THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO RE-UNITED...

For one of our long car rides, my son Andrew and I got a CD of 50 old TV theme songs from the library. The songs went chronologically backwards and coincidentally, my favorite was saved for last. From the first chord of the music, a lump formed in my throat and a tear came to my eye as I flashed back to yesteryear and recalled, "THE LONE RANGER" show.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxIuIxqo2So : An excerpt from the Lone Ranger Theme.

I tried to explain to Andrew how significant the show was to my youth. He looked at me like I was crazy. Then I told him that during the opening theme (click on the hyperlink above), that I sat on the arm of my parent's sofa and "rode" it, like a horse. To complete these festivities, I wore a red cowboy and shot my plastic, faux-pearl handled six-shooter, (cap-less cap gun...hey, when it came to restricting unnecessary noise, my mother was tyrant).

The "Lone Ranger" was an old-time radio program that originated in 1933. On TV, it ran for nine seasons (1949-1957). It was such an oldie that it was already in re-runs when I started watching it circa 1959. During the run of the show, different actors played the lead roles but I only remember Clayton Moore as the Lone Ranger and Jay Silverheels as Tonto.

NO ITS NOT THE "VILLAGE PEOPLE," IT'S CLAYTON MOORE (left) AND JAY SILVERHEELS (right) AS THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO.

Its curious to me that such a high-quality item like this hasn't (to my knowledge) been shown in syndication for decades. I understand that by today's standards, the show would be dated, simple and corny but I guarantee even with my limited expertise in demographics that there is a retro-cable station out there that can profit by airing it.

I am certain of this because I remember the show's effect on me. Back in my kindergarten years, the show was fresh, dynamic and sophisticated. I admit that I loved the thrilling adventures of each episode but the true aphrodisiac was the opening song.

Listen and watch the theme again, (it's only 25 seconds). You'll notice that it has cleverly intertwined the "WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE" in the background with narration and an action video. As a kid, just hearing the phrase, "A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty hi-yo Silver, away...the Lone Ranger," set me into a frenzy. One time I got so excited, I fell off my horse. Despite my mom's warnings to; "Simmer down." I'd still get fired-up watching the Lone Ranger race his stallion Silver across the prairie, charge up a dusty hill and end-up with his trusty horse victoriously rearing-up to climax my rush.

When something so obvious as showing classics like this doesn't happen, I look for alternatives. If they can't bring the "Lone Ranger" back from the dead on TV...I say redo the whole enchilada into a contemporary movie. My million dollar concept would be called, "THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO...RE-UNITED ON BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN."

I'd like to cast Heath Ledger in the starring role. But instead of Jake Gyllenhaal being Tonto, we should hire Charles Nelson Riley, (who...to be politically correct is one-eighth Comanche).

I envision "THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO RE-UNITED ON BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN" beginning with the heroes clowning around in their rustic camp-site on Brokeback Mountain. The Lone Ranger jokes with Tonto after being taught how to seek-up behind "bad-guys" while wearing cowboy boots. But Tonto seems uncharacteristically pre-occupied. The Native American is irritable and doesn't appreciate the Ranger's laissez-faire attitude concerning what Tonto refers to as; network TV's invasion of their home.

The Lone Ranger says, "You shouldn't sweat-out the last minute details. Chill-out, don't worry, everything is going to be perfect." Tonto says, "Its not that." The Ranger says, "Then tell me what's what...because you're acting queer and its creeping me out." Tonto says, "I thought we agreed to live as one with nature...now all you want to do is sell-out our lifestyle for a few measly bucks." The Lone Ranger begins to hum show tunes and the bosom buddies peer-off in different directions.

TONTO'S ANXIETY OVER THE HGTV NETWORK'S VISIT HAS HIM CONSIDERING RETIREMENT FROM CRIME FIGHTING.

That night, the dynamic duo were unable to sort out their squabble. At the crack of dawn, the HGTV film crew shows-up. The Lone Ranger takes the producer and director aside and encourages them to find ways to directly compliment Tonto's decorating skills. The ever-cagey Tonto eavesdrops on part of the conversation and hears the producer say, "There is nothing more dreadful that imagination without taste..." Tonto is in a tizzy and slithers away without hearing the rest of the statement, "Your friend does not need empty praise...his taste transcends genius!"

During the interview portion of the taping, the host says to Tonto,"What a relaxing environment to come back to after a hostile day out on the trail. The stream running through your den is a Zen-like wonder." Yawning Tonto merely grunts. The host then added, "Your coordinated rock garden and visceral expression of life's depth is symbolized powerfully. I love the juxtaposition of the Hopi-ish hereafter mural painted on your tent...against simplistic ornamentation of the post, neo-Apache pottery."

Later while the film crew is packing up, the Lone Ranger is approached by the gaffer, boom-operator and the best-boy. They want information about the bars in town. The Lone Ranger says, "Tonto and I have invented a new drink and you can only get it at the Tool Box Tavern." The best-boy asked, "What is the drink called?" The Ranger says with pride, "A 'Sissy-Mary.'" "What's in it?" asked the boom-operator. "Its a concoction similar to a Margarita with a combination of tequila, lemonade, Tonto's secret recipe of indigenous roots and berries...served in a frosted, salt encrusted glass." The gaffer said, "Sounds scrumptious...I love pink lemonade..." The Lone Ranger cuts him off, "We don't use pink lemonade...remember its a SISSY-Mary!" Everyone laughed. The Lone Ranger then said, "C'mon, I'll take you down to the Tool-Box...and after one Sissy-Mary, you'll never drink another Mimosa, Appletini, or Pink Lady again."

While the group discusses travel arrangements, an angry Tonto appears from behind a giant rock. In a fit of insecurity and jealousy, he runs behind a Joshua Tree and unearths his buried stash of of spiritual remedies. He is seen weeping as he staggers into the wilderness and mounts a stray Pinto pony.

In the Tool Box Tavern, the Lone Ranger learns that his Sissy-Mary machine has been stolen. Unaware of Tonto's role in the thievery, he is afraid with his patent pending, that someone will try to sell the machine and create their own knock-off recipe.

THE RAMROD BAR WAS WHERE THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO FIRST MET.

Playing on Tonto's sense of nostalgia, the masked lawman's detective skills take him to the Ramrod Bar. Even though his faithful companion was not there...he made good use of his time and traded the bandanna from his back pocket for a glittery purple mask.

