MESSIN' WITH SASQUATCH AT THANKSGIVING

My son Andrew's tee-ball experience can be defined by two golden moments.

The first occurred in mid-season when it became screamingly obvious that this game wasn't for him. So being the macho dad that I am, I tried to spur his interest in sports by concentrating on the positive. I asked him what was the best part of that day's game.
He responded, "I saw a black butterfly."

THIS COULD HAVE EASILY BEEN ANDREW AND I. THE ULTIMATE NON-AGGRESSIVE PERSON, ANDREW WAS AWARDED THE PINATA ASSOCIATION'S VERSION OF THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE, BY BEING NAMED THE WORLD'S YOUNGEST CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR, TEN YEARS IN A ROW !

The other significant moment happened after the season, at the big awards dinner, (the dinner portion of this ceremony was a hot dog, potato chips and a generic soda, served while families sat on the ball field's infield).

Four year old Andrew already had his bag of chips and drink when a volunteer came by with the main course. He looked at the five-star cuisine and politely turned her down. The lady said, "Hun, are you sure you don't want a hot dog? Because there isn't anything else to choose from."
Andrew said, "I don't like hot dogs."
She said, "You don't like hot dogs? Why?"
My guy matter-of-factly said, "I don't mind the hot...but I'm NOT eating a dog."

You'd guess from that statement that Andrew would grow up to be a picky eater but he is not. Actually, I am the picky eater at our house. And because most of my never-eat foods are so mainstream, people find my overweight condition to be incongruous and therefore humorous.

You see, my taste buds consider edible favorites like, berries, yogurt and oatmeal to be strictly verboten. Call me crazy but...the mere smell of Brussels Sprouts makes me wretch and being a contestant on "FEAR FACTOR" would be short-lived as soon as I had to eat a banana.

MAYBE WHEN I'M AS RICH AND FAMOUS AS J. K. ROWLING, I'LL EAT A BANANA AS A PUBLICITY STUNT...UNTIL THEN...DON'T HOLD YOUR BREATH.

On the less mainstream side, I also would never eat borscht, liver, gefilite fish or beef jerky. Ah beef jerky, there's something about the concept of dried meat on a stick that is inherently disgusting. Just thinking about it, makes me recall a phrase I used a lot when I was a teenager, I wouldn't eat that with your mouth ! Oddly, there is a series of funny TV commercials for JACK LINK'S BEEF JERKY that I can't get enough of.
CHECK-OUT THE NUTRITIONAL FACTS...IN THAT PANEL IT SAYS..."NONE!"

Armed with the catchphrase, feed your wild side, Jack Link advertisements feature several different vignettes called, "MESSIN' WITH SASQUATCH." Some of the themes include, putting shaving cream on Sasquatch's hand, offering him a lift and being taunted by mountain-bikers.

In case you were born under a rock, Sasquatch a.k.a. big foot or the yeti, is a hairy ape-like nocturnal humanoid who supposedly lives in the world's, coldest, most remote, mountain regions. While there is zero scientific evidence to prove its existence...there are plenty of people who swear they have sighted the beast. Even intelligent individuals like my friend BELL, take Sasquatch seriously !

WARNING: AS AUTHENTIC AS THIS PICTURE MIGHT SEEM, IT IS NOT A REAL SASQUATCH ! TRUST ME, THIS IS AN ACTOR IN A COSTUME.

More importantly, countless others try to capitalize on the big-foot myth. Some have gone as far as concocting elaborate hoaxes, in the off-beat chance of financially tapping into the public's naivete. For instance some "experts" assert that aliens control Sasquatches from distant galaxies while others suggest that an elfin accomplice, acting as a custodian, preserves the creature's anonymity by disposing molted fur, bodily waste and carcasses.

http://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.youtube.com/watch%3Fv%3D_2d_m2OVa_g&ei=DsgSS-qxMpLslAfq9rmeBA&sa=X&oi=video_result&resnum=1&ct=thumbnail&ved=0CAoQuAIwAA&usg=AFQjCNFnxRyx-CizQXANPGoWbrNaGCOrbg

CLICK ABOVE FOR, A 30 SECOND "JACK LINK BEEF JERKY" TV COMMERCIAL. YOU CAN VIEW OTHERS ON "YOUTUBE."

