JE PARLE FRANCAIS...NOT !!!

What's with the French? They can't seem to get out of their own arrogant way and because of that they have become an international punchline.

In the past I have chronicled with amusement, their current "no fly zone" policy towards the United States and other allies as well as the lyric in their national anthem: we will water our furrows (crops) with the blood of our enemy. Beyond that, I avoid being swallowed up by the court of public opinion, so when I pick on the French, it's with good cause. The first of my negatives experiences with them happened when I was thirteen.

IN 1794, THE FRENCH ADOPTED, THE TRICOLOR FLAG, (above). THE FOLLOWING YEAR, "LA MARSEILLAISE," BECAME THEIR NATIONAL ANTHEM. CALL ME CRAZY BUT DOESN'T IT SEEM LIKE IT'S BEEN QUITE SOME TIME SINCE THEY WATERED CROPS WITH ENEMY BLOOD?

In July 1968, London was the first stop in the epic, Edelblum Family, European Vacation. An hour flight away, the second leg of our seven-countries in twenty-two days took us to Paris. We were glad to put the Brits language barrier and their confusing exchange rate behind us. But, au contraire, mon ami. In the short time it took to check into our hotel and get a snack, it got worse in the, "City of Lights." A quaint cafe took advantage of our naivete to the complexities of their money system...and robbed us.

THE EIFFEL TOWER WAS COMPLETED IN 1889. THIS GLOBAL ICON REMAINED THE WORLD'S TALLEST STRUCTURE UNTIL 1930. WHEN MY SISTER AND I WENT UP, OUR SARCASTIC TOUR GUIDE SAID, "BEING ON THE TOWER IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACE IN PARIS...BECAUSE, ITS THE ONLY PLACE WHERE YOU CAN'T SEE THE TOWER!"

For the sake of math, our check at the restaurant that hoodwinked us was for 22 francs. My dad paid with a French 50 franc banknote. Instead of giving us 28 francs change, they bamboozled us by giving us 28 centimes change, (cents instead of dollars).

THE FRENCH WERE USING DEVALUED WORLD WAR II-ERA "FRANC" COINS AS CENTIMES. SO MY DAD'S CHANGE WAS, A TWENTY "FRANC" COIN, A FIVE AND THREE ONES.

Later at a gift shop, dad tried to pay for some items with the 20 franc coin. The shopkeeper refused it and said it was a common error among foreigners because the coin was actually 20 centimes. When we went back to the hotel, Dad returned to the restaurant. He told them the situation through an interpreter and was told that he was mistaken. When the Brooklyn in Dad exploded, he was informed that such a false charge was both embarrassing and slanderous...and if he persisted, the proprietor would call the police. Rather than risk an international incident over a few dollars, dad set aside his pride and principles.

For the next eight years my dad would recount that story many times. So it was justly ingrained in my mind at an early age that the French were weasels. When I was twenty-one, I embarked on my cross-country odyssey which included Mexico and Canada and ended in Le Belle Province...Quebec.

Among my fellow travelers, I heard that the French Canadians were smug just like the French and unkind to Americans and English speaking Canadians. I thought it was untrue because, I found Montreal to be a normal big city. I was never profiled as an American or treated poorly because I didn't speak French. At no point did I ever equate the people of this part of the Great White North with their uppity ancestral cousins in France...that opinion changed when I arrived in Quebec City.

Montreal might be the provincial commerce center but Quebec City is the capitol and political hub. It should be noted that for decades, the militant separatist movement to make Quebec its own country originated in Quebec City and is still maintained there. Therefore even the ordinary French speaking locals have a edginess, especially towards Americans and non-French speaking Canadians.

I stayed at a youth hostel in Quebec City. During a conversation with a group of Americans, we compared notes and agreed that on a limited budget you could survive there on such delicacies as French onion soup and Caesar salad. When we became more serious, the subject of all the public signs being in French was discussed. Then others complained about the rotten treatment and general pissy attitude being laid on them.

The next morning, we toured the city together. In the afternoon, we decided to picnic overlooking the Saint Lawrence River, on the grassy promenade next to the Chateau Frontenac.BUILT IN 1893, THE CHATEAU FRONTENAC WAS THE BACKDROP FOR THE 1953 MOVIE, "I CONFESS," STARRING MONTGOMERY CLIFT. ACCORDING TO THE GUINNESS BOOK OF RECORDS, IT IS THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED HOTEL IN THE WORLD.