THE "FORT DIX" MILITARY-THEMED BAR WAS NOT TONTO'S CUP OF TEA. HE ABHORRED BONDAGE AND RARELY LIKED BEING DISCIPLINED.

The Lone Ranger got lucky at the Fort Dix Bar. A man with Groucho mask with a fake nose, glasses and mustache had been there trying to sell the Sissy-Mary machine. But the bartender, a loyal friend of the crime fighting team, thought it best to err on the side of caution and didn't buy it.
THE ANVIL PUB CATERED TO A LIMITED CLIENTELE...DISGRUNTLED PONY EXPRESS EMPLOYEES.

At the Anvil Pub the Lone Ranger hoped to catch-up with Tonto. While on stake-out, together with some hired hands from the K-Y Ranch, he stuffed Sacajawea dollars (those coins were a birthday gift from Tonto) into a rookie "pole-dancer's" G-string. Later at the main entrance, he noticed his partner, disguised as a construction worker...with the Sissy-Mary machine tucked under his arm, come in. The two crime-fighters begin a vicious cat-fight, a bitter argument ensues. Then there's a moment of serenity...they reconcile. As they walk out, the young pole-dancer counts out the Lone Ranger's generous tips and says to the more experienced dancer, "Who was that masked man?" The older dancer answered, "Dearie, that was the Lone Ranger."

The Lone Ranger said, "To show you where my heart is, let's use the HGTV's payoff for a fun casino weekend in Las Vegas New Mexico, at Caesar's Phallus." The rest of Tonto's ire melted as he cooed, "Kimosabe."

Double-mounted atop Silver, they mosey out into the sunset. On the outskirts of town the Lone Ranger squeals, "Hi-yo Silver away." And the trusty stallion races the men across the prairie as the "William Tell Overture" increases in volume.

To the tune, "CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN" from the "SOUND OF MUSIC," they cross railroad tracks and charge up the dusty trail that leads home. At the highest peak, the horse rears-up triumphantly. In the background, the bullet train zooms into the Brokeback Mountain Tunnel. Fade to black.

Now that's a movie that needs to be made!

CAPITALIZING ON GLENN MILLER'S DEATH

One of my non-computerized friends, JP recently made fun of me because I used the word "mellow." I used it to describe the calm on my drive home from work. I guess I got defensive when he said, "Mellow disappeared from the English language when the last hippie went corporate!" So I said, "No, no it's true. After work (4:AM-4:30) its nice to air-out and drive home with the road all to myself. It gives me time to phase back into my Steve-Mode by communing peacefully with my thoughts."

This mellowing process is aided by several "go-to" options on the car radio like; classical music, rock or oldies. Other times I listen to sports talk and still other times I get a kick out of "COAST-TO COAST AM" with George Noory.

Noory's show airs in this part of South Jersey at WOND 1400-AM and it overwhelmingly deals with the para-normal. The hottest subject these days is the interpretation and speculation over the Mayan calendar's supposed red-flag...to mark the 2012 end of mankind. Other shows highlight UFO's, ghosts, re-incarnation, Big Foot sightings etc. When those topics aren't at least entertaining to laugh at, I switch it off. However, it should be noted that sometimes legitimate scientists come on and discuss interesting things such as; the dangers of asteroids, natural resource conservation or alternatives for the over-population and food shortage problems.

THERE'S ALWAYS PLENTY OF KNUCKLEHEAD AUTHORS TRYING TO PROFIT FROM PEOPLE'S FEARS AND/OR URBAN LEGENDS. HOAXES LIKE THE "LOCH NESS MONSTER" ARE PRIME "COAST-TO-COAST" FODDER.

George Noory's best guests are the crackpot authors who write over-sensationalized books that try to justify wild theories. One such guest was a gentleman proclaiming to be the kidnapped, 20-month old (slain in 1932) Charles A.Lindbergh Jr...a.k.a. the "Lindbergh baby."

FOR "THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY," BRUNO HAUPTMANN WAS CONVICTED AND ELECTROCUTED FOR THE KIDNAPPING AND MURDER OF THE LINDBERGH BABY.

In addition to promoting his book to generate interest and sales, this Charles Lindbergh's ultimate aim was to lay claim to the Lindbergh family fortune. Its all funny to me because we can hardly confirm one hour-old tidbits our friends say...let alone the unsubstantiated rantings of someone trying to generate a conspiracy theory in order to disprove a firmly accepted truth from 75 years ago.
IN 1927, CHARLES "LUCKY LINDY" LINDBERGH EARNED A TICKER-TAPE PARADE DOWN BROADWAY AS THE FIRST PILOT TO FLY OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN .

An even better crackpot, author/journalist/investigator Hunton Downs came on "Coast-to-Coast" last week to hawk his book on the death of Glenn Miller.

Glenn Miller was a jazz musician and big-band leader of the early 1940's. A celebrity and national icon of my parent's generation, Miller went to Europe and cemented his superstar status by entertaining allied troops during WWII. Unfortunately, he died under mysterious circumstances...because his body was never recovered, he is still listed as; "Missing In Action." Thus prompting (66 years later) a supposedly non-fiction book about the...covered-up...circumstances of his death.

GLENN MILLER (above) WAS PORTRAYED BY ACTOR JAMES STEWART IN THE 1954 MOVIE, "THE GLENN MILLER STORY."

The widely held notion of Miller's demise was; he was being flown from the U. K. to entertain GI's in newly liberated Paris. In route over the English Channel, his plane encountered a terrible storm and inadvertently veered off course. Simultaneously, a bomber squadron returning to Britain from raids in Germany were ordered to jettison there unused bombs, in a safe section over the Channel. It is believed that these bombs were accidentally dropped on the small, low flying plane carrying Glenn Miller and his entourage. Adding to the mystique, no trace of the plane, its crew or passengers were ever found.

Hunton Downs had a better explanation and he used a simple ploy to lure readership...celebrity espionage agents. You may recall that; Moe Berg a major league baseball player (chiefly with the Washington Senators) spied on the Japanese prior to and during WWII. The famous chef Julia Child was pressed into covert activities in England and comedian Harpo Marx during the early days of the Cold War, served as a courier smuggling documents out from Russia.

Downs combined this celebrity spy appeal with researching old records and came up with this; Glenn Miller spoke fluent German and was being groomed to lead an Allied group to "diplomatically" convince Hitler's underlings to sabotage Germany's war effort to end WWII early. Hitler found out and formed a counterattack. He enlisted his most reliable operative (a German with an Italian last name...it started with an "S." Sorry, I only heard it once on the radio. This theory does appear in print...however, the spy's name does NOT).

