WHAT WOULD LARRY DAVID DO?

"SEINFELD," the number one sit-com of all-time? I think so. Yes, I loved the "HONEYMOONERS," "THE ODD COUPLE," "CHEERS," "MASH" and "ALL IN THE FAMILY" but the show about nothing, is still my favorite.THE COMMERCIAL AND CULTURAL PHENOMENA KNOWN A "SEINFELD" RAN FOR 180 EPISODES DURING ITS NINE SEASON RUN, (1989-1998).

The show featured stand-up comedian Jerry Seinfeld playing a fictional version of himself. While using his uptown Manhattan apartment as a focal point, his best friend George Costanza (Jason Alexander), ex-girl friend Elaine Benes (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) and wacky neighbor Cosmo Kramer, (Michael Richards) provided a steady flow of "welcome" interruptions to his superficial lifestyle.

Years later, the casual "Seinfeld" viewer learns that the show has a wild card. Lurking behind the scenes is Larry David. David, together with Jerry Seinfeld were the co-creators of the show. David was also the executive producer and head writer. Even more interesting than that, the George Costanza character was molded after the pre-mega successful Larry David. In addition to being an insecure loser as well as cheap, dishonest, petty and envious, Jason Alexander a short, fat, bald man with glasses was cast to complete David's negative self-image.

Larry David then parlayed the George Costanza role into another smash comedy on HBO, "CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM." In it, Larry plays a contemporary version of himself which means, he is Costanza as a success.

Like "Seinfeld" on steroids, cable TV allows "Curb's" themes, language and sexuality to be far less restricted. Even though we all know Larry is going to be a jerk, this freedom of expression gives him the latitude for the outrageous while continuously achieving higher plateaus of depraved indifference. Just like as a kid when I watched Soupy Sales...I knew Soupy was going to get hit with a pie but it was still funny when he did.

"Curb Your Enthusiasm," has many actors play themselves. So it is a recurring theme that Larry will produce a "Seinfeld" reunion show. It is especially funny when Jason Alexander insults Larry by analyzing George and calling him stupid, selfish, self-centered, etc. That's one reason why "Curb" has the potential to become my all-time favorite sit-com.

"CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM," HAS AIRED FOR SEVEN SEASONS SINCE 2000. THERE ARE 70 EPISODES AND MORE ARE BEING PRODUCED FOR 2011.

Larry was born in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn on July 2, 1947. We love watching him make an ass of himself as he battles social conventions and their expectations, other people and the mundane aspects of life. The truth is, we all have or wished we had a bit of his antics in us...I know, I do.

When I look back at the most embarrassing moment of my life, I wish I had had a, "What Would Larry David Do," bracelet.

POPULAR IN 1990's, THE "WHAT WOULD JESUS DO," INITIALS APPEARED ON VARIOUS ITEMS. IN PRACTICE, THIS MOTTO SERVED AS A REMINDER FOR INDIVIDUALS TO UPHOLD THE MORAL IMPERATIVE AND ACT IN A MANNER THAT WOULD DEMONSTRATE THEIR LOVE FOR GOD.

In March 1981, I could have used the guidance of a "What Would Larry David Do," bracelet. My wife Sue's, sister-like BFF and my friend too (Sabrina), flew into Las Vegas to visit. Sue was grossing $300.00/week as a keno writer at the Maxim Casino.  Her manager thought she was so indispensable that  he refused her the night off to meet Sabrina's flight. If I had a "WWLDD" bracelet I would have told her to risk losing that shit job so she could have the added thrill of meeting her friend at the airport.

Sabrina and I had five hours to kill. Larry David would have gone out of his way to bring the girls together...to at least have them see each other for a minute while Sue worked...I didn't. Instead, I drove forty miles out of town towards Mount Charleston.
IN THE MOUNTAINS NORTH OF LAS VEGAS THERE IS A SKI AREA ON MOUNT CHARLESTON. BECAUSE SABRINA WASN'T A GAMBLER, I THOUGHT THE GOURMET RESTAURANT UP THERE WOULD BE A TREAT.

We turned off the desolate highway onto the far more remote, two-lane, Kyle Canyon Road. Within a mile we saw a giant sign: NO GAS ON MOUNTAIN. I instinctively checked my Chevy Monte Carlo's fuel level, it was scraping EMPTY.

If I had a Larry David bracelet, I would have made a U-Turn, retraced my steps for five miles and gassed-up. Instead, I noted the incline of the pavement and assured myself that the gauge was being skewed by the angle of the car.

On that the dark, winding road, we encountered almost no traffic going in the opposite direction. Fifteen minutes later, we crossed the snow line and soon ran out of gas. This was way before the cell phone-era so I was stuck on a dangerous blind curve with no help in sight. You can see why I panicked. That's when I hatched an idea that was so ridiculous that even an entire staff of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" writers would have thought it too unbelievable and idiotic. I tried to make a reverse, K-Turn with the idea of rolling down the mountain.
I backed up and as luck would have it, my car's rear tires rolled into a ditch along the shoulder. My under-carriage was scraping the asphalt and my tires couldn't get traction in the gravel. Even worse, my car was perpendicular to the roadway and its front-end was sticking out, about ten percent into the lane. I turned on my hazard lights but at the odd angle, I couldn't be sure that they could warn a speeder in time.
I had to think fast. I told Sabrina that I would push the car and that she would use the brake when we were out of the hole. That's when she said, "No! I never drove a car in my life."
After Sabrina took a light jacket from her suitcase and I put on a sweat-shirt, plan-B included us positioned to flag down passersby. The occasional car coming down from the mountain safely zoomed by in the other lane but didn't stop. After a long while, the first car at risk, stopped.
The forty-ish man was sloppy drunk and driving a two-seat, MG Midget. This jet-setter ogled Sabrina like Glen Quagmire from "FAMILY GUY," before identifying himself as Slade, a gaming supervisor at the Dunes Casino. After we failed to liberate my car by brute force, he announced that he had access to gas because he was a Mount Charleston volunteer fireman. I needed to consult a Larry David bracelet when he said, "I'll take the girl with me and come back with the gas." Nobody in their right mind would have agreed to that...but I did. It wasn't until this delicate flower disappeared around the first bend that I realized that even if I ever saw her again...that her virtue would never be the same.
DIGGITY, DIGGITY, DIGGITY. HOW MANY INDICATORS DID I NEED TO STOP THIS INSANITY. SLADE WAS WASTED, DRIVING A SEXY CAR AND HEADING TO A ROMANTIC RESORT. PLUS, I DIDN'T HAVE THE WHEREWITHAL TO WRITE DOWN HIS LICENSE PLATE NUMBER OR VERIFY HIS NAME.
For the next thirty minutes, my stomach was in knots as I imagined this man's eighty-woman conga-line of conquests dancing in, "I GOT LAID BY SLADE," tee-shirts. The whole torturous time, I was praying to see that little sports car and Sabrina again. Inexplicably during this whole ordeal, no cars stopped to help even the two that swerved to avoid hitting my Chevy.
My last embers of hope were as frosted as my body when Sabrina finally returned intact with Slade. We emptied nearly his whole gas can into my tank. But the car wouldn't start. The front end was elevated and because of gravity, the gas couldn't travel to the engine. That's when Slade said he'd put a little directly in the carburetor to get the motor going at its source. After the thimble-full dose didn't work, I watched the drunk douse the engine. Gas was all over the place when suddenly, BAM! The engine caught on fire.
I dashed out of the car. Slade and I ran to avoid the expected explosion. But Sabrina took a few steps away and returned with slushy snow in her bare hands. I told her to forget it but she kept tossing snow on the flames. She was making progress. When I joined her, I was able to smother the last of the blaze with my sweat-shirt.
We were enjoying a short-lived sigh of relief when a motorcycle gang roared to a stop. When I caught a glimpse of these six, filthy toughs, I was sure that Sabrina, Slade and I were all getting robbed, raped, murdered and raped. I mentioned rape twice because the leader was wearing a black leather vest with no jacket, coat or even a polo-shirt...and menaces like that...like rape.
MY MIND DRIFTED TO BEING HANDCUFFED TO A TREE AND THE OLD JOKE WITH THE PUNCHLINE, "THIS JUST AIN'T YOUR DAY."
I cringed when the leader combined laughing with a growl, "You stuck?" I think Larry David would have thrown the gas can at him and run away. I didn't. I'm positive the first smart thing I did during this escapade was to not insult this devil and just stammer, "R-r-ran out of gas..." His scary crew crept closer as he interrupted, "And you set your car on fire." I knew we were dead so I only nodded. He pointed to the back of my car, signaled his friends and said, "Don't worry, we'll push you out."
Seconds after they got me out of the gully, my car started right up. Larry David would have brought them back to my condo and insisted that they stay as long as they wanted. But I invited them all out to dinner. Being the true humanitarians that they were, the bikers and Slade only accepted my sincere thanks.
Sabrina and I didn't continue up the mountain. We went back to town, stopped at a roadside bar and drank our dinner. We were still reeking of gasoline by the time I re-united the girls at the Maxim.
If you tally-up the score, I think a "What Would Larry David Do," bracelet would have only proven that my poor decisions made every step of that impossible situation worse than anything Larry would have done. Because the only thing that he and I would have have agreed on was...when I told Sue...you're not going to believe the funny thing that happened to us.