To get our luncheon together, we split into committees. One group bought meat, another got cheese, others found a wine shop and me and some guy from Delaware went to a bakery. My buddy was too bashful so I wound up having to order the bread. For a few minutes before going in, I rehearsed saying, "Pan Francais, pan Francais, pan Francais."
The little bake shop was cluttered with customers but the robust baker at the cash register signaled us forward. I held up two fingers and muttered, "Pan Francais." The man's face lost its rosy cheeriness. He cocked his chef's hat back as if he were doing something distasteful and swiped the money from my hand. He splattered the change on the counter and literally threw the loaves at us. Then in a tone that would remind, "SEINFELD," fans of the Soup Nazi, he bellowed in English, "If you don't speak French, DON'T SPEAK FRENCH!" As we slunk out, I flashed back to the guillotine scene at the end of, "A TALE OF TWO CITIES." That's when he blithered, what I assumed were French insults, to the delight of the equally vengeful customers.

In November 1991, my wife Sue and I drove up to French Canada. It was in the mid-60's when we left Jersey but as soon as we got north of Glens Falls New York, we were in blizzard conditions. The three-lane highway was reduced to one and the 80 miles to the border at Plattsburgh, New York took forever. We cleared customs and suddenly the years of ignoring the Metric system in school slapped us in the face. We couldn't calculate the Celsius temperature but we knew it was freezing and the kilometer signs to Montreal left us estimating the 65 mile distance. But at least it stopped snowing.

It took ninety minutes to get there. Luckily, the city only had gotten a few inches of snow and they had a full day to clear it away. The streets were dry and we were able to get around. It warmed up a little so the next two days of sight-seeing were tolerable. Nothing really strange happened there except, we went into a souvenir store and the only clerk didn't speak English. What was really funny was...she greeted us by saying she didn't speak French, in French...so we spoke in English; well, she didn't speak English either. We did all our communication in Spanish.

THE MONTREAL BIOSPHERE IS A MUSEUM DEDICATED TO WATER AND THE ENVIRONMENT. IT WAS BUILT AS PART OF THE UNITED STATES PAVILION FOR THE WORLD'S FAIR (EXPO 67). THE CITY IS NOTED FOR ITS RESTAURANTS, SO WE ATE WELL. WE ALSO MARVELLED AT HOW UN-NEW YORK THEIR METRO (SUBWAY) WAS AND ACTUALLY SPENT A LOT OF TIME IN THEIR WARMER, LABYRINTH OF SUBTERRANEAN SHOPPING.

On our way to our actual destination, a bed and breakfast in Quebec City, we stopped about halfway in the town of Drummondville. We gassed-up and got lunch. The Frenchies spotted us a mile away and ignored us. I had to get up and get us menus and then had to summon an aloof waitress. The food was okay but almost twenty years later, I still wonder about that lumpy thing in my last swallow of coffee...

Quebec City lived up to my romantic build-up, but there was still a lot of ice, snow and slush all about. Our first stop was a shopping mall because we were wearing sneakers. At the shoe department of The Bay, (a huge Macy's-like store) no one admitted that they spoke English. The staff was so callous that at the risk of missing a sale, they offered no help. We had to survey the patrons ourselves until we found a willing translator.

The walled portion of the city has narrow, cobblestone streets that are reminiscent of nineteenth century Paris. A tourist bonanza, arty boutiques, intimate bars, cafes and vintage hotels were everywhere. We tried to stay on the sunny side of the street but that strategy almost proved lethal. It's hard to believe but true, ignorant bastards were shoveling snow, willy-nilly off three-story rooftops. Judging from the heavy splatter on the street and sidewalk, someone could really get hurt. Their liability insurance laws must be awfully lenient or maybe there's a bounty on Americans? Either way, how can they tell if the innocent pedestrians below (like us) spoke French? So I'm guessing the locals knew better and stayed away.

In the evening we got a late start for dinner. We scurried like Eskimos through the icy streets until we arrived at the huge, gourmet restaurant a half-block from the Chateau Frontenac. We were shivering as we entered the bar area that separated two identical, over-sized dining rooms. A gazillion employees met us as we came in. Among this gang were; a maitre d, some waiters, bus boys, a bartender, bar porter, hat check girl, a female harpist and the manager.