According to Hunton Downs, Hitler's secret agent...with James Bond-like precision, kidnapped Glenn Miller. In captivity, Miller was threatened with torture...in order to entice him to serve as the key figure to reach and subsequently assassinate General Dwight D. Eisenhower...the commander of our European theater. Miller refused the indoctrination and was indeed tortured. Glenn Miller withstood hours of agony and eventually died. His captors then smuggled his corpse into Paris and dumped his body in a brothel that had been used by German officers. Hitler's propagandists counted on the embarrassment factor...so in order to save the dead superstar's image from scandal, the US military concocted the story of Miller's plane succumbing to "friendly fire."

So if you love mellowing-out to outlandish stories as much as I do...I recommend "COAST-TO-COAST AM" with George Noory. You might get lucky and hear the eye-witness accounts of the 15-foot giant our Air Force personnel captured in Afghanistan last year or the guy who wrote the book about the "SHADOW PEOPLE." If you stick with that author, at least he can help you clarify the difference between; sprites, elves, pixies, brownies, leprechauns, fairies, gremlins, trolls, gnomes and imps.

Don't be an ogre, those faces on Mars are watching you...even if you don't work "swing-shift" set your alarm clock and check out the show and share your revelations with us.

THREE-QUARTERS GREAT...IS STILL REAL GOOD !

"It's only a movie Sparky," was actor Robin Williams' response to the criticism, the 1988 movie, "THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST" received. This criticism by religious leaders encouraged bans and protests due to the content of the film...specifically the doubts Christ had in his last years as an ordinary man.

The net result of the furor this controversy caused, led to a greater worldwide awareness (advertisement) than the movie producers could have ever imagined. Whether the studio heads planned or counted-on this manipulation is uncertain but the strategy in the name of religion backfired.

I believe this phenomena is about to repeat itself...and what better day to discuss it...than Easter Monday.

On May 15, 2009, the movie "ANGELS AND DEMONS" is opening. Based on the Dan Brown novel of the same name, it is the prequel to "THE DA VINCI CODE." Tom Hanks will reprise his role as Harvard symbologist Robert Langdon and lead the chase for the "MacGuffin." (A MacGuffin was a term Alfred Hitchcock made-up to identify the item being pursued in a movie...or book). "Angels" chase takes us to the heart of Catholicism...Rome...more precisely, the Vatican.

THE "ANGELS AND DEMONS" LOGO IS THE SAME UPSIDE DOWN AS RIGHT SIDE UP. YOU'LL FIND THIS TYPE OF PRINT TO BE A RECURRING CLUE IN THE FILM.

"Angels and Demons" has faced several delays since its originally proposed opening in 2006. One obstacle was the inability to get municipal approval to film near the Vatican. However, the biggest delay was caused by a Hollywood writers' strike. So the church has had plenty of time to rally its forces to denounce this film. Now at crunch time, a Vatican newspaper has suggested a global boycott but another newspaper in Turin, LA ESTAMPA fears that such condemnations bring about the boomerang-effect and ultimately provides more interest and popularity to the movie.

"THE DA VINCI CODE" INCLUDED STREET SCENES IN PARIS. NOT TO BE OUT DONE, "ANGELS AND DEMONS" CHARACTERS TRAIPSE THROUGH ROME.

I loved reading the "Da Vinci Code" and despite the movie's less than favorable reviews...my son Andrew and I seemingly stood alone with Roger Ebert...and loved the movie too.

A few years ago, at the suggestion of MSLEMMA, I read "Angels and Demons," and loved it. I have a bad habit of checking the number pages a book has and then measuring my progress to the end by calculating how much is left. Well, I admit noting the amount of pages in the beginning but I flew through "Angels" like no other book I can remember. I was enjoying it so much that I hoped it would NEVER end. Then around three-quarters of the way through...everything changed.

Like any movie or book, its success is based on the concept that people like ourselves aren't interesting...unless they are faced with incredible circumstances and rise up to do amazing things. Therefore, the people being portrayed doing these extraordinary things...in reality...are NOT people like us.

Alfred Hitchcock liked to take it one step further and put his extraordinary characters in such perilous situations that while watching the movie the audience would have to ask itself; is that possible? Then afterwards while rehashing the plot the individual would realize; it was impossible but when it mattered...the action was accepted and the movie-going experience was a positive one.

ALFRED HITCHCOCK WAS THE KING OF THE IMPROBABLE...BUT I THINK THE 'MacGUFFIN' AND OTHER ELEMENTS IN "ANGELS AND DEMONS" WOULD MAKE HIM ROLL-OVER IN HIS GRAVE.

I believe that concept of; is it possible? was intended in "Angels and Demons." The exception here is, I didn't accept it immediately and despite my appreciation for Dan Brown or any author's wide range of imagination...my reading bubble of joy was burst by my perception of the ridiculous.

I will not sabotage the plot. In fact my curiosity has been overwhelming me for the last three years in anticipation of the premiere. I just can't wait to see if the movie is as riveting as the book, (at least the first three-quarters). Then Sparky, I will see how they treat the unlikely set of events (the last quarter) that has the Vatican so up in a tizzy over.

Have a HAPPY EASTER and when May 15th rolls around, my son Andrew and I will see you on the movie line.

BALDNESS: WE MOCK WHAT WE ARE TO BE !

Its no picnic being a bald guy...but every now and then there's a glimmer of joy.

Let me tell you non-hair challenged folks a little something. It's unlikely that you know the pain and agony of bonking your head (like getting out of a car) and scraping off a chunk of scalp. In addition to feeling stupid, it hurts like hell and other than wearing a hat to hide the eventual giant scab, there's little you can do to avoid having to explain the situation a thousand times.

At this moment as I type, I have the remnants of such a giant scab. Unfortunately for me, I work in a place that prevents me from wearing a hat...and to me, covering it with a band-aid would not change the quantity and quality of the stupid questions.

My first night at work with the big, fresh scab, I was getting annoyed from all the razzing about it. Late that night, I crossed paths on the escalator with a dumb guy, named Alf.
He said, "Hey, what's that thingy on your head?"
I blurted out, "I smooshed a bug."
The perplexed look on Alf's face almost made my eons of suffering tolerable.

The bigger baldness picture is, it is incalculable the amount of money, time and effort I have saved down through the years because of it. Imagine how much men spend on expensive styling, hair care products, blow-dryers...even something as simple as a comb. Then consider the time and effort invested in going to a salon or daily self-maintenance.