This year during Thanksgiving, I was fortunate to share my love of these ads with family, friends and new acquaintances who were unfamiliar with them. They tripled their pleasure by seeing three versions.

So while the technical effectiveness of these commercials might be low...I had to research the name of the product before writing this blog. Plus, I was NOT enticed at all to put beef jerky anywhere near my mouth. Nevertheless, I give thanks during this holiday season to the geniuses who thought-up this highly entertaining, "Messin' With Sasquatch," campaign...Larry Tate (R.I.P.) would be proud...because at least my Andrew enjoys an occasional beef jerky...but NOT in front of me.

THE EVER-WIDENING COMPLEXETIES OF THE ON-SET OF OLD AGE.

I used to work with a cynical, mid-fifties guy named Emo. He was small in stature, skinny and had piercing, beady eyes. Adding to his dour presence, he shaved his head before it was fashionable for white guys which accentuated his tight, skeletal skull and bulging veins at his temples.

Emo voiced his rigid opinions on a widespread list of topics which reduced him to a marginally okay person to chat with. However, he became an intense downer when blithering about his home life, our job or the New Jersey taxation situation. When he went into his tirades of whining negativity, I tuned him out and assumed; he must be wrong.

One time (12 years ago), he caught me wincing when I stretched.
He said, "Are you okay?"
I responded, "I tweaked something in my back...it'll go away."
Emo said, "How old are you?"
"Forty-three."
He said, "Yeah, you're right, it'll go away. But as soon as you hit 45, little pains like that NEVER go away! AND, new problems keep popping up."
That attitude typified what I couldn't stand about him.

Since turning forty-five, I have had a series of little aches, annoyances and physical break-downs that never fully recover. It causes me to think of Emo and curse him for being right about this one thing.

One of my latest bodily restrictions that Emo was right about happened in 2007. My son Andrew and I drove to Sandusky Ohio to Cedar Point, (the number rated amusement park in the world). The drive was nearly eleven hours. Back then, my soft drink of choice was Snapple Diet Lemon Iced Tea. For our big excursion, I packed a freezer-chest full of ice and bought a case of tea.

IN MY YOUTH, MY SOFT DRINK GENESIS BEGAN WITH A LOVE FOR COCA-COLA. AS MY TASTE REFINED, I SWITCHED TO CEL-RAY UNTIL ITS LACK OF AVAILABILITY DRIFTED ME TO PEPSI-ONE. WHEN THOSE GENIUSES CHANGED THE RECIPE, DIET LEMON SNAPPLE ICED-TEA CAME INTO VOGUE. NOW, ITS DIET CHERRY PEPSI THAT KEEPS ME COMPANY ON LONELY NIGHTS.

On the long ride to Cedar Point, I wasn't clever enough to notice my acute need for more pit stops. Even worse, a few of those times, my engorged bladder forced me to sprint from the car.
The hint of a problem didn't set-in until a few months passed.

On a chilly, dank and drizzly March afternoon, I drove into Brooklyn to show my mom the mother-son , matching neck tattoo pattern, I designed for us. Coming off the Verrazano Bridge, I was glad that the Belt Parkway was smooth sailing.

The Belt was built during the Depression and its three lanes in each direction, are obsolete by today's standards for volume and speed. Additionally, wacky New York drivers cause plenty of accidents and other obstacles like; never ending construction, tons of litter and feral dogs (alive and dead) further slow commuter progress. Therefore, this tendency for unmerciful delays must be factored-in for the ten miles to my home-base, Canarsie. That's why I always stop at the Cheesequake Rest Stop, (mileage marker 123). Its the last public facilities in Jersey on the Garden State Parkway.

I cruised to the halfway point on the Belt, Ocean Parkway. Then, through the intermittent stroke of my windshield wipers, the brake lights ahead lit up like a Christmas tree. I slowed down and seconds later, I was in a bumper-to-bumper crawl.