TRENT DILFER SAVED MY LIFE !

I hope Trent Dilfer subscribes to "Google Alerts" because this blog is a true story and might be the best way for me to thank him. 

Trent Dilfer was mostly a back-up quarterback in the NFL. His biggest sparkling moment had to be, leading the Baltimore Ravens to a decisive 34-7 victory over the New York Giants, in Super Bowl XXXV. 

Mr. Dilfer and I have never met. To my knowledge, we've never been in the same building at the same time nor have I ever bet on a game he participated in. Yet, this man most certainly saved my life. DILFER HAD MORE DOWNS THAN UPS AS A PLAYER DURING HIS FOOTBALL CAREER, (1994-2007). TODAY, HE IS AN ARTICULATE ANALYST FOR ESPN. 

For some reason, way before Dilfer saved me, I have had several brushes with death...definitely more than the average person. What makes it so odd is, I have never been a commercial fisherman, gone skydiving or worked as a riveter on hundred-story buildings. I have never needed an emergency blood transfusion, been pulled from a wreck by the jaws of life or had a condition that baffled medical science. That means, I am not a daredevil. It's nothing to brag about but I have always taken personal conservatism to extreme heights.DESPITE TEN TRIPS TO NIAGARA FALLS, I'VE NEVER BEEN TEMPTED TO TAKE THE PLUNGE IN A BARREL. STILL, ALL MY CLOSE CALLS WITH DEATH SEEM TO BE RELATED TO MY OWN POOR JUDGEMENT. 

The key to longevity is to limit your intake of fatty foods, avoid taking a bath with your toaster and steer clear of dirty hypodermics and dirty women. I SAVED MY OWN LIFE WHEN I LIVED ON THE CORNER OF SKIDMARK AND SYRINGE. THAT'S WHEN I DODGED PTOMAINE MARY, a.k.a. NURSE RATCHET AND I MADE THE FORTUITOUS LIFE CHANGE BY SWITCHING TO "HEROIN LITE." 

The earliest threat to my longevity took place in the summer of 1959, at the Irvington Hotel, in South Fallsburg New York.
UNLESS YOUR PARENTS WERE IMMIGRANTS, IT IS FAR WORSE TO DIE FROM THE EMBARRASSMENT OF WEARING BLACK SOCKS UNDER WHITE, PLASTIC SANDALS...THAN DROWNING. 

 

At the Irvington, I wandered away from my folks and went to the closed swimming pool. I tried to reach a seal-shaped inflatable tube in the deep end and fell in. An anonymous passerby witnessed the incident and pulled me out. Too bad he wasn't around to save me from the brow-beating I received from mom.

YOU SHOULD KNOW YOUR KID. SOMETIMES IT'S OKAY TO RISK A CHILD'S DIGNITY AND FUTURE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS WITH A KIDDIE-LEASH.

The next time I tempted fate was in 1974. While canoeing along the border of New York and Pennsylvania, (on the Delaware Water Gap near Skinner's Falls), I was indirectly hit by lightning. Today, I can still feel the surge of electrifying pain that zapped every nerve in my body.

Along the strange path of life, I've been in several car accidents...we all have. I have walked away from every one of mine but on closer examination, it's not hard to imagine how my quality of life could have suffered if not for the grace of a couple of inches. One of those collisions came outside the Las Vegas Hilton International Casino, in 1979. Almost at the same time my light turned green, I was rear-ended by a guy going fifty.  Luckily, I had taken my foot off the brake a split second before impact. My little Mazda was pushed through the intersection and I was spared a fiery death when my full gas tank ruptured and didn't explode.  

Two months earlier, at 4:30AM, I was side-swiped near the Sahara Avenue off-ramp on Interstate-15. I lost control, hit a streetlight pole on the right shoulder, did a 180 and wound up facing oncoming traffic in the middle lane. I broke my left hand but lived to a see another day...which was more than I could say about my Ford station wagon. 

On New Year's Eve 1979, Hersh Schtiermann, my seventy-year old, Jimmy Hoffa-like casino supervisor, picked a chair up over his head. This seat was so heavy that most of the staff thought it was bolted to the floor. This ancient Hercules swung it like a baseball bat and tried to hit me over the head with it. You may be familiar with this because it appeared in length, in two previous blogs as well as in my short story, "RIDEOUT, WHITE-OUT AND RIGHT OUT." 

Schtiermann quit that day. We didn't cross paths again until a year later. At first he was cordial. Then while squeezing the life out of my arm, he angrily whispered, "Kid, I cudda made your life a lot easier. Instead you gotta be a f*****g wise-guy." When I didn't respond, his ridiculous temper exploded. His wife tried to calm him down. She pulled him away from me. After a profanity laced insult fest, he screamed his parting shot, "You have no idea how close you came to the kiss of death!" 

A year later, an ignorant Vegas police officer put a gun to my head at a routine traffic stop. He wasn't being overly cautious. This shallow nimrod was just getting his jollies off at my expense while making the point...that I shouldn't have reached so quickly for my credentials in the glove compartment. Afterwards I was certain that I wasn't in real danger but at the time I needed total concentration to control my continence. 

 In 1984, I hit a patch of black ice just west of Pecos Texas and flew off the road. On the snowy shoulder, I somehow got enough traction to stop...a foot or so from a jagged mountain wall.