Once you've worn-out an abacus or two factoring this all out...what you have figured out is....all the time, money and effort WOULD be worth it for a full head of hair.

Yes, I inwardly wish I had a full head of hair. My frustration is worsened because my dad's hair was a thing of beauty. He was a man of few extravagances but his hair and it's upkeep was a vice-like indulgence . In the early 70's the "razor-cut" was in vogue. Dad was obsessed with finding the ultimate razor-cut. He had little patience for pretenders and developed a "one and done attitude." Trust me, nobody went through more stylists than him.

You could never put me in that category. The gene that provides "pride in one's mane" did not get handed down from my father to me. As soon as I was too old to sit in Mr. Engel's fire-engine while getting my monthly trim and lollipop...getting a haircut (in my adolescence) became a painful chore. Maybe my distaste originated from the "cow-lick" (front left), I had. A new haircut always seemed to emphasize it. I remember wishing that the cow-lick would magically disappear.

The haircut drudgery got worse as I got older. My dad was a good-looking man and I'm guessing that he figured I needed all the help I could get? So when I became a teenager, he deemed it necessary for me to lose the schlump look.

When I was fourteen and fifteen, together with dad, we led nomadic life searching Brooklyn for the perfect razor-cut. I was less than enthusiastic about these jaunts and was satisfied with my less-than-dainty appearance. Even worse, I was uncomfortable being pampered, (way back then, male hair salons didn't hire females). I hated the shampooing , hair drying and assorted fuss. So having these excursions forced down my throat only heightened my resistance. The situation reached its negative apex when for a "command performance" (that meant I had no choice but to accompany my folks somewhere fancy and/or boring) dad threw in a manicure for me, (okay, there was one woman there but she looked like Stella Lugosi).

I was sixteen when my folks and I reached a compromise...when my mop-top was at it's shaggiest, or there was a special occasion, at my mother's behest, (that meant; at gun-point) I went solo, on foot to Ross's Barber Shop; they offered discount razor-cuts.

On the day in question, they had two barbers. I was getting my hair "mowed," side-by-side with an adult as the cutters blithered and had a giggly, grand old time in Italian. If my father was there, he would have insisted that there were no private conversations while he was in the chair...even in English! I guarantee that after a warning, if one more word amongst them oozed-out, dad would never go back there again. Me, I couldn't care less...I just wanted to get out as fast as possible...as long as it didn't slow these guys down, I said chat away!

My barber was about to begin the "razor" aspect of my cut when he and the other hyena suddenly disappeared into the backroom.
While they presumably had a cigarette, the other customer said, "Do you know what they were laughing at?"
At sixteen, I wasn't even clever enough to know what language they were speaking, so naturally I said, "No."
The man said, "They thought it was funny that you were losing your hair!"
The immediacy of this "going bald memo" was as foreign to me as the barber's conversation. After all, going bald was from heredity or happened to old men. So, it couldn't happen to me for a long time...besides, my dad was regularly complimented on his long flowing locks. Therefore, I dismissed the whole idea and wasn't emotionally scarred. Less than two years later, the Sherlock Holmes in me, figured it all out.

In high school I played football and in my junior year, every time I took off my helmet, the nightmare of baldness revealed itself in the form of countless lost strands. The horror show got worse when the shower drain was getting clogged with my fallen tresses. During my college years when long hair for men was extremely popular, it was distracting to meet girls and sense that they were focused, and making judgements due to my eroding hairline.

Somewhere in my college years, I recalled RCC and HJ's fifth grade teacher, Mr. Arnold Walker. It was then that I regretted singing this silly verse when I was eight-years old; He's here, he's there, he's everywhere but beware, he has no hair.

I HOPE THE JOY I GOT AT MR. WALKER'S EXPENSE DIDN'T COST ME IN THE END.

Somehow with a comb in my pocket, I was still in baldness denial when I got to Las Vegas. At Hotel Fremont, I regularly dealt to an old bald man with three, half-dollar-sized liver spots on his head. Due to their dark nature and perfect triangulation, I referred to him as "Bowling Ball Head." I guess because of him and Mr. Walker, that's where the term; we mock what we are to be, originated from.

I always remind my readers; be careful what you ask for...because you just might get it. More specifically, I'd kill to have my old cow-lick back.

Even though today's style standards can be favorable to bald guys...please, don't forget what we chrome-domes have been forced to endure. If you remember nothing else about this blog, remember this. When a bird craps on the head of a person with a full head of hair...the crap does NOT fall on that person's head...it falls on their hair. On the other hand, when a bird craps on a bald guy's head...the bird has indeed crapped on his head!

HOW FAR IS THE OLD LOG INN ?

Overwhelmingly, my father was a mild mannered man. He was not easily ruffled and almost never used harsh profanity around my sister and I. I am proud to say that I believe he passed those traits on to me.

One of my memories of him being flustered was when my sister was taking Drivers-Ed. Dad took sis to practice for her road-test in his 1968, two-tone green Dodge Polara...I rode in the back.

LOOKS JUST LIKE DAD'S, BUT WITHOUT THAT CERTAIN AIR OF SOPHISTICATION

Dad was a smoker but the anxiety sis caused...led him to curse like a longshoreman and light-up Kent cigarettes in rapid succession. Another indelible image I have of that day was, poor dad from the passenger seat, trying to put his foot through the floor where the imaginary brake-pedal would have been.

In a sea of other inexperienced driver shortcomings, I think the biggest (worst) issue was my sister's lack of depth perception. This caused her to stay dangerously close (right) to parked cars. It would have been funny if dad kissed the ground when they were done but he was in no joking mood.

I was fourteen and only went along to get a flavor of what I would be doing in a couple of years...but seeing my dad's carry-over, in a near catatonic state for the next two hours...was proof enough for me...that witnessing one practice session was all I needed. I never rode with them again.

These days there's a nice kid on my street learning to drive. He and his dad have puttered by several times with the son at the wheel. The first time I saw them, I pretended to run up my driveway in fear. Yes it was an exaggeration but I remember him crashing a lot when his dad took the training wheels off his two-wheeler.

I realize that I shouldn't laugh because my scion Andrew will be in Drivers-Ed next year. Don't worry I won't take-up smoking but I do have several hockey puck-sized Valiums ready. If not, I'm sure he'll find out just how fluent in profanity I can be. When the time comes, I suggest that everyone from Galloway New Jersey to Pismo Beach California give him an extra wide berth...at least in the beginning...or be prepared to run up their driveways in earnest. Because, if we equate driving a car to riding a bike...my guy will be easily distracted. I never saw anyone else ride a bike seemingly without ever looking straight ahead.