To occupy myself and soothe my budding anxiety, I inadvisedly stuck my hand in the ice-chest and grabbed an unscheduled Snapple. I sucked the wide-mouthed bottle dry and was disappointed to learn that I had only rolled twenty feet. At times, it was so bad, I considered putting my car in park. That's when I noticed the rainwater trickling into a tiny rivulet between the highway's median and my car. For the next thirty minutes, I inched forward one mile, through Sheepshead Bay.

In the distance, I could see that there was no end to the nonsense. Nearing the Knapp Street Exit, I wanted to scoot across all three lanes to get off and take the dreaded streets. Between waffling about making this dangerous dash and switching the wipers onto a faster speed, I lost my chance. Immediately, I rued my hesitation. My seemingly poor decision was obviously worth the risk...because a tinkly, tickle from my innards screamed out; iced-tea is a diuretic!

Yes it was true, my body wasn't the lean, mean, pee-holding machine it once was. I was locked into the Belt without an oasis-like toilet in sight. I defiled Emo in my mind and cursed his old-age prophesy because my need to "go" was escalating at a higher rate of speed than my car's snail-like pace.

I saw a portable flashing highway sign that read: WARNING-KNOWN FLOOD AREA. Along side my car, the tiny river of run-off had grown to a babbling brook.

It began to pour as a U-Haul trailer with a picture of Niagara Falls on the back cut me off. Suddenly my bladder's internal meter skyrocketed towards its emergency "YELLOW" danger zone. With my wipers now on hyper-speed, I was now suffering through the early stages of MAXIMUM URINE BACK-UP (MUB). Searching for a remedy, I looked at the girth of the empty Snapple bottle and considered the logistics of driving while using it as a makeshift specimen jar. That idea was squashed when a semi hauling Evian rolled by. The trucker looked down at me and gave me a shared expression of frustration. Ahh, if he only knew...

Beyond the right shoulder was grassy meadow. With no place to hide and such slow traffic, my modesty wouldn't allow me the luxury of ending the torture there.

Up ahead, the little administration tower atop the drawbridge spanning the creek to Mill Basin was in sight. It gave me the idea to do my business in the privacy of trees on the other side. Whatever hope I had vanished as I noticed the right lane cars all merging to the middle. I was squirming in agony as a passerby strolled past on the pedestrian path.

I could now see the problem, a delivery van was stalled at the crest of the bridge. We were nearly slowed to a stop again, as cars gingerly squeezed by until they could zoom to freedom. When I was side-by-side with this disabled truck, the lettering read: D. O. T. BRIDGE MAINTENANCE. Clearly there was no evidence of official activity. To me, that meant that some jerk from the division of transportation decided to visit the drawbridge keeper. And rather than drive safely off the road and walk a quarter mile back...he...this traffic preventer and hero to the nation...didn't care that I and who knows how many other golden-eyed victims, were busting a gut.

I flew down the backside of the bridge, cut into the right lane and pulled into the shoulder as soon as the guardrail ended. The rain let-up and the sun poked through the clouds as I tapped my kidneys onto the dead weeds. I looked back and I could see the DOT driver talking on top of the bridge. I wanted to confront the selfish bastard. But I figured, he'd be gone by the time I walked back up there...so I took comfort in cursing Emo for the billionth time since turning forty-five.

KIWI'S BIG ADVENTURE !

Big Bird and the PBS TV show "SESAME STREET," celebrated their 40th anniversary this week. I'm happy for our fine feathered friend and appreciate the cultural impact he and the program have had on millions of young learners, plus new viewers for generations to come.

I'M SO OLD THAT IF I DIDN'T HAVE MY SON ANDREW, I PROBABLY WOULD HAVE NEVER SEEN A SINGLE EPISODE OF SESAME STREET.

It seems everyone likes birds. Maybe its because so many of them symbolize positivism. For instance, eagles represent patriotism and freedom, the dove is equated with peace and love while storks make us think of the miracle of birth.

In a similar way, some of my readers have become attached to specific varieties of avians like: LACC is obsessed by penguins, GLEN likes ducks and FRIO loves parrots.