THIS PICTURE WAS TAKEN IN MY CHEVY MONTE CARLO, ON INTERSTATE-10, A HALF HOUR BEFORE OUR DATE WITH A MOUNTAINSIDE AND DESTINY. 

Two miles from home in 1990, me and my Chevy Corsica survived another bout with an icy road. I was doing about forty and went into a skid. My car veered directly towards a telephone pole. In panic-mode, I jammed on the brakes, turned the wheel hard to the left, closed my eyes and prepared to kiss my ass good-bye. At the last second, my car jerked to the left. It made a seemingly impossible 90 degree turn, crossed the road, drove through a hedge and came to a stop on some one's front lawn. My most narrow escape from the grim reaper occurred when we first moved to New Jersey in 1985. In a perfect storm of ignorance and stupidity as well as my first experience with a fireplace, I bought one of those romantic, ninety-nine cent, easy-light Dura-Flame logs. When the embers started fading and the mood struck us, I shut the flue before adjourning to the boudoir. Later, kismet led me to the kitchen for a snack. To my shock, when I opened the door, the living room was filled with thick black smoke...I guess you can say the lure of Entemann's saved us from being asphyxiated in our sleep. AFTER DUNKING MY CHOCOLATE DOUGHNUT IN SKIM MILK, I TOLD THE REAPER WHAT HE COULD DO WITH HIS EVIL SCYTHE AND ADDED, "I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU OR YOUR BONY BUTT FOR AT LEAST 50 YEARS." 

A far more gruesome close call came from the always reliable, drunken boating incident. In 1980, under the influence, I fell out of the back of a rented speedboat. The idiot driver, who was a moron even when he was sober, made a u-turn to rescue me. Like a beached whale, three friends hauled me back in the boat, unscathed. Later, I was still laughing when I was informed that the genius steered directly over where I fell in, BEFORE cutting the motor. TO QUOTE MY BUDDY STUW, "A BEER AT THE BEACH IS WORTH TWO IN THE HOUSE." ON WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY LAST DAY IN ONE PIECE, IT WAS 112 DEGREES ON LAKE MEADE. WE WERE DRINKING ICY GIN AND LEMONADE...IN THE BROILING SUN. IT WENT DOWN LIKE CANDY BUT PACKED A POWERFUL WALLOP. THAT'S WHEN A MENTAL MIDGET FROM NEBRASKA NAMED TIGHE, NEARLY SLICED AND DICED ME TO SHREDS. 

My last brush with death occurred on Sunday January 28, 2001, in the adjoining town of Smithville. With a little research, I could tell you the exact second I almost met my demise...or at least got permanently demobilized by brain damage. Please bear in mind, the names have been changed to protect the GUILTY! A friend and his wife invited my son Andrew and I to a lavish Super Bowl party in their custom home. This event included a birthday party downstairs for one of their kids so I would estimate that there were a hundred guests. While mingling, I counted six separate TV's as I took a self-guided tour of the cool nooks and crannies of this unique home. This game pitted the New York Giants versus the virtually unknown, Baltimore Ravens. Ninety-eight percent of the gathering had either bet on the Giants or were rooting them. That left me and some sloppy drunk, forty-something, valley-girl from Timonium Maryland as the only folks pulling for the Ravens. In a combination of getting away from the hostile, pro-Giants crowd and finding a seat, I wandered into a two-story atrium-like alcove off the dining room. It was a cozy spot highlighted by a southwestern/greenhouse theme. In front of a little TV, surrounded by plants and flowers, I plopped down on the only chair in the room. To make my Eden-like situation even better, during the early part of the game, I had private access to a banquet table full of delicacies. Even when others discovered my hide-away, they were forced to stand or sit on the spiral staircase that led to a bedroom loft area. The game was still scoreless when our tipsy hostess, inexplicably decided to water these plants. She probably would have gone unnoticed if she hadn't unearthed the couple sitting on the steps of the winding staircase. On her way up, we all lost focus on the game when she misstepped and almost fell. A few minutes later, I stood up to get a food refill as Ravens quarterback Trent Dilfer dropped back to throw. He arched a long bomb and I stopped to watch. When the receiver caught the touchdown pass, I cheered and took an instinctual step, closer to the TV. While celebrating, I felt a breeze on the back of my neck and heard a nearly simultaneous crash. In the exact spot I had vacated, a huge barrel cactus and what was left of the heavy, earthenware pot it was in, lay splattered on the terracotta, ceramic floor. AN EARLY NATIVE AMERICAN MISSILE. WHEN THIS AERIAL WEAPON IS DROPPED FROM ABOVE...WITH OR WITHOUT A STOUT BARREL CACTUS INSIDE, IT CAN BE LETHAL. Curiosity seekers flooded into the room. I looked up and saw the hostess. She had a watering can in one hand and the other was over her mouth. I was in shock and couldn't figure out if she was embarrassed or laughing. Finally she said, "I was watering...and...oops...and...are you okay?"

People were tending the mess as she came down. At ground-zero, the ceramic tile was smashed with countless spider cracks going in every direction. My friend's wife ignored me as she was surrounded by her supportive lady friends. When the valley-girl handed her a can of Heineken, the hostess never looked my way again. She was then ushered away. On her way out of the room, the hostess picked out a large pottery shard from the trash and announced to her cronies, "I bought this at the Hopi reservation in Arizona." I never got a sincere apology. The hostess was so blitzed that she probably forgot about me ten seconds after she came down from the loft. So I have to put that drunk out of my mind and concentrate on the fact that Trent Dilfer saved my life. Hopefully, my savior will validate my feelings and acknowledge my appreciation when the Google Alert leads him to reading this blog.

TELL 'IM WHAT ELSE HE'S WON, JOHNNY !

I've always been a big fan TV game shows. Some of the early ones I liked the most were, "CONCENTRATION," "YOU DON'T SAY," "PASSWORD," "TO TELL THE TRUTH," and "WHAT'S MY LINE?"

While the average home viewer gravitated to winning cash and fabulous prizes, I liked the emcees. So much so, that by the time I was ten, I was fantasizing about being a genial host like Hugh Downs, Tom Kennedy, Bill Cullen, Allen Ludden or Wink Martindale.

My attraction had something to do with the perceived easiness of being in charge, the confidence of knowing all the answers, the security of having everyone respect you and of course, the excitement of being a TV personality. In retrospect, I'm certain Freud or even a novice shrink would see how my current phobias and emotional shortcomings originated from these childhood delusions of grandeur.

By my later teens, I convinced myself that Jack Barry the host of, "THE JOKER'S WILD," could and should be replaced... by me. Because, in addition to being an older dullard, his only credentials I knew of was that he had hosted the kids show, "WINKY DINK."

"WINKY DINK" WAS A KIDDIE SHOW FROM 1953-1957. WHEN IT WAS REVIVED IN 1969, BARRY WAS SELECTED AS THE HOST. LITTLE DID I KNOW THAT IT WAS REJUVENATING HIS BROKEN CAREER.

Unbeknownst to me, Jack Barry had a checkered past.

IN 1958, JACK BARRY (center) WAS THE HOST OF THE POPULAR QUESTION AND ANSWER SHOW, "TWENTY-ONE." HIS CAREER TOOK A NOSE-DIVE WHEN HE WAS IMPLICATED FOR RIGGING THE OUTCOMES... BY GIVING CONTESTANT, CHARLES VAN DOREN (right), THE ANSWERS. THE 1994 MOVIE, "QUIZ SHOW" WAS BASED ON THAT SCANDAL.