What is more important than learning to drive, is the abundance of adult-like responsibilities which, over night is dumped into the lap of the newly licensed driver. Most of this accountability centers on the safety...that of the driver, passengers, those in others vehicles, pedestrians, roadside property, small woodland creatures and of course, the car itself.

I remember the sudden weight of responsibility being thrust upon me right after I became licensed...to celebrate this giant step towards manhood...my dad decided to take us and my aunt's family, to Nina's Italian Restaurant on Crossbay Boulevard, in Howard Beach Queens. In addition to cramming eight people into dad's Polara, he handed me the keys.

From my native Canarsie (Brooklyn) to the restaurant is a tour of several neighborhoods with a convoluted set of turns. Despite my little cousins risking their lives by sitting on their parent's lap in the back seat (and hindering my view) I was confident I could drive the thirty minutes without needing directions.

Then dad dropped the bomb on me, "No. We're not taking the 'streets.'"
That could only mean one thing...the dreaded Belt Parkway. On the Belt Parkway, (three lanes in each directions) Crossbay was two short exits away. An experienced driver could get there in ten minutes. But the Belt was my Everest and dad saw it fit for me to lose my highway virginity on it, with the bulk of the Edelblum clan hanging in the balance.

GOING WEST ON THE BELT WITH VIEW OF VERRAZANO BRIDGE

Just my luck...Canarsie is Exit-13, on the Belt Parkway.

Despite the anxiety, I got onto the eastbound on-ramp in fine style. For safety's sake, I got my cousins to lean to the side so I could see. Then I rolled on the acceleration lane to the "blast-off point" and STOPPED! After an eternity (two or three minutes) other cars behind us became backed up. When they started their horn honking, a chorus of family encouragement filled my ears. But as the cars on the Belt whizzed by, I just couldn't squeeze the trigger and go. We were at that standstill for at least ten minutes. Only when dad started his uncharacteristic frustration motivated tapestry of obscenities that I saw enough of an opening to proceed.

No lives were lost and somehow, at 25 white-knuckle (for me) MPH in the right lane, nobody lost their appetite on the way.

That adventure led to many other adventures without parental supervision. At a time when many of my friends either weren't legal drivers, weren't permitted on the Belt or didn't have access to a car...I was the designated road-trip driver.

I was seventeen when one of my friends heard about a great bar in Bayside Queens. According to him, the Old Forge Inn had everything. Most importantly tons of easy girls...and we all "know" the reputation of those Bayside babes. Plus the bar never check ID's. And, they had a big TV for Monday Night Football games. Also, if that wasn't incentive enough...they had free hot dogs at halftime.

We set out for Bayside and somewhere along Bell Boulevard we thought we were lost.
We saw a hippie couple and my friend rolled down the window and incorrectly asked, "How far is the Old Log Inn?"
The guy gave him the finger and the girl cursed us. I sped away. Luckily, the place was a few streets farther up and we laughed when we realized that my friend called the "Old Forge" by the wrong name. It was then obvious why the couple got so upset. Either way, all of our future references to the bar were intentionally, The Old Log Inn.

The first thing we noticed inside was, barrels of free peanuts everywhere. Then we saw the big TV and chaffing dishes of franks being prepared for halftime. The one thing that was glowingly missing was the advertised bevy of loose women. This by the way, was not something that corrected itself as the night wore on.

We sat at one of the long, peanut shell strewn tables and had strangers on both sides of us. It seemed that the Old Forge attracted a regular crowd and we stood out like four shiny pennies, in a bucket of rusty ones.

We were afraid they'd figure out that we were underage and/or didn't have the two tattoo minimum. So we spoke in whispers and avoided eye-contact with the tough looking crowd. At halftime, while everyone else was taking three or more hot dogs, my friends and I kept a low-profile and settled for one each.

The effect of the beer helped loosen us up as the game wore on. Until our tipsy world was shattered by an angry drunk.
He slammed his fist down and screamed, "One of you ____s put crap in my beer!" (He didn't say crap).
The bar's attention turned away from the game and we all shook our shivering heads in denial.
With slurred speech he repeated, "One of you _____s put crap in my beer!"
We were not fighters and were too scared to run as the blood-thirsty crowd closed in on us.
"C'mon," the drunk groaned. "Which one of you put crap in my beer."
He pounded his mug down causing suds to overflow. My friend Jeff was closest to this genius.
He looked down into the sot's mug and pointed, "Is that the crap."
The drunk looked down and spat, "Yeah! Now what are you going to do about it?"
Jeff stuck his hand in the glass and pulled out a peanut shell and said, "See, I took the crap out!"
At first the drunk was perplexed.
He then looked down into the mug, picked it up, took a sip and with a grin said, "Thanks."

In a combination of getting out of the "Old Log Inn" alive and a flashback of my first Belt Parkway excursion, I drove 25 MPH in the whole way back to Canarsie...in the right lane.

THE STOCKHOLM EFFECT, ON INTERSTATE 70 !

During a History Channel episode of "MODERN MARVELS;" great engineering roadway feats were discussed. The show jarred my memory and I recalled appreciating the beauty of Interstate 70 along the section that cuts through Utah and Colorado.                       I-70 GOING WEST, CUTS THROUGH THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

In 1976, I combined hitchhiking and Greyhound buses to do a 68-day solo trip across the country. I kept a daily log and mailed it home to my parents...in lieu of letters. This journal is still in my mother's house. I always meant to type it out but in all these years, I still haven't re-read a single word. Today's highlighted excerpt will give you a flavor of my experiences as well as a taste of I-70's beauty.

During my trip, at a fast-food restaurant in Phoenix, a fellow backpacker approached me.  What a coincidence, she had been in my Kiddie-Lit (Children's Literature), at Brooklyn College. We re-hashed old memories and shared our adventures since leaving New York. Later. she invited me to stay with her and her boyfriend on their camp-site at the Grand Canyon.

When I got to the Grand Canyon, they had befriended a bunch of people and it wound up being a huge hippie hang-out, (you may recall from a previous blog, in which...I thought...that gang had awakened me at 6AM, by gobbling like turkeys. Through my tent, I yelled for them to stop. I got so angry that I unzipped my tent to give them a piece of my mind. I was shocked to see twenty or so actual wild turkeys serenading me).

