEN LIED TO BEFORE?

A few years ago, I told ZYMBOT the story below. He broke my little heart because he thought I made it up.

In August 1987, Dave Bresnahan's dream of making it to baseball's major leagues was fading. At 25, this journeyman catcher was batting .149 and struggling to remain in the class-AA minor leagues. That's when he had an idea to liven-up a meaningless, late-season game.

In his spare time, Bresnahan bought a bag of russet potatoes at the local Weis Supermarket. After he found the best candidate, he sculpted it into the shape of a baseball. He hid the orb-like spud during a game and waited for an opportune moment. When an opposing runner took a lead off third base, Bresnahan mimicked a pick-off attempt and intentionally threw the potato/ball past his third baseman. The runner trotted home...only to be tagged-out by Bresnahan with the real ball.
BRESNAHAN'S ANTICS GOT HIM FINED BY THE LEAGUE AND RELEASED BY THE TEAM. HE NEVER PLAYED ORGANIZED BALL AGAIN.

Bresnahan's on-field action earned him a certain level of notoriety. Soon he got national TV exposure in the sports world when he was interviewed by Marv Albert. And his celebrity status went global when he appeared on the "DAVID LETTERMAN SHOW." To cash-in on this unforeseen public relations bonanza, his former team, the Williamsport (Pennsylvania) Bills, (Cleveland Indians affiliate), showed that they didn't hold a grudge. They held a "Dave Bresnahan Day," and formally retired his #59 uniform number.
THE ACTUAL POTATO/BALL (above) WAS OFFERED...AND REJECTED IN 2000, BY THE BASEBALL HALL OF FAME. THEY CALLED IT AN AFFRONT TO THE INTEGRITY OF THE GAME.

The foundations of baseball are currently being throttled by differing opinions on how to treat performance-enhancing drug users. Plus, the integrity of the game has always been marred by gambling, corked bats, scuffed balls and stealing the opposition's signs. So, instead of adding Dave Bresnahan to the unemployment line, I think he should be hired by MLB as a special, fun at the ballpark consultant. Or at least thanked, for reminding us that baseball is a game.
YOU CAN SEE THE REACTION TO MY IDEA FROM THE "NATIONAL POTATO ASSOCIATION," SPOKESPERSON. NOTICE, HE'S NOT WEARING HIS ANGRY EYES !

ZYMBOT unfortunately overlooked the obvious...that my story was designed to entertain him. And while its true I am apt to embellish, after all, nobody ever accused me of writing non-fiction...he should realize that cleverly chosen enhancements are the key to being entertaining.
In my own defense, I used no poetic license and exaggerated nothing. I do admit to one factual error, I told ZYMBOT that Bresnahan was the grandson of Hall-of-Famer Roger Bresnahan...when in reality, the elder Bresnahan was his great uncle.
ROGER BRESNAHAN WAS THE FIRST CATCHER INDUCTED INTO COOPERSTOWN. IN THE EARLY 1900's, HE ORIGINATED SHIN GUARDS FOR CATCHERS AND PROTECTIVE HEAD-GEAR FOR BATTERS.

Now I have to worry if ZYMBOT is going to challenge the Mr. Potato Head thing? After all, we all know Mr. Head is the chairman of the Potato Association and not their spokesperson.

Something tells me, ZYMBOT won't believe this next tale, about the "Racketeer-Nickel," either.
In 1883, the US Mint issued a new five-cent coin with the head of Lady Liberty on the front and a Roman "V" on the reverse. Many people thought this coin was an error since it didn't have the word, "cents" anywhere on the coin.
THE LACK OF THE WORD CENTS OPENED A DOOR FOR THE UNSCRUPULOUS.

Enterprising opportunists devised a method of gold-plating these coins. Reeds were then cut into the smooth rims by hand. The humble nickel already had a similar size and weight as a five-dollar gold piece. So this perforation made it easy to be foisted upon the naive.