Jack Barry was blackballed. He tried to develop his own shows but had little success. He didn't return as an on-air personality until, "WINKY DINK," was remade.

Some of my friends watched the revamped Winky Dink but I was fourteen and it was too babyish. Still, it was ahead of its time because authorized Winky Dink products like a "magic drawing screen" that covered your TV and special crayons could be bought. With these materials and Jack Barry's suggestions, kids at home could draw on their TV's, a solution to Winky Dink's problems, solve codes, etc. Computer mogul Bill Gates praised the program as; "The first interactive TV show."

Jack Barry's success on Winky Dink lasted 65 episodes until 1973. During that time he was hired as the host of the "JOKERS WILD." He established the catchphrase, "JOKER, JOKER, JOKER!" when the best situation came up, (all three question reels were wild cards). Barry maintained that position until 1984. It was his influence during that time that really made me want to be a game show host. Unfortunately, I was forced to suppress that desire for a long time...until my son Andrew entered grade school.

Andrew's first grade teacher and I had a friendly relationship. When she learned that I had a sparse knowledge of Spanish, she asked me to come in during their term-ending party and give a simple demonstration of the language. That demonstration developed into, "SPANISH BINGO." Due to its success and my subsequent rapport with his other teachers, my inventing and hosting game shows became a Reeds Road School tradition. The fun continued each year until Andrew "outgrew" the concept after fifth grade.

"SPANISH BINGO" DID NOT USE NUMBERS. MY BINGO BOARDS HAD 1st GRADE VOCABULARY WORDS ALONG SIDE THEIR SPANISH COUNTERPART....SO INSTEAD OF CALLING G-57, I CALLED, G-HAT/SOMBRERO. THEN THE STUDENTS WOULD MARK THEIR CARDS AND TRY TO MAKE A BINGO.

In second grade I came up with, "THE GREAT AMERICAN CLAM RACE." This quiz show split the class into two teams, the Fuchsia Crustaceans and the Orange Mollusks. I built a punch board with a hundred questions based on the year's curriculum. A game board was drawn on the blackboard and magnetized clam shell game pieces advanced to the finish line.

The "GAME OF THE STATES," inspired the third grade edition. The next year's installment involved all four fourth grade classes. We went outside and combined questions and answers with physical challenges. Some of those events were; racing with a ping pong ball on a spoon, the game telephone and a running backwards relay.

These shows had satisfied my urge to be the master of ceremony. I proved to myself that it was easy, fun to be in charge, cool to know all the answers and respected by so many. That's when I realized that I should share that joy with Andrew. When I asked if he wanted to be the moderator in fifth grade; he was thrilled.

We began sketching out concepts during the winter break. I gave him some simple tasks to prepare over the next few months but because video games and various other levels of entertainment dominated his private time, these goals weren't fully reached.

Andrew was still helpful but my vision of this being HIS show evaporated. In a bit of a rush job, "CLUELESS...THE SEARCH FOR BUBBA'S GOLDEN COLLAR," was born.

BUBBA THE BULLDOG, IS THE SCHOOL MASCOT. ON A COUPLE OF OCCASIONS, I WORE THE COSTUME WHEN THE REGULAR GUY COULDN'T MAKE IT.

"CLUELESS, THE SEARCH FOR BUBBA'S GOLDEN COLLAR," was based on the board game, "CLUE." The show featured four teams trying to figure out which imaginary Reeds Road School employee stole Bubba's golden collar, how it was taken and where they were hiding it.

ADVERTISEMENTS FOR "CLUELESS," WERE PLASTERED ALL OVER THE SCHOOL.

Andrew was the emcee. The teams received clues to the crime by answering questions about the term's work. Then they were awarded points for figuring out the; who, how and where of the stolen collar. Then with the help of the teachers, Bubba's collar (a Dollar Store item spray painted gold) , was hidden the classroom. To show my cleverness, I told Andrew that it would be better if he didn't know where it was hidden so he wouldn't be tempted to tell anyone. Ergo, without him realizing it, he would eventually be a contestant too.

Weeks earlier, I conspired with one of the teachers to have the class name her new, rhinestone encrusted paper clip box which was proudly displayed in plain sight, on her desk.

This paved the way to Clueless's double-climax. Number one was the hilarity of us adults and Andrew watching the kids' three-minute ( fruit-less) search of the entire school. Number two was when they came back, Andrew told them that without finding the collar, the score was too close to have a clear winner. Then as a tie-breaker, I wrote these letters on the chalkboard; X-B-K-S-E-O-A-C-O-H-T-T-T-H-R and told the class to unscramble them and fit then into this sequence: --- --- ---- -----.

The class was told to not only solve the puzzle but to go to that spot and retrieve the collar. Everyone was encouraged to do their own work because their team would be declared the winner but that individual would be awarded an actual prize, a gold bubloon, (Andrew coined the phrase bubloon, by combining Bubba and doubloon). To his surprise, my boy was invited to participate.TO RE-CREATE A DOUBLOON, I USED A SILVER DOLLAR-SIZED LEAD, NON-VALUE LAS VEGAS PROMOTIONAL SLOT MACHINE TOKEN. I ROUGHED IT UP BY PLACING PEBBLES UNDERNEATH AND DRIVING OVER IT A GAZILLION TIMES WITH MY CAR. THEN, I SPRAY PAINTED IT GOLD AND PLACED IT IN A PLASTIC, COIN COLLECTOR'S CASE.

A girl edged out Andrew and figured out that the anagram. It was the name of the teachers rhinestone encrusted box that the students named a few weeks earlier, THE BOX THAT ROCKS. She was thrilled to open the box and win the prize. And I appreciated that another kid asked to keep Bubba's collar as a souvenir.

I bet Jack Barry was never that ingenious. And I bet that when Andrew has a more defined goal in life, he won't be relying on three reels coming up, JOKER, JOKER, JOKER !

I.O.W.A. STANDS FOR, IDIOTS OUT WANDERING ABOUT

My 1976 cross country trip remains one of the highlights of my life. I liked it so much because on my own I found adventure, retraced history, discovered oddball places, learned about other cultures and met new people. I never re-experienced that joy but in the 80's and 90's, I recaptured a bit of that feeling by going to flea markets.

When flea marketing was hot, I was off on Saturday and Sunday. And because my wife and local friends were casino people, I was left alone to venture all over South Jersey and rekindle the flame of joy that I mentioned above.

AERIAL VIEW OF THE FARMER'S MARKET IN BERLIN NEW JERSEY. IF YOU SQUINT, YOU CAN SEE ME AND MY THREE-YEAR OLD SON ANDREW IN AISLE SIX, AT THE SNO-CONE STAND. WE BROUGHT MY DAD'S COLLECTION OF EARLY 60's TRUE MAGAZINES TO A VENDOR. I WAS OFFERED SEVEN CENTS A COPY. MY BOY WAS IMPATIENT AND DIFFICULT TO HANDLE BUT I DIDN'T WANT TO CARRY THE "RAGS" BACK TO THE CAR. IT STILL KILLS ME THAT I, "GAVE THEM AWAY," FOR $2.94.