I BET "CHILLY WILLY" HAS LESS PENGUIN IMAGES IN HIS IGLOO THAN LACC HAS IN HER HOUSE.

Rather than sharing golden Big Bird moments from Sesame Street, I choose to entertain you with two wild stories that were told to me by a potential new MGTP reader, ZEKA. While his anecdotes do not fall into the usual funny, educational or glib criteria of this column, they are still...most definitely interesting.

In a conversation with ZEKA, we traded tales of bird mishaps. I told him when I lived in Las Vegas, of the short lives of my pet finches, Rocky and Rollo (Rock & Roll). I also mentioned the time when my son Andrew and I watched an idiotic cardinal repeatedly fly (crash) into our front window.

ZEKA added some of his stories. Then I mentioned the time a woodpecker, at 6:00AM started wailing away on a metal plate at the top of my chimney. From there I shared my real-life encounter that could have ended up being a sequel to Alfred Hitchcock's movie, "THE BIRDS." In that one, it was just after dawn, in Tusayan, Arizona (the town adjacent to the Grand Canyon), that I power-walked past an uncountable amount of menacing ravens. As if poised to attack me, these huge black birds were perched on and near a row of dumpsters with an equal sized flock of them inside the containers foraging for food.

WALKING BY ALL THOSE HUNGRY RAVENS REALLY TESTED MY CONTINENCE.

From the ravens, I segued to the time I witnessed two turkey vultures tearing apart the carcass of a dead deer a mile from my house. I said, "Where was Marlon Perkins when I needed him? It was like watching a zoological documentary." ZEKA then said, "Are you kidding? I got a story that should have been on the, NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC NETWORK!"

UGH ! TURKEY VULTURES ARE EVEN UGLIER IN PERSON.

A robin built a nest in the tree outside ZEKA'S bedroom. Barely two feet away, separated by only the window, he and his wife watched the daily construction. Soon a second robin appeared. At that point the ZEKA'S caught glimpses of the familiar blue eggs under Mrs. Robin.

IN THIS STOCK PHOTO FROM THE 1990's, IT IS CLEAR THAT SECURITY DOES NOT MEET-UP WITH TODAY'S STRICTER ANTI-POACHER STANDARDS.

The ZEKA'S personal reality show progressed as the hatchlings cracked through their shells. It gave them great joy to watch the feedings and follow the babies constant maturation. When they were strong, the youngsters flew away. The seasons changed and the nest was abandoned.

The circle of life continued the next the spring. Presumably the same robin repeated the process. Again, the ZEKA'S stayed tuned to their bedroom window nature show.

One day, ZEKA was getting ready for work at a time when the chicks were almost ready to start flight training. He heard a harsh commotion outside and gaped in horror through the window. A large crow was ripping one of the baby birds out of the nest. Powerless, ZEKA and the adult robin watched the hunter carry its in-flight meal to the top of a telephone poll. The villain scraped at the victim with its talons until the carnage was interrupted by a rival crow. Having "lost his lunch," to the newcomer, the empty-handed first crow dive-bombed back to the nest and wrested the other innocent fledgling away!

At the thought of having to explain that situation to his wife, ZEKA and I agreed that father Robin was in DEEP BIRD DROPPINGS.

While I was still in shock from that story ZEKA said he had another about Kiwi, his cockateil. Kiwi had a bird-house (cage) but had the freedom to fly around the living room. He was such a good pet, that it would spent hours perched on ZEKA'S shoulder taking love nibbles of his ear while they watched TV together.

BEHOLD THE COCKATEIL, A NOBLE ANIMAL AND DEAR COMPANION.

Once, the bird escaped by flying out the front door. The ZEKA'S distributed leaflets in the neighborhood but after two weeks without a response, they gave up hope. One day, ZEKA'S young son came home from first grade and said that at show-n-tell another boy brought in a cockateil that looked just like Kiwi. Phone calls were made and negotiations were opened up. The other family's claim of an immediate attachment with the bird hampered the speed of these discussions. Therefore, a financial accord wasn't struck until the original reward skyrocketed to the height of a kidnapper's ransom.