The most famous criminal case concerning altered coins in US history involved a deaf-mute named Joshua Tatum. It has been estimated that he "earned" $15,000.00, (a fortune in the 1880's), by targeting unsuspecting merchants. His typical mode of operation was simple, select ten-cents worth of goods...pay with one of his mutilated nickels...receive $4.90 change.

After 3,000+ successful missions, Josh Tatum's luck ran out and he was arrested. However, he was acquitted because he never said his payment was a $5.00 gold piece, nor did he ever ask for change, (remember, he was a deaf-mute). That my dear friends is where the expression, "Getting Joshed," comes from.

US Mint officials were flooded with complaints of bogus $5.00 gold pieces. They were appalled by their own negligence and stopped production.

Today the 1883 "V" nickel, nicknamed the "Racketeer Nickel," is hoarded by collectors. So contemporary con-artists...a.k.a., coin dealers, to satisfy the desire for this cherished plum, has begun making their own forgeries by gilding 1883 nickels and charging $30.00 for them in average condition.

I guess some people don't mind being joshed. After all many others still believe in the tooth fairy or that Lincoln was always honest and Washington never told little fibs. However, there is one ardent naysayer to the Josh Tatum affair.

Patrick Feaster, a graduate student of folklore at Indiana University wrote an article on February 25, 2007. In it, he verifies that 1883 nickels were gilded and passed-off as $5.00 gold pieces. However, his research turned-up nothing on the existence of Joshua Tatum. He believes the Tatum-spin was manufactured because there is no mention of him in the annals of coin counterfeiting history...until it suddenly began popping-up in mid-1960's coin magazine articles.

Feaster found it inconceivable that such a rich story...that should have concrete arrest records and court proceedings...would have gone so long without being chronicled. He also points out that the application of the term, getting joshed, to this case, doesn't appear in print until 1970. Feaster contends that the expression itself is considerably older than 1883. So if he's right, the phrase is more of a folk etymology than a true explanation.

Patrick Feaster's further investigation included the US census of 1880. In it, he discovered only four individuals in the whole country were named Joshua Tatum...and then none of them were registered as a deaf-mute.

He closed his article by mentioning that the "invention" of Josh Tatum coincides with the US Secret Service's new policy of confiscating Racketeer Nickels from irate coin collectors because gold-plated coins were technically illegal to privately own at the time. So to take advantage of the controversy, resourceful writers made-up the Josh Tatum urban legend.

Can you picture ZYMBOT's bushy eyebrows raised in disbelief?  I can. While he's grappling for the right words to tell me off...I'll say, "What's the matter...you never been lied to before?"

"SEA HUNT," IS GOOD.

"DREAM ON," was a clever adult-themed sit-com that aired on HBO from 1990-1996. Its main character Martin Tupper, played by Brian Benben, was a neurotic New Yorker coping with divorce, dating and contemporary problems while scenes from old TV shows rattle around in his head.

While "Dream On" was a hilarious exaggeration...I was still able to relate to its underlying genius. Specifically, the implication that in the 50's and 60's, TV was a free baby-sitter...and that over-exposure caused an acute short attention span and skewed developing minds, like mine.

I DON'T RELATE ASPECTS OF MY LIFE TO GOLDEN-AGE TV SHOWS. BUT I ADMIT, I DO GET WARM AND FUZZY WHEN I SEE AN OLD FAVORITE.

I recently discovered that I get the "THIS," TV network, (locally on channel 250). THIS specializes in old movies. However, its late-night line-up includes, old half-hour shows from the 50's and 60's...like, "SEA HUNT." SEA HUNT, HAD A FOUR-YEAR, 155 EPISODE RUN FROM 1958-1961.

Lloyd Bridges starred as Mike Nelson. The program's gimmick was that Nelson was ex-navy frogman, turned freelance scuba diver.

IF YOU'RE MORE FAMILIAR WITH PRESENT-DAY TV, IN THE 1990's, (30-YEARS LATER), BRIDGES APPEARED A FEW TIMES ON "SEINFELD," AS IZZY MANDELBAUM, A SENIOR CITIZEN WORK-OUT JUNKIE.