The maitre d greeted us by saying something in French. I said, "We don't speak French." In an obnoxious tone he said, "Do you have reservations?" It was mid-week, out of season, freezing, nearly 9:00PM and only one of the hundred tables was occupied. I looked into the cavernous empty dining room and said, No, we don't have reservations." His response was a snippy, "Then you'll have to wait in the bar." "Here we go again," I whispered to Sue. She said, "I can use a drink anyway and this is no time to start window shopping for another restaurant."

I was annoyed the whole ten minutes until our table was "ready." We were led through the elegant room to a primo table, in the furthest corner, overlooking the street. The maitre d pulled out Sue's chair as the waiter handed us menus. These morons must have had a good laugh in the kitchen because they spitefully left us alone with French-only menus. I called for the maitre d and asked him for English menus. He looked at me as if I had three heads and said, "I will translate." At our expense, he rambled through the bill of fair as if he was double parked. We were still clueless when he called over the waiter. On a wing and a prayer, we mutely ordered by pointing.

The first disappointment was the lobster bisque. I knew from my vast experience with Campbell's that I was eating generic tomato soup, albeit with a scant sliver of fruits de mer mixed in. Mr. Personality looked like he needed another laugh, so I summoned the maitre d. I politely told him, "I don't like the soup." He said, "For an additional $7.50, you can have onion soup." I was getting madder and madder and wasn't forking-over that much more for an inferior choice. I snarled, "What else you got?" He said, "For no additional charge you can have consomme." Rather than create a scene, I pushed the soup aside and said, "Forget it."

The rest of the dinner, the harp music as well as the service was excellent. The short-lived love-fest bubble abruptly ended when a busboy was using a small whisk broom to remove crumbs from the table cloth. The maitre d was wheeling over the dessert cart and stopped to rush over. He grabbed the broom and bitterly scoffed, "No Claude!" Then he humiliated the poor man with a French, sermon-like reprimand. I whispered to Sue, "What an ass-hole." She shushed me as the maitre d pushed the cart closer and the waiter poured coffee.

The pastries looked like individual works of art that belonged in the Louvre. What caught my eye was the colossal concoction that occupied the entire top rung of the cart...a circular, two-tiered cake that looked like a million eclairs glued together. Maybe they were closing and would have thrown the rest away but he cut me a slice that covered a dinner plate. When he set it in front of me, I nudged the dish aside to get a sweet-n-low for my coffee. This jerk bent down, got in my face hissed, "What's the matter, you don't like the cake either?"

I embrace other cultures and would love to say of the French, "vive la difference," but I just can't! This decision is more difficult because my son Andrew took that language and did so well. My tendency would have been to take him to Quebec City, but in that regard, he's going to have to find out for himself why the French and their ancestral cousins are an international punchline.

THE JUNIOR SHERLOCK HOLMES CLUB

So you want to be a detective? Figure this out! Because I can't.

Today, November 22, 2010, is the 47th anniversary of President John F. Kennedy's assassination. Like many others, I remember the exact spot I was standing in when I found out. DESPITE HIS SHORT TIME IN OFFICE, KENNEDY WILL BE FOREVER REMEMBERED AS ONE OF OUR GREATEST PRESIDENTS.

Two days later, as Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald on TV, I remember sitting on our couch with my sister and my Grandma Edelblum shrieking, "What's this country coming to!"

RUBY SHOOTING OSWALD WAS THE FIRST MURDER EVER SEEN LIVE, ON TV. FAR WORSE, IT SPAWNED AND PROTECTED THE GREATEST MYSTERY OF MY GENERATION.

A couple of more days later, I was watching JFK's funeral procession on my parents' bedroom TV and the sight of John Jr's good-bye salute to his dad became forever etched in my psyche. THIS POWERFUL IMAGE STILL LEAVES A LUMP IN MY THROAT.

Sadly, the debate of a lone gunman theory versus a colossal conspiracy remains unresolved. I hate to admit it but I can't stop waffling between the two notions. This is especially strange because I've been behind the fence, atop the grassy knoll at Dealey Plaza in Dallas. Based solely on my instinct and an unscientific standpoint, I can't imagine the "kill-shot" coming from anywhere else, let alone one man (Oswald) so high up in the Texas Book Depository.
JULY 1976, I TOOK THIS PICTURE FROM THE BEHIND THE FENCE, ABOVE THE GRASSY KNOLL. THIS SPOT IS NINETY FEET FROM WHERE THE LIMOUSINE DRIVER CAME TO A COMPLETE STOP AFTER THE FIRST SHOTS RANG OUT. THAT SHORT PAUSE EITHER PURPOSELY OR ACCIDENTALLY SET-UP WHAT THE CONSPIRACY THEORISTS BELIEVE TO BE KENNEDY'S "KILL SHOT."