Thankful for his second chance with Kiwi, ZEKA wasn't bothered by the expense to recover his buddy. The strong bond with the bird intensified so much that occasionally, ZEKA brought the cage into the backyard. This way, the bird could get fresh air and keep him company while he did chores. Unfortunately for everyone involved, ZEKA got sidetracked by his collection of sea glass and Kiwi was left outside over night.

In the morning, the empty cage was perfectly intact...but with the door open. A trail of white feathers led Sherlock ZEKA to their pool. In the crystal clear water, the emaciated remains of his cherished pet were discovered. Judging by the eye-witness accounts of an angst-filled ant colony, a teeth-chattering chipmunk and a pair of squirmy squirrels, the assailant was wearing a burglar's mask and a Davy Crockett hat.

AFTER THE FOREST POLICE CANVASED THE AREA, THEY ROUNDED-UP THE USUAL SUSPECTS.

After years of analysis, a stiff regimen of hallucinogenics and shock therapy ZEKA doesn't hold a grudge. To fortify his resistance, he took night work in casinos to minimize his opportunities to prowl the woods after dark...seeking vengeance against raccoons.

A PIE IN HIS FACE...AND HIS PANTS ON FIRE !

On October 22, 2009, classic TV icon Soupy Sales died.

Born Milton Supman in Frankinton, North Carolina on January 8, 1926, Soupy specialized in children's entertainment. His biggest impact on me was his New York City based TV show that ran for 260 episodes, from 1964-1966.

I had the good fortune to chat with Soupy in 1979, at the MGM in Las Vegas. Interestingly, I also met Sylvester Stallone and Richard Dawson in the casino that same night. At the time, Soupy was a has-been, Stallone was up and coming and Dawson, as a game show host was fairly relevant. But Soupy was the only one who spoke to me.

Sales was making a late 70's comeback with a revival of his old shows but they didn't last. So I guess he was in no position to "dis" an actual fan. After getting my foot in the door by referring to one of his lesser characters, (Onions Oregano), I was able to thank him for enriching my childhood.

It speaks volumes for my sophomoric level of sophistication but I loved that old show's opening almost as much as the program. It featured a Manhattan street scene and a blank theatre marquee. A man with a gigantic ladder came into view. Then at an exaggerated high speed, he went up and down, one letter at a time, spelling, "THE SOUPY SALES SHOW."

Airing weekdays, this virtual one-man show was a series of slapstick skits, childish jokes, silly songs and other gags. Somehow Soupy managed to get his trademark, cream pie smooshed in his face at least once in every episode.

DURING HIS CAREER WHICH INCLUDED 5000 LIVE TV APPEARANCES, SOUPY CLAIMED TO HAVE BEEN "PIED" 20,000 TIMES.

The show was so hip that it gravitated to older kids and young adults. Eventually, it became an influence on future kids programming...like, "PEE WEE'S PLAYHOUSE,"

Soupy's character mainly played-off puppets. Frank Nastasi provided most of the off-stage voices, as well as the "guy at the door." A recurring gag, the "guy" was never seen and was only represented as an argumentative hand. On rare occasions, the show used film clips too, (usually filmed in Central Park with Soupy in drag as his girlfriend Peaches).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9jsAK8thh0
CLICK LINK FOR A 5 MINUTE VIDEO CLIP OF PEACHES

The show became chic for big-time entertainers to make cameos appearances like, Frank Sinatra, Tony Curtis, Burt Lancaster, Sam Davis Jr., Judy Garland and Jerry Lewis. Plus, Soupy had musical guests too, such as, The Supremes and the Shangri-Las.

Pookie, a lion hand-puppet was Soupy's most commonly used foil. Aside from Pookie's sarcastic wit, he was also funny pantomiming novelty songs.

A SEGMENT WITH POOKIE AT THE BACK WINDOW OPENED MOST SHOWS.

The most popular puppet had to be White Fang. Handled by a puppeteer just off-camera, White Fang was seen only as a huge, white, shaggy dog paw. During WWII, to reduce the tension aboard ship, Soupy perfected this routine and character voice while serving active duty in the South Pacific.