I would estimate that the last time I saw Sea Hunt, (in re-runs), I was ten. I remember being fascinated by Mike Nelson's underwater adventures and run-ins (swim-ins?), with villains while salvaging various forms of treasure.

ENVIRONMENTALLY WAY AHEAD OF ITS TIME, EACH SHOW CLOSED WITH A PLEA BY LLOYD BRIDGES TO PROTECT THE OCEANS.

The Sea Hunt, episode I watched yesterday was good. But that assessment depends how you interpret the word, "good." Think of it this way, did you ever go to a hardware store and see how they advertise the three options for rakes or driveway sealant as "good-better-best."

Good-better-best, what does that mean? Psychologically, the store is implying that GOOD - Means, worthy. BETTER - Is a higher quality version and BEST - Represents the state-of-the-art, top of the line. In reality that is not true because everything is relative. So until there's a benchmark to establish how good, good is...we can't assume the value of "good."

In street slang, the word "bad" means good. Specifically, somebody or something that is admired, envied or tight in a thorough way. On the other hand, to a coin collector, "good" means bad condition.

TATTERED, WITH THE ELEGANCE OF ITS FINE DETAIL WORN AWAY, YOU COULDN'T EXPECT TO SELL THIS 80-YEAR OLD BEAUTY IN "GOOD" CONDITION FOR MUCH MORE THAN FACE-VALUE.

So that "good" rake or driveway goop might be inferior. And the, "better," sub par and the, "best," only adequate. I'm afraid that Sea Hunt, for my current sophisticated taste didn't leave me feeling warm and fuzzy. In fact, it slipped all the way down to the "good" meaning "crappy," category.

In its defense, Sea Hunt and similar adventure shows, had to establish a setting, convey the problem and climax the show with an exciting solution...in less than thirty minutes. The job of the writers must have been difficult because they had to squeeze a salient plot, into such a short time...and rarely succeeded.

BETTER re-runs that I've recently seen like, "ZORRO" and "RAWHIDE," also suffered from the lack of top-notch scripts. What made "Zorro" stand-out was that it was produced by Disney and had access to movie studio resources like sets, costumes and make-up.

When you examine the BEST, (my favorites), like, "SUPERMAN" or the "LONE RANGER," the action was so stimulating, that the story, acting and backdrops were secondary. To a pre-pubescent like me, how can you top Superman? The dude could fly for god's sake. He had the full spectrum of possibilities that x-ray vision could provide and represented truth justice in the American way.

The poor Lone Ranger, as great as he was...couldn't compare. To the tune of the "WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE," I'd get so fired-up in the opening credits. But deep down, I knew, even at a tender young age that he was mortal and could still take a stray bullet in the back. Plus he had limited range, (even when he was riding Silver). And while it was admirable that he never stuck around long enough for his doubters to thank him...he still couldn't bend steel in his bare hands.

By today's standards, all these shows had stupid plots. But Sea Hunt had no big name studio behind it and the uniqueness of the underwater peril and fight scenes quickly wore-off. Therefore, without fireworks or bells and whistles to occupy a child-like mentality, the viewer is forced to notice the weakness/implausibility of the script. That's what happened to Sea Hunt. And that's why the show was merely good. It was so good at being GOOD that in celebration of seeing it for the first time in 45 years, I shut it off after ten minutes...here's why.

The lame episode I saw, opened serenely in the living room of Mike Nelson's friend. Nelson is trying to convince this much older diver to retire. With the essence of this man's masculinity and livelihood at stake, an argument breaks out. The shouting stops when a vase next to an open window crashes to the floor. Was this a smart symbolic ploy to establish the ferocity of their differences...no! When the man looks out his window, the scene abruptly and comically cuts to stock-footage of hurricane scenes...duh !