From that group, a couple from Slidell Louisiana stood out in my mind. Mostly because I obsessed over the girl. She was so friendly, funny and beautiful but completely unattainable for me. In addition to her boyfriend having that Charles Manson look, he was into hatchet throwing. If that wasn't intimidating enough, he also carried a bull-whip and would crack it inches from this girl's face whenever she hesitated in carrying-out his bidding. It was a horror to watch her unconditional obedience to him. What was far worse was her defense of his actions and putting herself down to rationalize his behavior.

I gravitated to a guy in the crowd with a fresh scar from stitches next to his left eye named Will Raymond. This rural Coloradoan would let me vent to him about this girl. I even used my B- knowledge of Psych-101 to explain the concept of the Stockholm Effect...a phenomena where a victim, over time, identifies and sides with their captor. Will's response was, "Cut the shit!  Be a hero and save her from the abuse... or shut-up." Regretfully, I shut-up.  Thus starting our friendship.

Will encouraged me to visit him in his hometown, tiny Georgetown Colorado. He told great stories about his friends and the laid-back attitude in this former silver mining boon-town. He gave me his address and phone number, and invited me stay over if I ever made it there. We got along so well, that I decided to hitchhike back with him.

Our first stop was Flagstaff Arizona. We soon learned that the town was known for its racial tensions. Surprisingly, these problems were Native Americans versus...everyone else, (of course we never heard the Indians side of the story).

To avoid broiling in the 115 degree sun, Will and I had our thumbs out in the shade of an overpass. We were stuck there over an hour when state troopers stopped to interrogate us. They wanted to see ID and money, to make sure we weren't runaways and/or vagrants. When we checked-out, the trooper's parting words were, "Don't take a ride from an Indian. They'll drive you to a secluded spot in the desert, cut your hands off and while you're running in agony, use you for target practice!"

Another hour had gone by and the trooper's words were still fresh when a pick-up truck stopped. Naturally there were two Indians inside. Without speaking, the passenger motioned us to sit in the bed. We got in. I later found out that Will was as scared as I was. To pass the time, Will told me about all the girls he knew back home. His chat made the risk seem worthwhile. A couple of hours later, the Indians safely dropped us off at a cut-off for Tuba City.

TUBA CITY, IS AN UNINCORPORATED TOWN IN COCONINO COUNTY.  ITS POPULATION (8500) MAKES IT THE WORLD'S LARGEST NAVAJO COMMUNITY.

They drove away on the dusty road to Tuba City and left us in the middle of nowhere.

Other than the blacktop highway and the unpaved crossroad,  Will and I were the only dots in the lonely, stifling hot landscape. Like a scene out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie only four cars whizzed by during our first thirty minutes out there.

The only relief we got  from the elements came from fluffy, harmless looking clouds temporarily blocking the sun. That's why it was so shocking that one gigantic gray cloud appeared in the distance.
In no time, the cloud darkened and zoomed on a collision course straight at us. It was overhead when the hailstorm started. At first it was funny but soon the little frozen pellets increased to penny-size. The sky was almost black and with no place to run, the heavens opened as a torrent of golf ball-like hailstones painfully pinged and pelted us for ten minutes.  It sounds crazy but seconds after the last hail stone bounced off my head, it was 115 degrees again.
                 (STOCK PHOTO) HAILSTORM IN ARIZONA'S SONORA DESERT.

Our next ride dropped us at Lake Powell. Lake Powell is a man-made recreational center that straddles the Arizona-Utah border. That night, it was so hot along the shore (around 95 degrees) that we tried to sleep on top of our sleeping bags. In the dark, Will was telling me that the Red Ram Saloon. was the coolest place in Georgetown. I became distracted by low flying birds and moaned, "Geez these swooping birds are annoying." He laughed, "Birds? Those aren't birds, they're bats!" I think I lost twenty pounds from sweat that night because, I got into my sleeping bag and zipped it right up to my chin.

In the morning, the Lake Powell visitor center was a modern, air-conditioned building with restrooms, a gift shop and restaurant. We spend a lot of time inside because it was so damned hot outside. In speaking to other travelers, we found out, if we thought it was hard to get a ride in Arizona...its almost impossible in Mormon Country (Utah).

For four hours, we still hadn't connected with a ride. At noon, Will was telling me his best friend Frank was the bartender at the Red Ram. He was dabbing at the tender scar on his face as he continued, "Frank'll let us drink free all night.  He's the kind of guy who'll give you the shirt off his back." Will stopped bragging when a trucker picked us up.

This malicious bastard took us less than twenty miles and said, "This is where I turn off." We were stranded and left in Utah's version of the middle of nowhere. Except we had no visitor center, no shade and couldn't fill our canteens.

It seemed like we were out there forever. I was considering walking back to Lake Powell when an RV picked us up. Inside were four generations of non-English speaking, German tourists. It was uncomfortable but they might have saved our lives. They dropped us off in the town of Kanab.

Oasis-like Kanab was a small green patch in the brown desert wilderness. At first it was refreshing how many townspeople took the time to stop their car and sincerely wish us luck.  But since none of them picked us up...the novelty wore thin, quick!.

At dusk, a guy driving a Sanford and Son-like dry-ice truck, offered us a ride...with the stipulation that in exchange for the lift, we were to unload all his deliveries.

"SANFORD AND SON," STARRING REDD FOXX AND DEMOND WILSON WAS A HIT SIT-COM FOR SIX SEASONS AND 135 EPISODES, (1972-1977). THE SHOW CENTERED ON A FATHER AND SON JUNK BUSINESS.  (above) IS A REPLICA OF THE 1951 FORD F1 TRUCK USED IN THE SHOW.  THE DRY ICE TRUCK THAT PICKED US UP WAS SIMILAR, EXCEPT  FOR A MAKESHIFT, WALK-IN, WOODEN, FREEZER BOX BUILT INTO THE BACK OF THE TRUCK. 

His delivery route was gas stations along that dark, two-lane highway. I had no idea that in 1976, there were still so many soda machines that were refrigerated by dry-ice. We soon learned that our savior's plan to use us as laborers had nothing to do with laziness. While we schlepped giant frigid blocks for him, he drank whisky with the proprietors/managers/attendants.

After many stops over the next few hours, he was ripped. Then he got a CB message that a girl with a low-cut top and a large chest was driving ahead of us in a white, late-model Chrysler Imperial convertible. He got that old truck up to 90MPH and wove dangerously around the occasional car in our path. My mind also raced...to the tragic death of Jayne Mansfield.