Lone gunman? Major conspiracy? Like I said, we need a detective.

It just seems to me that whatever Kennedy explanation I hear last, is the one I agree with. This is especially true when noted psychologists assert that the public is in denial over the idea of such an insignificant person exterminating someone so important. Or that after all this time, not a single reliable source has stepped forward to identify other shooters or the master plan.

I am also guilty of allowing myself to be mesmerised by Oliver Stone's great 1991 movie, "JFK." This film was so spellbinding that it was easy for me forget it was fiction.

OLIVER STONE BORROWED WINSTON CHURCHILL'S QUOTE ON THE RUSSIANS WHEN HE HAD JOE PESCI'S CHARACTER, DAVID FERRIE SAY OF THE JFK ASSASSINATION, "ITS A MYSTERY. IT'S A MYSTERY WRAPPED IN A RIDDLE, INSIDE AN ENIGMA."

To further cloud the picture, the Warren Commission and the House Select Committee on Assassinations (HSCA) both came to the same, lone assassin conclusion, (but the HSCA did speculate that based on disputed, acoustic evidence that there was the probability of a conspiracy).

Deep down, I doubt that today's government has anything to gain by failing to disclose vital JFK assassination data. That's why it is both annoying and embarrassing that a country with so many resources can't provide closure to the greatest puzzle of my generation. Even with all my wisdom, for the sake of my serenity, I no longer try to absorb the information, misinformation and fear that other facts are being withheld. So before my head spins off, I feel it is necessary to stop dwelling on who killed John Kennedy.

To redirect my general, inner need to know, I have become a detective and concentrate on unraveling my own, less challenging mysteries. When I succeed, I take a bow and crow, "I am a charter member of the, 'JUNIOR SHERLOCK HOLMES CLUB.'"

My latest case wasn't as elementary as most. It started six weeks ago, at a luncheon date with FLOWGLO, at the Red Oak Diner in Hazlet New Jersey. During our lengthy conversation, my wife Sue reminded me to, NOT forget my glasses. I assured her that I had the situation under control. Forty minutes later, I was standing in the vestibule getting ready to leave when the kindly waitress burst through the door and handed me my glasses.

The middle leg of our journey was to Sue's old neighborhood, in the Rockaway Beach section of Queens. It was shocking how many things have changed. Like the Gil Hodges Bridge that links the Brooklyn mainland to the her old stomping ground. In the 70's, that toll was ten cents. Back then, it was not uncommon for someone in the passenger seat to try to make a hook-shot basket from the other side of the car with a dime. Hard to believe but true, thirty something years later, they took the sport out it and now charge $2.75. Sue gave a shot to the ribs when I said, "If it was that much back then, I probably would never have pursued you."

Our final destination was Angelina's, an Italian restaurant in Lynbrook, on Long Island. Through FACEBOOK, Sue got invited to a dinner with her childhood BFF's. Together with husbands, children and one mom, we were a party of thirteen. Lucky for me, at the bar, I discovered that every single person there was a joy to be with.

Angelina's menu featured small calligraphy. It was a good thing that the waitress from the diner returned my glasses because the fancy lettering would have been impossible for me to decipher.

Long after the dinner was finished, everyone moved to different seats and formed intimate conversation circles. I spoke to everyone and learned that one couple flew in from Torrance California, a family was visiting from Israel and the rest were Long Islanders.

AFTER DINNER, 11,000 PICTURES WERE TAKEN. SOMEHOW, I ONLY GOT INTO ONE...WITH STEVE (left) AND FRANK (center).

Sue hadn't seen a couple of these friends in 30 years. So the good-bye process was as long as the meal. Coincidentally, everyone had parked in the same municipal lot so we continued gabbing by the cars for another half hour.

During our three-hour drive home, Sue and I basked in the warm afterglow of the dinner, afternoon visit to Rockaway and chumming with FLOWGLO.