Heavier responsibilities ended my vagabond days. However, I recently found a reality TV show that touches on many of those old emotions. Its called, "AMERICAN PICKERS."

A "PICKER" REFERS TO SOMEBODY WHO WORKS IN FIELD AND HUNTS DOWN ANTIQUES AND OTHER ITEMS. PEOPLE LIKE MIKE WOLFE (left) AND FRANK FRITTS (right), REPRESENT THE ORIGIN OF THE COLLECTIBLES PIPE-LINE, BY CHERRY-PICKING WHATEVER CAN BE RESOLD FOR A PROFIT.

AMERICAN PICKERS features the two Laurel and Hardy-like pickers (see above), from Le Claire Iowa. It debuted on January 18, 2010 and is concurrently being aired on "THE HISTORY CHANNEL" and "LIFETIME." MIKE IS THE PASSIONATE NUMBER-ONE MAN. HE SPECIALIZES IN BICYCLES AND MOTORCYCLES, LIKE THE 1937 KNUCKLEHEAD ABOVE. FRANK, THE SECOND BANANA, GRAVITATES TO TOYS AND VINTAGE OIL CANS.

Their enterprise is called, "ANTIQUE ARCHAEOLOGY." While they crisscross the country in their van searching for tarnished gold, an employee, (Danielle) minds the command center back in Iowa. Through the use of business sense and her feminine charm, she uses the Internet and telephone to do advance scouting and research leads. Equally important, she connects Mike and Frank with appraisers in the furthest corners of the middle of nowhere, to answer questions and establish prices.

Danielle also uses her wiles to advertise merchandise. Sometimes new purchases are sold before they reach the shop. Along the way, the home viewer experiences their adventures inter-laced with team's three-sided, good-natured taunting. That adventure is sure to include; history lessons, a visit to unusual places, seeing other cultures in action and meeting tons of cool people.

The History Channel has another, somewhat similar program. "PAWN STARS," features the Harrison family and their Las Vegas pawn broker shop. I liked this show because you never knew what was coming in the store next plus every customer had a story. I would have been satisfied with it if "Pickers" never came around.

COMPARED TO AMERICAN PICKERS, PAWN STARS COMES OFF LIKE THREE GENERATIONS OF WEALTHY WISE-ASS, FAT-CATS.

The Pawn Stars show is sanitary. They are in a dirty business but they never get dirty. Overwhelmingly, everyone has to come to them. And if the "pawner" doesn't like the deal, they are given a dour, take it or leave it ultimatum. I'm also put off by the fact that they are located in Las Vegas and frequently prey on desperate/down and out gamblers who might feel compelled to accept less.

Even the way they use humor to humanize themselves doesn't work for me. Pawn Stars use the "THREE STOOGES" method. Grandpa only stops counting his money when he's angry. That's when he verbally slaps his son Rick. Rick (the number-one man) has genuine enthusiasm and knowledge for his profession but when he gets slapped, he turns around slaps his son, Big Hoss. Then dimensionless Hoss, who comes off like a monetary mercenary who's only other desire is to prove to his dad and granddad that he is already worthy of running the show, turns around and insults a worker, (Chumlee). And when your at the end of the stooge totem pole like Curley...when Chumlee turns around there is nobody to slap.

I'm sure that the Harrison's worked hard to get where they are but the American Pickers possess and maintain the work ethic that our country stands for. Mike has been picking since he as eight. Together with Frank, a friend from his early teens, they started buying and selling. With the advent of EBAY, they widened their customer base.

Mike says he was making around fifty thousand a year when he produced a "how to" video on picking. This video found its way into the hands of TV producers on the History Channel and the show was soon born. While they didn't divulge Mike's current earnings, he did say that because of the show's success, their web-site activity has spiked to about three-hundred hits a day. Plus, they are now planning to expand their home-base to accommodate walk-ins.

The Iowa boys use a combination of Danielle's leads and cold calls. A cold call occurs when they drop in on a house or business with certain exterior indicators suggesting that there might be items they could buy and re-sell. Armed with a friendly face and a handbill that describes what they do and what they are interested in, they knock on doors. Many times, people invite them onto their property. Some folks are active collectors and some are looking to downsize and still others are people who inherited tons of accumulated junk.

At no time do I ever lose sight of the fact that everyone knows they are on camera. That means that the viewer is only seeing what the director wants them see. On occasion, I'm sure they might be considered invaders and have doors slammed in their face. Nevertheless, the sellers we see are interesting, thought provoking and entertaining.

I have seen the boys deal with hippies, hobos and housewives as well as curmudgeons, clowns and castaways. I've seen them sift through old stores, theaters, churches, amusement park and even a prison. But mostly, they work with collectors who invite them into the inner sanctum of their old barns, basements or in the great outdoors.

You have to give them credit for risking life and limb by climbing tenuous piles of junk or dragging out heavy or delicate treasures. Sometimes these tasks are performed in dusty, filthy and wet conditions. Other times they are exposed to poison ivy, bat guano or a hundred kinds of pestilence, in search of the almighty buck.

I can relate to Mike and Frank's trials and tribulations because my BFF ZIMBO, is an antique dealer, (TIME AND AGAIN ANTIQUES). On a smaller scale, I know what he goes through. Zimbo might not be wading through swamps with precious cargo balancing on his head but because he is generally on his own, Mr. Z. has developed a laundry list of picking injuries that include his back, knee, heel and hip. And something tells me, you can add a thousand hours of psychotherapy too.

TIME AND AGAIN ANTIQUES IS LOCATED AT 1416 E. LINDEN AVENUE, IN LINDEN NEW JERSEY 07036 AND CAN BE REACHED AT: (800) 290-5401. OR AT: www.timeandagainantiques.com. ASK FOR ZIMBO, (a.k.a. JEFF), AND TELL HIM YOU ARE A FAN OF, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND."

It's hard to believe but Iowa has beaten Las Vegas as my favorite buy and sell reality TV show. The ultimate capitalists, American Pickers come and unearth stuff that might disintegrate or get hauled to the dump. Then through a restoration process, Mike, Frank and Danielle, in a self effacing manner, recycle grand and not so grand pieces into new life. Voila, what you are left with is a slice of Americana that might have become forgotten. Plus the luxury of going cross country with them, from your La-Z-Boy, every week. And if that wasn't enough, you also get an insight to a viable, alternative method to earning a living in these difficult economic times.

Maybe Buck Owens and Roy Clark from the comedy/variety show, "HEE HAW," were talking about Mike and Frank when they used to say; he's a pickin' and 'um a grinnin'.

MUSICIANS, OWENS (left) AND CLARK (right) RESEMBLE LAUREL AND HARDY TOO. MAYBE BETWEEN THEIR GUITAR AND BANJO JAM SESSIONS, THEY PICKED ANTIQUES TOO.

Then to top it all off, I'd love to hear one of the American Pickers to say, "You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose.

I CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT HYPERTHYMESIA MEANS

Don't you hate walking into a room and having no idea why you went in. Earlier today, it happened to me. I went into my garage and stared at my pantry like a deer, frozen by oncoming headlights. In the hope of finding sudden inspiration, I scratched my head and hoped for a clue but it never came. Even a second glance at cling peaches in heavy syrup, Ikea brand light bulbs and a rusty can of WD-40 didn't help. Ten minutes later, I got little consolation when I was busy upstairs and remembered that I went into the garage for a screwdriver.