Back in the living room with no sound-effects to suggest such a violent storm is taking place, the older man turns on a transistor radio. They listen as the intensity of the weather is explained by a news reporter. Another voice-over interrupts with an emergency news flash...a local fishing boat is missing at sea. Nelson and the older man identify the boat as their friend's. On his behalf, they start making phone calls in an attempt to help him.

The audience is reminded that after an hour of trying, they are unsuccessful in getting any new information. Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. The ship captain whose boat was lost at sea is ushered in. Despite the hurricane and his ship going down in rough seas, he is completely dry as he calmly said, "I guess you heard what happened?" THEY MUST HAVE HAD A SERIOUSLY LIMITED BUDGET. IF THE CAPTAIN WAS AT LEAST COVERED IN SEAWEED, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN LESS INSULTING TO THE VIEWER'S INTELLIGENCE.

At that point, I shut Sea Hunt off, perhaps forever. I bet "Dream On" only flashed back to Sea Hunt when they were out of "good" ideas.

JOHN WAYNE WOULD HAVE BURNT CARNEYS POINT TO THE GROUND

Have you ever had a gun pointed at your head? I have. Even if you're innocent and the gunman is a police officer....its not a good feeling.

In Las Vegas (1980), I was pulled over for a routine traffic violation.
I moved too quickly for my credentials and the cop shouted, "Stop!"
I turned around and found his service revolver an inch from my temple. After a sigh of relief by both of us, all my paperwork checked-out. He maintained his tough-guy stance but, he did let me slide. I guess he recognized how closely we (me), escaped disaster.

Ten years ago, I told that story to a police officer friend. He said once you are pulled-over for a routine traffic stop...you want everything to be...routine. To further assure that the situation is handled smoothly, he suggested keeping both hands on the top of the steering wheel. When the officer approaches, avoid sudden movements and speak politely. At night, the dome light should be flicked on.

Assuming you don't feel that you are being profiled or unjustly stopped, this simple gesture implies that you are no threat. It signals to the police that you want to make the distasteful procedure safe, easy and quick for both parties. My friend went on to say that there is a chance that the officer might be more lenient by your sensitivity to his risks and danger potential.

Of course, you never know the mindset of a policeman. He might be a jerk or having a bad day or going through personal problems. I have been lucky down through the years because I have heard horror stories. I'm proud to say, I have no horror stories. In fact, I have had so few moving violations that I bet I remember just about all of them. Today we'll concentrate on the first and last.

My first ticket was when I was eighteen. I was threatened by my folks into volunteering to drive my paternal grandmother each spring, to and from, a hotel in Ellenville New York. The first few times, my mom kept me company. Her job included alerting me to short-cuts and speed-traps. The two main speed-traps were in the tiny towns Sloatsburg and Tuxedo New York.

TUXEDO NEW YORK IS IN ORANGE COUNTY NEAR THE NEW JERSEY BORDER. THE TOWN GETS ITS NAME FROM "TUCSETO," THE LENNI-LENAPE INDIAN NAME FOR BEAR LAKE. IN 1886, JAMES POTTER GOT AN IDEA FOR AN ALTERNATIVE TO THE WHITE-TIE STYLE OF FORMAL DRESS AFTER VISITING ENGLAND. HE CAME TO A SWANKY DINNER PARTY IN TUXEDO WEARING A SHORT SMOKING JACKET. OTHER MEN COPIED HIM AND EVENTUALLY IT WAS NAMED A TUXEDO.

The necessity of mom's expertise always came into focus when she reminded me where to slow down. Inevitably, we'd pass someone being ticketed. So it was an accomplishment to never get caught speeding there.

On one of those trips (c. 1973), we were cruising home through the Bronx. When we reached the Triborough Bridge, (it links the Bronx to both Manhattan and Queens), we hit a major traffic back-up. I was inexperienced, (mom never learned to drive), so I thought I was really cool by flying by hundreds of vehicles in the vacant right lane that channeled cars onto Wards Island. When I tucked back into the bridge traffic, I crossed a double-solid line. An officer on foot was hidden behind an abutment waiting for drivers to make that illegal move.
THE TRIBOROUGH WAS RENAMED THE ROBERT F. KENNEDY BRIDGE ON NOVEMBER 19, 2008.