The next morning, I got back into my routine by taking a cup of Emeril's, "BIG EASY BOLD," coffee out onto our deck to do my Sudoku puzzle. Sometimes I forget to bring something from my arsenal but I remembered my pen, newspaper and coffee (with sweet-n-low and half-n-half). I settled in and came to a startling revelation...I didn't have my glasses.

I did a quick sweep of the kitchen, family room, all the bathrooms and the bedroom...nothing! The only place left was Sue's car. I was confident when I went outside because I deceived myself into definitely picturing them there. Duh! They weren't on the floor, in the glove box or the console between the seats. Now with my tail between my legs, I had to face the inevitable; I told you so...after telling my wife that I left my glasses at the restaurant.

It angered me that nobody from Angelina's staff was clever enough to give me a heads up. After all, we lingered there forever.

Six weeks pass. A couple of days ago, it was time for me to take Sue's car for a lube job. Before heading over there, I tidied up for her. I pulled used tissues out from under the seats as well as a five-month old newspaper and four quarter-pounder wrappers. I vacuumed last summer's lingering beach sand and tons of dog hair. Then to my surprise, wedged between the seats was a shiny maroon cylinder. Being a member of the Junior Sherlock Holmes Club, I thought; wow, that looks like my old glasses case. Genius! It was and you'll never guess what was inside.

THERE IS NO STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS ON FINDING YOUR OWN GLASSES...UNLESS YOU BUY REPLACEMENT ONES FIRST. SINCE I DIDN'T STOOP TO THAT, BASIL RATHBONE, (THE DEFINITIVE HOLMES), STOOD UP IN HIS GRAVE AND SALUTED ME.

Of course the real Holmes would have deducted that I only used my glasses to read Angelina's menu. Then he would have noticed that I properly secured them after dinner, (see picture above with the other Steve and Frank, the glasses are in my breast pocket). Plus, Sherlock would have stated; if you really knew you had them in the car going home, you should have stuck to your guns and searched more thoroughly the next morning.

I bet the real Holmes would have questioned Professor Moriarty and the Hound of the Baskervilles back in 1963 and solved the Kennedy case in less than ninety minutes.

Now you know why I'm only in the Junior Sherlock Holmes Club...and I better be careful, my next slip-up might put me on double-secret probation which could lead to being demoted to the dreaded Watson Auxiliary...or dropped from the club all together.

GETTING HOOKED-UP BY NEW YORK'S FINEST

In observance of Veteran's Day, I would like to thank all those in the military, past, present and future, for their great sacrifice and selflessness.

YOU ARE ALL HEROES AND I SALUTE YOU FOR STANDING IN HARM'S WAY TO HELP PRESERVE OUR FREEDOM, AMERICAN VALUES AND WAY OF LIFE.

I would like to also give kudos to domestic agencies whose people risk their lives every day but aren't acknowledged with a specific national holiday, (police, firefighters, emergency personnel and postal workers...even if their threat is from friendly fire).

Today, I will concentrate with the police because we have the most contact and highest reliance on them. Plus, because its easy to focus on the negative press they get and the resulting sensationalism, I believe its important for us to understand that overwhelmingly the cops, under stressful conditions, do a great job and deserve tons more credit than they get. To maintain this support, I have instilled this appreciation into my son Andrew.

While on his learner's permit, (Andrew will be getting his driver's license in three months), I have accepted both the bulk and "joy" of teaching him the rules of the road. In so doing, I have drilled into his head these two beliefs. First, whenever you see the police, take your foot off the accelerator and check your speed. Second, if you are stopped, to minimize the officer's possible anxiety, keep both hands in plain sight atop the steering wheel, (at night, flick on the dome light too).

In using these suggestions, I have reduced my contact with the police. Then on the rare occasion that I am in contact with them, the respect and sensitivity I have exhibited, has resulted in me being treated fairly. I have also received leniency even when I didn't expect it. I still feel that way even though a gun was once pointed at my head during a routine traffic stop in Las Vegas (October 1980) and more recently, I'm certain that I was being profiled as an out-of-state driver when I was served a $187.00 nonsense/nuisance ticket for using a "Car Pool Only" exit (in no traffic) in Fairfax Virginia (June 2010).

I will now share with you two of my favorite "kind-cop" stories that I've heard and one of my own.

The Western Casino was the worst job of my gaming career. I might have made less money at Slots-A-Fun but the Western was a toilet and attracted such grungy clientele that during weekday afternoons, our craps table struggled to get $100.00 in drop, (cash buy-ins). This meant that most of the time, we were open for business with no customers. That translated into hours of idle conversation, playing games like "20 Questions" and my favorite, staring off into space.