Don't be alarmed, little episodes like this are common. They don't represent the onset of senility or the early stages of dementia. They are normal brain spasms that can happen to anyone. In any case, these lost moments of bewilderment might be annoying to you but they really piss me off. You see, I have developed an image for having a great memory.

Down through the years, I have amazed my family, friends and acquaintances with this talent. Because of it, I have been honored with several nicknames. RBOY has dubbed me, "Instant Recall Edelblum." RW coined the moniker, "The Incredible Edelsteen" and "The Argument Ender"was presented to me by M "The Refrigerator" P. And let's not forget my original memory-driven nickname which goes back so far, even I can't recall who first called me, "The Storehouse of Useless Information."

My uber memory never rests. Recently, I even impressed myself by pulling the names of three forgotten people out of thin air. The first happened when I saw a man walking by at my job. Without hesitation, I called out his name. We exchanged pleasantries and old times. He then said, "I haven't been here in five years, how did you remember my name?" I told him the truth, "In this racket, its easy to remember the very good and the very bad...and you my friend, are very good."

Last week, another man came by and when we caught eye-contact, we shared an immediate, mutual regard. In a short time, I had a clear picture of who he was. I didn't remember his name but remembered his wife's name. After I recounted some details from our shared history, he told me that he hasn't seen me since his family moved to Arizona, seven years ago. I used that statement as a foot in the door to refer to his wife by her first name and ask if she was there. It's funny because when he brought her by, I wouldn't have recognized her in a million years.

A few days ago, a third man came to my roulette game. I was looking right at him and he didn't look familiar. So I stuck to the standard casino greeting during a buy-in. I said, "What can I get for you?" "Five dollar chips." "Yes sir, two hundred in nickels. Good luck." "Thanks." "Would you like to be rated?" "Nah."

Something about the way he said, "Nah," struck me. Every chance I got, I studied his face. But I was getting nothing. When he lost and bought in again, I concentrated on his voice. I wondered, was he a player I hadn't seen for a while, a relative of my son's friends, a long lost student or a someone from the neighborhood? I went forward with the notion that he was a long-lost coworker and engaged him in a more personal conversation. In no time, I had my answer because I recognized his voice.

I asked, "Does your last name start with an M?" He looked at me like I was crazy and said, "Yes." Does your last name have four letters?" He said, "Yes." I said, "You're Chris, you used to come here a lot..." Before I could finish my sentence he said, "I haven't been here for ten years."

He appreciated that I remembered him, his hometown and one of our old conversations, (the Cowtown Rodeo). Geez, maybe I could have made a better living as a memory expert. Of course, somebody who does that like The Amazing Kreskin, rely on parlor tricks but are still highly regarded as entertainers.

GEORGE KRESGE WAS BORN IN MONTCLAIR NEW JERSEY ON JANUARY 12, 1935. FOR PROFESSIONAL REASONS, HE LEGALLY CHANGED HIS NAME TO THE AMAZING KRESKIN, (T. A. KRESKIN IN CASINOS). BILLED AS A MENTALIST, THE HEIGHT OF HIS NOTORIETY WAS IN THE 1970's WHEN HE HAD HIS OWN TV SHOW AND APPEARED ON JOHNNY CARSON 61 TIMES.

Regardless of Kreskin's schtick, he made me laugh all three times he spoke to me in the casino. Every time he was walking fast past my table. I waved and said, "Hi Mr. K." With a big smile and a shrug he always said, "I can't remember where I parked?"

What if I was to tell you that there is something similar to a photographic memory called hyperthymesia. And unlike Kreskin, this phenomena is no gimmick. It's an ability for people to have nearly total recall to the significant moments in their lives...as well as tons of trivialities. Hyperthymesia is more widely referred to as, superior autobiographical memory and has only recently gained clinical acceptance.

Last Sunday, the TV show, "60 MINUTES, " did a fascinating expose on hyperthymesia.
"60 MINUTES," HAS BEEN A STALWART TV NEWS MAGAZINE ON CBS SINCE 1968. DURING THAT TIME IT HAS EARNED 75+ EMMYS AND TODAY, IS AS POPULAR AS EVER.

The show's producers found six individuals who fit the superior autobiographical memory criteria. These people were subjected to a battery of memory tests. These tests included specifics about random dates, categorizing events from the same date but from different years and even included what was worn, eaten, said, etc. One of the subjects was actress, author Marilu Henner.MARILU HENNER WAS BORN, MARY LUCY DENISE PUDLOWSKI, IN CHICAGO, ON APRIL 6, 1952. SHE IS BEST KNOWN FOR PLAYING ELAINE NARDO ON THE TV SIT-COM, "TAXI," FROM 1978-1982.

The 60 Minutes segment on Henner included her stating names, dates and complete dialogs of obscure TV commercials she appeared in. She also was asked to describe her thought process to mentally organize her memory data. She finished by taking a camera crew into her bedroom closet. She then rattled off the date she bought shoes and the date she first wore them.

Another subject was a Pittsburgh Steeler fan. He was asked to identify the last two times his team lost to the Redskins. After he succeeded, he was then asked to recall the score of their previous eighteen meetings...which he did within seconds. He even accurately recalled a 1979 player injury from a CBS broadcast. The network had archive footage of that game and ran it for the home viewers as he strolled down Memory Lane describing the most minute details.

This is a small sample of what these folks can do. To fully appreciate this talent/affliction you really need to see this piece for yourself. All I can say is, I came away convinced that they were not frauds. Even a scientist acting as an independent arbiter believed that when the subjects told him something that they were 99% right. He then hesitated and said, "No 100% right."

So if you were ever astounded by my memory or truly amazed by Kreskin, you'll be completely blown-away by this "60 Minutes" episode. Beyond the entertainment factor, researchers hope that perhaps someday, the roles will be reversed and those who don't have superior autobiographical memory will be considered the freaks of nature. On a grander scale, their true goal will be to discover a way to unlock this brain potential, to minimize or perhaps eliminate Alzheimer's Disease.

The next time you go to the grocery store for five items be sure to make a list, because you'll probably forget at least one thing if you don't write it down. Then when you get home, click on the two links below to check-out, "60 MINUTES," the "ENDLESS MEMORY," segment from December 19, 2010.

Please note that there are 2 parts, each about 14 minutes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2zTkBgHNsWM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1th1fVIc8Vo

Just in case you already forgot, you can also find it on YOUTUBE.

THERE HAS NEVER BEEN COOTIES ON THE WALL AT MY HOUSE

The greatest dilemma of our generation is, what gift do you get somebody who has NOTHING and wants NOTHING?

Every holiday season this mystery crops up at my house and goes unsolved. I know this to be true because I am that somebody who has nothing and wants nothing. Family members and friends have sincerely tried to crack this case. Despite these failures, each year I still get inundated with different versions of their perception of my needs while my attic overflows with a plethora of uselessnesses.

To avoid being called an ingrate, I'm forced to humbly accept a multitude of tripe which are; upgrades of things I'm already satisfied with, clothes I won't wear and do-dads that I have absolutely no interest in, such as the mushroom brush fiasco of 2002.

A kind person close to my heart thought my love of mushrooms was going to explode into a thousand gastric orgasms when I was presented with a cleansing implement for my favorite edible fungi. Unfortunately, I recognized this kitchen gadget's lack of practicality and blurted my opinion. I was then vilified for coining the phrase, "I'd rather have the $2.99." Five years later however, I was proven to be right, we sold that bad boy at a yard sale...unopened in its original package, for a quarter.