THE "BLOND BOMBSHELL, "JAYNE MANSFIELD (1933-1967) WAS AN EARLY PLAYBOY BUNNY AND MAJOR SEX SYMBOL OF HER GENERATION.

While we flew through the night, my thoughts fixated not so much on what might happen to the girl we were chasing but what might happen to us.

ON JUNE 29, 1967, NEAR NEW ORLEANS (above)  THERE'S NOT MUCH LEFT OF THE 1966 BUICK ELECTRA CONVERTIBLE THAT RESULTED IN THE DECAPITATION DEATH OF MANSFIELD.

In mid-burp our driver gleefully announced, "There she is," when he spotted her car in the distance. Seconds later, (thank God), we heard the siren of a motorcycle policeman behind us.

When the dry-ice dude spoke to the cop, he was so wasted that he couldn't put together two sentences. So when you consider how conservative Utah is, it was crazy that he talked (slurred), his way out of a drunk driving summons...and his speeding ticket ($30.00) was determined as a dollar for every mile per hour over the limit he was driving.

Will and I were dropped us off at 1:AM, at a city park in Richfield Utah.  Before leaving, our intoxicated benefactor was conscientious enough to point out that the on-ramp for I-70 (our link to Georgetown Colorado), was a few blocks away.

We hid ourselves in a grove of trees behind the playground and slept. In the morning, Will mentioned that Frank the bartender might be able to get me some day-work at the bar. He added, "It's a good idea to not piss Frank off because as 'together' as he is..." Will paused, dabbed at his facial stitches and groaned, "He also has a bad temper."

Will went into the public restroom to clean-up. When he came out, I went in. When I came out, Will had vanished. I checked my belongings and everything was intact. I was more intrigued than angry and I decided to go continue on to his slice of Eden, (I still had his phone number and address). There was a Greyhound station in Richfield and Georgetown Colorado which also abutted the interstate was a straight-shot, 500 miles away.

I-70 was the first US interstate to be started.  It was under construction from 1956 till 1992 . It begins a little farther west in Utah and goes east 2153 miles into Baltimore. The section I was riding along is considered one of the most picturesque highways in the world as well the most challenging to build.

      ALONG I-70, NO PICTURE OF GLENWOOD CANYON COULD DO IT JUSTICE

This part of the country was inaccessible prior to the roadway coming in. Running through the heart of the Rocky Mountains, I-70 runs parallel to the Colorado River and cuts sharply around mountain walls and gorges. Sewn into the fabric of the hostile terrain, I-70's engineering marvels allow it to pass over the San Rafael Swell in Eastern Utah, go through the Glenwood Canyon and blast through a mountain for the Eisenhower Tunnel.

                              SPOTTED WOLF CANYON IN THE SAN RAFAEL SWELL

On the ride to Georgetown, all of my attention was focused on the scenery. Every twist in the highway brought greater beauty. I also thought it odd to see bicyclists on the shoulder but I found out that because of the sparsity of traffic, I-70 is the only Interstate that permits non-motorized vehicles.

THIS COULD NEVER HAPPEN OUT-WEST. THE DRIVERS THERE ARE KINDER AND GENTLER.

At the Georgetown exit, my bus went down the off-ramp. On the outskirts of the tiny town, I got off at the gas station/post office/Greyhound depot. It was getting dark as I read the address that Will gave me back at the Grand Canyon.

The little town was sandwiched west and south by mountains and cut off by I-70 to the north. My search for 37 First Street began. The first cross street was 11th. I looked to the left and the width of the town was four streets and one more to the right. It was amazing that I went ten minutes without seeing anyone...it felt like I was on, "CANDID CAMERA"   Soon, the weirdness intensified and I was convinced that I was in the "TWILIGHT ZONE" when a pack of mangy, stray dogs came out of an alley at 8th Street. They were growling and nipping at my heels...I thought I was going to soil myself until a jeep drove by and scared them off.

Normalcy set-in on Sixth Street, the big commerce center. The Red Ram Saloon was on that corner and there were active stores, homes and people. I continued until I saw that there was one street beyond Third and it was Second...then a mountain!

I saw a man checking his mail and asked, "Where's First Street?"

He said, "We don't have a First Street."

"Well, I'm looking for 37 First Street."

The man looked at my paper and said, "We don't have a First Street.  And...there's no two-digits addresses in the whole town."  He pointed at that phone number and added, "See that exchange...669?"

I said, "Yeah."

"Well...there isn't a 669 exchange anywhere around here."

I made a U-Turn and headed for the Red Ram Saloon.

(CURRENT STOCK PHOTO)  35 YEARS LATER, THE RED RAM IS NOT ONLY STILL THERE BUT IT ALSO BOASTS ABOUT BEING GEORGETOWN'S NUMBER ONE EATERY...OF COURSE IT MIGHT BE THE TOWN'S ONLY RESTAURANT ?

I entered the Red Ram Saloon with a lot of questions. Despite the dimness, I found the inside to be brand new. It was decorated with plastic, Western memorabilia and looked like a cowboy-themed attraction in Disneyland. The long bar went the length of the right hand wall and ended with swinging doors that led to the bright florescent bulb lit kitchen. On the left hand wall, a one-flight, split staircase led to a square-shaped over-hanging walkway that was dotted with fake hotel-type numbered doors.

A TV was set high above the unattended bar.  Five people were watching the 1976 Olympics. In the large barroom there were three other couples at different tables. When I walked in, it was like I had spurs attached to my sneakers...everyone stopped what they were doing...and in a hostile way, stared me down.

I went to the TV watchers smiled, "Is Frank the bartender around?"

A skinny redneck in a sweat-stained yellow bandanna on his head said, "Who the hell are you?"

I said, "I'm a friend of Will Raymond...and Will said, when I got to town..."

A drunken girl in a Grateful Dead tee-shirt put two fingers in her mouth and interrupted me with an ear-piercing whistle. A huge (fat and tall) bearded man burst through the kitchen door carrying a meat cleaver. When he stopped, this behemoth who resembled Bluto from the Popeye cartoons, eclipsed the brightness coming from behind.

BLUTO (aka BRUTUS) WAS FEATURED AS POPEYE'S BULLYING NEMESIS IN COMIC STRIPS AND CARTOONS SINCE 1932.

The redneck called out, "Frankie, this boy tells us that he's a friend of Will Raymond..."

I was already back-pedaling when the giant boomed, "Well, I almost killed Will Raymond with my bare hands!"

The skinny redneck cut-in, "And no jury would have convicted you."