THE WESTERN, 899 FREMONT STREET, AS I REMEMBERED IT DURING MY SIX-WEEK STINT, (SPRING 1979). TWO SUMMERS AGO WHILE IN VEGAS, I VISITED THE WESTERN. LIKE PUTTING A BAND-AID ON CANCER, THEIR COMPLETE REMODELING EFFORT WAS WASTED, BECAUSE IT WAS STILL THE ULTIMATE, FILTHY DIVE. TO PROVE IT, EVERYONE WAS REQUIRED TO WIPE THEIR FEET BEFORE GOING BACK ON THE STREET.

One of my fellow craps dealers at the Western was Terry. He was in his thirties and unlike the rest of us break-ins, Terry was a retread. We newbies were struggling to make our way up but Terry had already fallen from the top. He worked several years at the Frontier Casino and made tons of money. So being reduced to the penny-ante Western, left him jaded, cynical and rude. The other bubbly dealers couldn't relate to his indifference to the job but on dead games, he was admired for his wealth of colorful casino and non-casino stories.

He once said about his rural Northeastern Pennsylvania upbringing, "Where I lived, a man either grew up to become a coal miner, priest or criminal. I thought there had to be more to life so I hit the road." Terry settled in San Francisco in the early sixties and prefaced all those stories by proclaiming, "I was the world's first hippie." He lived in an apartment in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood and used to say, "I didn't need a TV, if I wanted to see action, all I had to do was look out the window and see around the clock sex, violence and rock n roll."

The one story he told that brought a smile to his withered face and brightened his bloodshot eyes was going to the Fillmore Auditorium on December 10, 1965. That night he saw, "The Grateful Dead," in their first concert after changing their name from the "Warlocks." (Among other groups, the "Jefferson Airplane" also appeared). "THE FILLMORE," WAS THE FOCAL POINT FOR PSYCHEDELIC MUSIC AND ITS COUNTERCULTURE. LOCATED AT FILLMORE AND GEARY, IT'S WHERE THE PACIFIC HEIGHTS, JAPANTOWN AND WESTERN ADDITION SECTIONS MEET.

Before the concert, Terry picked up some friends in Marin County. On the way back to San Francisco, everyone in his crowded VW bus was already tripping on LSD as he got to the Golden Gate Bridge. THE VOLKSWAGEN TYPE 2, T1, HAS BEEN IN PRODUCTION SINCE 1950. IT IS COMMONLY KNOWN AS A VW BUS, VW TRANSPORTER OR KOMBI. WHEN CUSTOM DESIGNED IN THE PSYCHEDELIC DAYS , IT WAS CALLED A HIPPIE BUS, HIPPIE VAN OR HIPPIEMOBILE.

At the crest of the bridge, the piercing sound of a police siren got Terry's attention. In the rear view mirror, he saw a patrol car zooming up from behind. He stopped in the left lane. The gruff officer chose to ignore the billowing marijuana aroma and said in a southern accent, "Son. Do you realize how fast you were going?" Terry tried to come off as innocently as possible without insulting the man's intelligence and shrugged, "I dunno, 65 maybe 70?" The officer said, "Son, you were going eleven miles per hour. Now tell me, are you too drunk to drive this vehicle safely off the bridge?" Terry smiled internally and said, "Yes, I'm too drunk." The officer told Terry to squeeze into the back. The squad car was temporarily abandoned as the policeman got into the VW's driver seat. He lectured Terry on his responsibility to other motorists and his own passengers as he drove them off the bridge. After issuing a warning, he made Terry promise not to drive until he sobered up.

Another "kind-cop" story happened when I worked at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget, (1982-1984). My friend Mateo was going through the divorce wringer and came out with only the clothes on his back. A year later, in a move that he described as; mental masturbation, he scrounged up every cent he could and bought a used Corvette. This selfish pleasure helped him achieve his life-long dream of owning a sports car and zooming it through the desert after work, (5:AM).

DECEMBER 1982, MATEO PULLS UP AT MY CONDO WEARING NOTHING BUT HIS NEW 'VETTE AND A SMILE.