If we trace back its roots, you'll see that I was not born with a trait for being difficult, it was learned, from my environment.

When I was five, TV commercials for a toy space station saturated kiddie programming. I coveted this baby and made sure I got the word out to Santa. Mr. Claus debated the worthiness of this contraption with his North Pole research team. When it was proven to fit down a standard chimney and discovered to be non-toxic...this Everest of playthings was left with one major hurdle; could a kindergartner poke his eye out with it? The argument raged well into the eleventh hour until Santa deemed it safe. So I got hooked-up.

Problems arose when the space station was attacked by the infamous Pencil-Necked Pin-Heads from the third moon of planet Xenon. Which means, I bashed this chintzy piece of plastic crap to smithereens within an hour of setting eyes on it. Despite my explanation of, "I saw it fly on TV," Kris Kringle made it clear that you don't throw big ticket items down the basement steps.

He then started a bland "lack of appreciation" themed lecture. He continued with only a trace sternness, "I had a lot of trouble getting that for you. Even me, good old St. Nick won't have access to a GPS for another forty years." Then as his emotion finally set in he closed with, "Me, Rudolph, Blitzen and Prancer were burnt-out early while taking the (expletive deleted), sleigh through a complex path to the last (expletive deleted) space station left in the (expletive deleted) universe. Moreover, he made it clear that in addition to needing thirty-two, 8-volt batteries, it took an inordinate amount of elf-hours to assemble...at a time when the brethren at the elf union were getting, double time and a half.

After I shrugged off the speech, I continued playing with the space station's splintered carcass. When Mrs. Claus saw how much fun I was having, she realized that laying the guilt-trip was not Santa's forte. She stepped in and as always, her expert use of this gimmick was deft, direct, seamless and everlasting. Like getting hit with a slushy snowball between the eyes, the effectiveness of her loud, embittered sarcasm was breath-taking. I suffered through her seemingly eternal verbal onslaught until my last iota of holiday spirit eroded away. But she did not stop. Mrs. C. would not be satisfied with me serving mere penance...she needed me to be scarred for life.

To protect my sensitivities and to avoid the possibility of future humiliation, I found it easier to NEVER want trendy items like; Mr. Machine, Mighty Matilda or the Combat board game, ever again.
IN 1960, IDEAL TOYS INTRODUCED THIS HI-TECH MARVEL. IN ADDITION TO SEEING MR. MACHINE'S INNER WORKINGS, HE COULD WALK AND MADE RINGING SOUNDS. DUE TO MRS. CLAUS' TONGUE LASHING, I NEVER INCLUDED THIS MUST-HAVE TOY ON MY WISH LIST. THESE DAYS, YOU CAN BUY AN ORIGINAL ON THE INTERNET FOR ABOUT $135.00.

My friend HJ had REMCO's aircraft carrier, "MIGHTY MATILDA." I can still recall its cool jingle set to, "WALTZING MATILDA." I was so jealous that when I went to his house that was all I wanted to play with. I even fantasized about it when I wasn't there. At about the same time, a moronic kid on my street intentionally swallowed a dime, nickel and a penny, (I told you he was a moron). Mrs. Claus made a big deal over this genius's hospitalization and tracheotomy. So when I considered all of Matilda's small pieces, it became a double no-brainer, to not ask for one of my own.
IN RETROSPECT, I COULD HAVE LIVED WITHOUT THIS ONE. THE PHOTO DOESN'T NEARLY MATCH THE 50-YEAR GRAND PICTURE OF IT IN MY MIND.

When I got a little older I really wanted the, "COMBAT," game. While playing it at another friend's house, my imagination ran wild as I invisioned my chest full of medals after heroically rescuing my buddies, single-handedly, from German Stalags.
THE GAME WAS BASED ON THE 1962-1967 TV SERIES, "COMBAT." I WISH THEY WOULD SHOW RERUNS BECAUSE I RARELY SAW HOW THEY ENDED...IT AIRED FROM 7:30 TILL 8:30, AT A TIME WHEN I WENT TO BED AT 8:00.

I wasn't the only kid who learned the hard way, not to expect much at the holidays. Apparently comedian Redd Foxx did too. He had a routine that included this line, "We were so poor that every year on Christmas Eve, my father would go outside. Then he'd loudly rattle and crash the garbage cans in the alley for my brothers and sisters to hear. Then he come in and and say that Santa was mugged and all our toys were stolen. After a few years of that, you just knew you weren't getting SHIT!"

So if you're struggling to find just the right present for me...forget it. I know that gift giving is a road paved with good intentions but please, don't bother. Do us both a favor and never confuse my love for cashews with a need for a cashew dispenser. And that cable-knit sweater imported from Scotland with the picture of the Loch Ness Monster...I can live without it. And most definitely, that two-year subscription to the Chia Pet of the Month Club would be wasted on someone with a limited acumen...such as my self.

What I really want is, peace on earth, an end to world hunger and a lifetime pass when they open a HOOTERS on my street. While such lofty desires might be out of your reach, I'll gladly settle for your continued readership of, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND." And if you want to get fancy, you can sprinkle on more criticisms, insights and/or encouragement.

BUT WAIT ! If you are ever in a retro-toy store...there was one other toy I dared not ask for because Mrs. Claus said it would mark-up her walls. I don't remember its name but it was from the early 60's. I did some computer research and checked vintage toys on the computer and EBAY. But I was armed with only a vague description and came up empty.

The outer shell of this hallow, plastic toy was the size of a baseball. It looked like a bug and had a pull-string mechanism attached to a series of suction cups hidden underneath. The idea was, you would hold it on a wall, pull the string and the bug would walk up.

So there, now you have something tangible that I don't have...and actually want. Don't worry, if you can't come up with the goods, I promise not to yell at you and make you feel so inadequate that you 'll require years of intense therapy.

Okay, I'll compromise with you, I'll settle for this toy's name, (HINT- I THOUGHT IT WAS A COOTIE...BUT I WAS WRONG).

IF AN E.T. EVER SURVIVED LANDING ON AVENUE R, IT'D STILL HAVE TO WALK TWO BLOCKS TO P.

Did you ever notice that UFO's are never reported in Brooklyn? Its obvious to me why...those folks can't be bothered. My fellow Brooklynites know that if a weird civilization with inter-galactic capabilities from beyond Pluto had the technology to come that far, they would have already annihilated us for our resources. Or on the up side, they would've shared their profound knowledge with us to make this the ultimate party planet.

Whether you outsiders like it or not, what makes Brooklyn people tick is realism. We have too much going on and so much more on our mind to worry about mother earth being colonized and over-taken by the malevolent tulip people from planet Xenon.

This concept of realism is supported by Brooklyn's rigid perpendicular grids of numbered streets, (1 to 108) and lettered avenues, (A to Z) that dominate the borough. This system makes even more sense because as an example, house numbers off Avenue D...the fourth letter of the alphabet are in the 400's and houses numbers on avenues start with the previous cross street's prefix, like 9822 coming after 98th Street.