Frank gave him a dirty look and pointed the cleaver at me, "Will Raymond ain't welcome here and neither are you."

When he started towards me, I turned and walked out to a chorus of laughter. I was crossing Sixth Street when I recalled Will's high regard for Frank but that he frequently touched his stitched face when the other side of Frank's personality came to mind.  That's when it dawned on me that Will experienced the Stockholm Effect, first hand.

Suddenly, Frank barged-out into the street, waved the cleaver and yelled, "Raymond owes me six hundred bucks! Unless you're gonna do something about it, get your sorry ass out of town before I take it out of your hide!"

"BAZOOKA JOE MOVIE?"

About 15 years ago, my niece Wendy...who was 15 years younger than she is now...was throwing around the term "retro" a lot. Finally, I asked her what retro meant and she said, "Uncle Steve, you're so retro that you don't even know what it means."

These days, I'm still retro and couldn't believe my own ears when I heard that a computer software company is producing 3-D baseball cards. In an attempt to cater (cash-in on) to the computer gamer mentality, these cards when seen by a PC's web-cam, will display a 3-D image of a given player on the computer screen. In addition to being able to turn the player 360 degrees, the user can make the card do some tasks that will include...taking batting practice...geez, what do you do after the first four minutes?

The firm's gung-ho representative went as far as saying that the sports card hobby died because of the computer. He implied that traditional cards became obsolete because the stats on the back are no longer exclusively found there. He used the statistics as his sole argument and then added, with his technology, the computer which killed the hobby, will now resurrect it.

He can put any positive spin on his product he likes but you don't have to be a genius to know the real reason why the card collecting hobby died...it was greed. In addition to astronomical player salaries (and player strikes/work stoppages in the name of more money and better benefits) forcing ticket prices to soar beyond most family budgets... live sports became increasingly parochial and this narrowness of scope (corporate entertainment) kept the continuing life-line of sports...new generations of fans...away. By the time this trend filtered down to the collecting of cards...this long-time kid's hobby became a money mongers paradise. And after the cards became too costly for kids to afford, the hobby collapsed onto itself.

I know I'm a relic of the past but...sports cards were meant to bring kids together; to compare, trade and more importantly play with. Nothing could compare with the rush when you saw the look on your friends face when he opened a pack, and four out of five were Marv Throneberry! Cards were never intended to shunt kids away so they would view or interact with them on a computer...they were meant to be TOYS !

BEFORE THE AGE OF SPORTS MEMORABILIA AND HIGH PRICED AUTOGRAPHS, SPORTS CARDS WERE HANDLED AND PLAYED WITH REGARDLESS OF WHAT MEGA-STAR WAS ON THEM.

Sports card games like flipping, long tossing, fluttering off a wall or matching (colors, teams, positions or first names) where highlights of free time all year long. If you were alone cards were a great companion on long car rides, when mom dragged you to the department store while she spent hours trying on clothes or if you were sick. Even at the end of a full day, you could still occupy yourself by forming teams, filling out check-lists or creating your own games. I liked drawing on mine. Blacking-out teeth was a favorite, but I also drew alien antennas, dunce-caps and put arrows through the heads of players I didn't like. In my earliest stages of creative writing, I wrote terrible things like; you stink or any one of its countless synonyms like: bum, scrubbeanie, dukey or Canarsie's favorite; schlock-meister...hey, I never said I was sophisticated when I was seven...plus it was way before I became fluent in profanity.

I think my friends and I were also swayed by the bubble gum that came in each sport card pack. In its ripest form, the carnation pink rectangle of gum was pliable with a thin layer of sugar dust on each piece. However, most of the time the gum was hard. And when it was hard, sometimes it attached itself to the top card and left an indelible "gum-stain." Some kids put the stale gum in their mouth until it softened but I didn't like it soft or hard. When it came to bubble-gum...Bazooka was the only way to go. Sure there were ersatz competitors like, Fleer and Dubble-Bubble but they didn't do a thing for me!

BAZOOKA AND ME ARE SO OLD, THAT I COULDN'T FIND THE PENNY-A-PIECE WRAPPER.

Bazooka was...in its most popular form, a one-cent, inch-square. It had an indentation in the middle...presumably to make it easier to split in half. I guess there were some kids who wanted to "save some for later" but I never associated with anyone like that! Otherwise the only other splitting situation involved the rare combination of; a younger sibling and especially frugal/ over-bearing parents.

The other advantage Bazooka had was its tiny waxy comic. In tiny print that tested the eyesight of sharpshooters, a paneled child-friendly comic featured Bazooka Joe, the eye-patched kid and his gang of friends...and foes. And if that wasn't enough empty calories and reading material...in much smaller print...a parable...similar to a fortune cookie was hidden below the last panel.

FORGET THE FORTUNE, YOU NEED A MICROSCOPE TO READ THE COMIC !

These numbered comics were also collector items and some kids (in the Aristocracy) sent huge amounts of them...together with cash...for inane prizes. I did not come from the Aristocracy...I was never permitted to send away for anything...but I did covet the set of 198 paper army soldiers...I can still hear my mother say (scream), "What do you think, money grows on trees?"

My actual memory of Bazooka Joe and his cronies is nearly zero. Even with the Internet spelling things out, I just don't remember. Of course I wasn't much of a student so reading in my spare time was unlikely but the reason I prefer to think is...cavities. Chewing Bazooka used to cause me tremendous tooth pain. My Swiss Cheese-like teeth had so many holes in them that by the time I was ten...there wasn't any more room for new cavities. So because Bazooka was 113.2% sugar and I could feel the agony of my teeth corroding with each bite, I went cold turkey and kicked the Bazooka habit.

To my surprise, I recently learned that a Bazooka Joe full-length movie is now in the conception stage. I researched the net and found no information so I can't tell if its intended to be animated or not. However, I was surprised to read how many characters have been in these comics. So I guess that can squeeze-out a film. Hey they made a bad TV show about the Geico cavemen and awful movies about the "LITTLE RASCALS" and "SGT. BILKO" so why not Bazooka Joe.

I guess it wouldn't interest my progressive niece Wendy or anyone who never motorized their bike by clothes-pinning a baseball card to the spokes...but if you're as retro as I am...who knows...maybe it'll be profitable to make a politically correct, computer-generated "TACO BELL CHIHUAHUA; SUPER-HERO" TV show or an all black cast "F TROOP" movie or a "SECRET ASIAN MAN" mini-series.

CEDRIC THE ENTERTAINER WOULD BE PERFECT AS CORPORAL AGARN