Frank Nastasi provided the dog's ferocious unintelligible grunts. Soupy would repeat the gibberish in English and make a snappy comeback. My friends and I loved to mimic White Fang...mostly because it didn't require talent. Using the same schtick except with a black paw with feminine growls, another puppet was Black Tooth.
WHITE FANG AT REHEARSAL.

Two other puppets, an elderly married couple Hobart and Reba lived in a pot-bellied stove. They told Soupy jokes and riddles. It has been reputed that some of their silliness had hidden humor that wasn't suitable for young ears. I was too young to specifically remember anything but I still believe those rumors were true. Assuming there isn't a lot of video tape from these shows, we'll never know for certain. Nevertheless, Soupy went to his grave denying these allegations and even offered $10,000.00 to anyone who could prove he, "worked blue." It should be noted...nobody ever stepped forward to accept his challenge.

Soupy did however get suspended by his network in January 1965 when he told his audience to, "go into your parents wallets and send him the funny pieces of green paper with presidents on them."

He is also famous for the prank his stage crew played on him when he answered the door and a nude women was there. Although the viewing audience couldn't see her, a second camera recorded the practical joke, (click on the link below, 90 second clip).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ik1Aq8KaAjo

Soupy capitalized on merchandising his name and image on toys, records and books. His two big songs were, "THE MOUSE" and "PAFOLAFAKA." In 1965, everyone was singing those stupid songs.

WHILE IT WAS SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE TO SING, "THE MOUSE," I INSTINCTIVELY KNEW...EVEN BEFORE THE ONSET OF PUBERTY THAT THE ACCOMPANYING FACE AND HAND GESTURES...WERE UNMANLY !

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kP1_F9zEF7o CLICK HERE FOR THE MOUSE VIDEO, 6+ MINUTES.

After the show was cancelled, Sales starred in a couple of awful movies, did guest shots on sit-coms and became a regular game show panelist.

AS CAPT. LANCE RIPROCK WITH MAX BAER IN, "THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES."

From fifth grade, I have one indelible memory of Soupy's show being preempted for a special news report. In this broadcast, the first up close photos of the moon were shown. Back then the technology was so backward that each picture had a series of unnecessary black lines. I was unimpressed by these photographs and pissed-off for missing a big chunk of the show.

My favorite memory was the serial "drama" called, "THE ADVENTURES OF PHILO KVETCH." In this ultra low-budget production, Soupy played the private detective in the title role. His nemesis was the master criminal, "The Mask." Together with the aid of his henchman Onions Oregano, they wreaked havoc on the city. Going after them, Kvetch was always in peril until Onions Oregano's bad breath gave away their whereabouts. In the absolute last Philo Kvetch episode, the Mask's true identity is revealed to be Russian Premier Nikita Khrushchev. Hey I told you, I was a kid...it was funny to me...OKAY!

http://www.youtube.com/watchv=Am3gjCL506s CLICK HERE FOR 6 MINUTE SAMPLE OF PHILO KVETCH.

On January 5, 2005 Soupy Sales was awarded a well deserved star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

THANKFULLY, THE POWERS THAT BE, HAD THE SENSE TO "LET HIM HAVE IT" WHILE HE WAS ALIVE.

Whether Soupy indirectly injected the "F-Bomb" into his material or had hidden sexual body parts referenced in his jokes is still up for speculation. Regardless of my age, its always been so clear in my mind that he did...so, I choose to believe...ergo...liar, liar Soupy's pants are on fire! Perhaps that's the essence of an urban legend.

In my mind, this clouded dirty joke mystery doesn't diminish Soupy's star-power in any way. I'm hoping you proved that to yourself by watching the clips above...because, the man was simply hilarious. Plus, there's tons more material to check-out on YouTube.

I'm guessing to protect Soupy Sales' greatness and positive image, it became essential to keep up the squeaky-clean charade...even to the time of his death. I just hope a splattered cream pie is etched into his casket where his face would be.

A HAUNTED HONEYMOON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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