I grew up in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn, on 103rd Street at Avenue N. Our address was in the 1300's because the preceding avenue, M, is the thirteenth letter. On the adjacent avenue, those address prefixes started with 102. Therefore, the straightforward approach to addresses is an important variable for a Brooklynites realism needs. So no matter what kind of wackiness I hear involving the Bermuda Triangle, Big Foot, Killer Crabs of the Canary Islands or some such nonsense, you should never be surprised by my, "seeing is believing," attitude. Plus, these convictions are consistent with tangible things as well as ethereal matters.

Some people might consider me boring when I shrug off their spacemen theories. When they scoff at me, my response always is; maybe you're right, but some things I have to see for myself. Besides that my mother taught me; it's okay to be the only one out of a hundred to disagree with something. And if you truly think you are right, you should stick to your guns at all cost. However, you should realize that in a situation like that you are probably wrong. And when you are proven to be wrong, stand up, be a man and admit you were wrong. I try to be fair and look at most lopsided arguments from both points of view. I also try to pass-on that independent mindset to my son Andrew...so far, he, (not being a Brooklynite), has achieved less than stellar results.

I was using that sticking to your guns idea before entering my adolescence. While my peers were influenced by 1950's science-fiction movies, I never ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. Because these films weren't a threat, they were nothing more more than spooky or silly entertainment.
WHEN I WAS EIGHT, A FRIEND HAD A COMIC BOOK WITH A GIANT HYBRID DINOSAUR EAGLE RIPPING THE EARTH IN TWO ON THE COVER. IT WAS A REALLY COOL PICTURE BUT I COULDN'T FIND IN ON THE INTERNET.

In my teens, most of my Brooklyn friends and I were at peace with the notion that we weren't getting invaded from space. There were no marauding Martians attacking any time soon, intelligent extraterrestrials were non-existent and UFO's were nothing more than typos. Nevertheless, even a cynic like me can look up at an endless tapestry of stars and be inspired by its beauty and infinite possibilities.
WE TOOK MY SON TO THE AEROSPACE MUSEUM AT THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTE WHEN HE WAS THREE. HE LOVED SEEING THE COLORFUL PLANET DISPLAY. WHEN HE WAS SEVEN, WE TOOK HIM TO THE STOCKTON COLLEGE OBSERVATORY WHERE HE SAW SATURN THROUGH A TELESCOPE. IT DIDN'T THRILL HIM BECAUSE THE REAL THING WAS AN ODD-SHAPED WHITE DOT. ON THE OTHER HAND, THE REALITY THRILLED ME.

I may not think there are Saturnites coming to eat our flesh but I have a deep appreciation for celestial bodies, our solar system and all of outer space. So much so that I couldn't wait for the 1973 arrival of the comet Kohoutek. Ballyhooed in the press as the, "comet of the century," it was commercialized, merchandised and advertised to be the greatest show "over" earth since Halley's comet.
VISIBLE FROM EARTH WITH THE NAKED EYE, HALLEY'S COMET IS THE MOST FAMOUS OF ITS KIND. THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME SPECTACLE WON'T REAPPEAR UNTIL IN 2061. IT CAME AND WENT IN 1986...I DON'T RECALL HOW I MISSED IT?

Comet Kohoutek preceded Halley's big 1986 show by 13 years. It was reported that in New York City, the best night to see it would be March 7th. So my friends and I chose the top of the Kings Plaza Mall's parking garage to see it. A WAVE OF MARKETING GENIUS, THE KINGS PLAZA MALL OPENED IN 1970. IT WAS THE FIRST OVER SIZED, INDOOR SHOPPING MALL IN THE METROPOLITAN AREA.

We decided to make it an all night affair. We met in Sheepshead Bay, at the Pizza Bowl Restaurant on Avenue X for dinner. Afterwards, it was a short drive through Marine Park to Mill Basin and Kings Plaza on Avenue U. It was with great expectation we reached the roof. However, the colossal building's bright lights hindered the show but far worse, even if it was pitch black, the thick cloud cover made the comet's humongous event, a dud.

To dull our senses after the big Kohoutek disappointment, we drove to the Chesterfield Lounge on Avenue H, in Flatbush. Over cocktails, our conversation switched from the comet to aliens. I was the only one who didn't believe that little green magma-spitting humanoids with oblong heads would strafe our planet in the immediate future.

Later, we split up. A bunch of people went home but me and three others ended the night at the Copper Penny (a Denny's type restaurant) off Avenue S, in East Flatbush. Over cinnamon Danish and coffee, I continued my argument that red midget ramrod-shaped robots from Uranus weren't preparing to do a drive-by shooting of earth. "Yes," I added, "the cosmos is beautiful to look at and ponder its complexities and possibilities...I'll even concede that there maybe something, or somebody out there...but I guarantee they won't be causing mayhem or melting the earth and drinking its nectar anytime soon.

One friend said, "C'mon, you never thought, even for one second..." I interrupted, "Well, yes I did." I told them in 1970, I had a girlfriend from Bensonhurst. One moonless night, we saw a movie on Kings Highway. After a snack at the Chock-Full o'Nuts lunch counter restaurant, we took a walk along the less congested Avenue P. Through the trees, she pointed out an unusual object in the sky. We ran out into the street for a clear view. She called it a flying saucer. I was thinking; no way, those things aren't but I was too enamored to call her crazy. Soon, my opinion weakened because this was NOTHING that I ever saw or could explain. With a silent gulp, I wondered if the fate of our world might depend on a couple of fifteen-year olds sounding an alert.

We became transfixed on the distant, high sky. The craft had an irregular strip of lights flashing along its bottom. In the blackness, we couldn't discern where this monstrous ship started or ended. We looked for help but at that hour there was nobody to share our earth saving discovery. So we just stared up at it in awe as the potential armada of lethal androids crept closer.

A lady walking a beagle puppy came up from East 13th Street. We stopped her and showed her our finding. She was equally puzzled at first but when the dog started barking and pulling her along, she shrugged, "I gotta go to work in the morning, so you two astro-nuts oughta get over it. Besides, kids your age should be home at this hour."
BEFORE SHE LEFT, THE WOMAN KNELT DOWN AND STROKED HER PET'S HEAD AND SAID, "IF ANY OUTER SPACE BASTARD MESSED WITH MY SLUGGO, THERE WOULD BE NO PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE THEY COULD HIDE...I'D FIND 'EN AND KILL 'EM !"

A few minutes later, the menacing juggernaut became more defined when it was almost over head. It was a cigar-shape and the flashing red lights were running across the width of the narrow underbelly. That's when my girl turned around and said, "Those are letters...upside down!" I turned and read along with her, "C-O-M-I-N-G S-O-O-N G-R-A-N-D O-P-E-N-I-N-G K-I-N-G-S P-L-A-Z-A M-A-L-L."
I've never encountered anything stranger than that advertising blimp, so I rest my case...we're safe. But if you really want to be laughed at, tell someone from Brooklyn you didn't show up for their party because you were abducted by aliens.IF YOU FORGET YOUR HUSBAND'S BIRTHDAY, DON'T TELL HIM VENUSIANS IMPLANTED AN INTER-DIMENSIONAL TRANSPORTING DEVICE INTO YOUR SKULL...YOU'LL NEVER HEAR THE END OF IT.

All that really matters is, in Brooklyn, if aliens land on Avenue R and survive the street toughs, the aggressive drivers and the high volume of sarcasm, they'll still have to walk two blocks to P.