The officer used his finger like a gun and pointed me in an intimidating manner to the shoulder. I'll never forget, his name tag read, M. McKinley. He asked for my ID, shushed me when I tried to defend my actions and issued my summons without uttering an unnecessary word.

My last brush with the law was in 2005. We had just bought a new Honda and decided to break it in with a test-drive to Virginia. From here in South Jersey, a GPS would send you west on the Atlantic City Expressway, to I-295 south, to the Delaware Memorial Bridge and then to I-95. I never go that way. I think its better to take Route-40, the back road scenic route through megalopolises like Newfield, Mizpah, Franklinville and Elmer.

My memory of the speed-traps in Sloatsburg and Tuxedo kept me mindful of how small towns supplement the coffers in their community chest. So I'm always careful of the speed limits. The town of Woodstown is the last red flag. After slowing down there, its wide open unincorporated farmland to the Jersey border, through Cowtown and Pennsville to the last burg, Carneys Point.

In the shadow of the Delaware Bridge with no signs of a city, village or hamlet in sight, I had few cars to compete with. It was mid-morning and our spirits were high. Suddenly, in the rear view mirror, I noticed a police cruiser. Instinctively, I let up on the accelerator and noticed that I was doing 60 in a 55. I wasn't worried. Within seconds, the police car neared and the rack-lights on his roof were activated. I thought he was going after someone else so I moved over a little, to let him pass as I slowed down . But he wasn't chasing anyone but me.
VIEWING THE DELAWARE MEMORIAL BRIDGE FROM BEAUTIFUL DOWNTOWN CARNEYS POINT.

I stopped and assumed the position my cop friend suggested with both hands on top of my steering wheel. I greeted the overweight, Carneys Point sergeant through his mirrored sunglasses and pleasantly asked, "What's the problem sir?"
Impatiently he said, "License, registration and insurance!"
To avoid further upsetting him, I gathered my papers and asked, "Why did you stop me?"
"Sixty-one in a forty-five."
"No it was a 55..." He used rudeness as a force-field to support his authority and interrupted, "Son, it was a 45." "Huh? Hey, uh sir, I was just keeping up with traffic..."
"Be quiet! Or I'll also cite you for failing to pull-over for a half-mile!"

Despite being polite and non-threatening, I was treated coarsely and received a ticket for $105.00. I didn't like it but I got caught in a speed-trap and saw no other recourse but to pay.

When I got home, I re-read the ticket. That doughnut-chomping weasel-cop stuck it to me. That one extra mile per hour (61 rather 60), over the limit added $20.00 to my fine. I was seething because I knew it was intentional.

I wanted to forget the ordeal as soon as possible. That's when my eye caught the phrase; save a stamp, pay on-line. So I plodded through several personal information screens. On the last page, I accepted my responsibility and pleaded guilty. However, the one thing that pissed me off all over again was at the bottom, in the field next to the "send" link. It read; I accept a $3.00 computer processing fee. What sneaky, petty bastards! After schtupping me for an extra twenty and unnecessarily stealing ten minutes of my private time under the guise of saving me a 37-cent stamp, they rammed the joy of E-PAYING, up my...umm, a...nose!

I'M POSITIVE THE "DUKE" WOULD HAVE STAMPEDED A HERD OF LONG-HORNS THROUGH MAIN STREET OR FOUGHT TO HIS DEATH BEFORE BEING HOOD-WINKED INTO PAYING THAT $3.00. I DIDN'T. I GUESS THAT MEANS IF I WAS IN HIS SHOES, I WOULD HAVE KEPT THE NAME MARION MORRISON AND NEVER LEFT IOWA.

When I go that way, I still drive the back roads of Route-40...but a lot slower. And while I'm puttering around, I often wonder if John Wayne ever had a real gun put to his head !