Mateo had weekend custody of his two sons, (three and five). The boys were fascinated by daddy's new toy especially because of the enthusiasm their father had for it at a time when he was riddled with depression. One afternoon, the kids talked him into a joy ride. On the way back from the wilderness, Mateo slowed down to 95MPH. At the city limits, two motorcycle cops chased him down. Mateo pulled over and waited. The officers strode up to the car. Then the boys poked their head through the T-Roof and the older son said, "Look Jimmie, its Ponch and Jon.""CHiPs" WAS A POPULAR TV "DRAMEDY" FROM 1977-1983. THE SHOW STARRED ERIK ESTRADA AS PONCH AND LARRY WILCOX AS JON. IT FEATURED OVER-THE-TOP FREEWAY COLLISIONS, NO ACTUAL VIOLENCE AND PLENTY OF HUMOR.

The approaching officers couldn't hold back their smiles. After all the paperwork checked-out, Mateo was told he was lucky he had cute kids. But if he was ever caught going that fast again, nothing would help him.

Last week I had a "kind-cop" experience of my own. My wife and I took Andrew and two of his friends to play tourist, in Manhattan. We started with window shopping in Greenwich Village. After lunch, we took the subway to Rockefeller Center. Along Fifth Avenue we made several stops including the Nintendo and Apple Stores.THE ALLURE OF RIDING THE SUBWAY HASN'T CHANGED IN 30+ YEARS. GUYS ARE STILL EATING OUT OF TRASHCANS, THERE'S NO SHORTAGE OF FOLKS TALKING TO THEM SELF, MEN IN TRENCH COATS ON SUNNY DAYS WILL ALWAYS LOOK SUSPICIOUS AND VARIOUS RELIGIOUS CULTS AND BEGGARS ARE EVERYWHERE. ON THE POSITIVE SIDE, WE SAW NO RATS, MICE, ROACHES OR OTHER PESTILENCE.

Rush hour was over when we re-traced our steps back to the car. We decided to swing by Ground Zero on our way to Little Italy. After we paid our respects, we were going north on the Westside Drive. I ran through a yellow light, side by side with a taxi on my left. A half-block up, there was an unexpected traffic light and two policemen. I found myself in a right turn only lane and blocked by the cab. I was forced to make the right. While turning, I read the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel sign. I saw a third cop, a sergeant and pulled over. I called out ti him, "I don't want to go to Brooklyn." The sergeant smirked, "Nobody does." The other two policemen came over and one said, "If you didn't want to go in the tunnel, you should have gone straight." I said, "I was in a right turn only lane." He said, "We wouldn't have stopped you." The other cop said, "Well, you can't stay here." I joked, "Could you help me back out?" And they did. One went back onto the Westside Drive and held up traffic. The other officer guided me from the back and the sergeant remained at my side and orchestrated the whole move...very cool.

So whether its Veteran's Day or not...regardless of your politics, never forget there are dedicated individuals serving us around the world and around the corner. They are doing a job that few of us could ever imagine our self doing...so please appreciate their work and remember that they are people too.

BOOK 'EM DANNO !

Oopsies! I did it again. I put the whammy on innocent bystander James MacArthur and he died.

A few weeks ago I was trashing the resurrected version of classic TV's , "HAWAII FIVE-O." Along the way, I strolled down memory lane and recalled my early teenage years and watching the original with my mom.

"HAWAII FIVE-O," AIRED 279 EPISODES FROM 1968-1980, ON CBS.

The iconic opening theme psyched us up. To hear it, check on the link below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LnK8b_jk8w

MY HIGH SCHOOL OFFERED A SEDENTARY BAND. THEY REMAINED SEATED BECAUSE THEY WERE SO BAD THAT MARCHING ONLY WOULD HAVE MADE THEIR RENDITIONS WORSE. IT WAS COMMONLY BELIEVED THAT THE, "STAR SPANGLED BANNER" AND THE, "HAWAII FIVE-O THEME," WERE THE ONLY DISCERNIBLE PIECES THEY PLAYED. THIS PERCENTAGE WAS VASTLY AIDED BY THE IDEA THAT BEFORE SPORTING EVENTS, THE AUDIENCE KNEW, THE "NATIONAL ANTHEM," WAS COMING.

Mom and I were engrossed by the semi-complicated plots. We loved to watch the action unfold in exotic locales as we speculated how the case would be solved. Unfortunately, we were usually wrong because the scripts were weak, and depended on an obscure clue or circumstance to crack the seemingly impossible dilemma. Along the way, I was put off by the acting...primarily by second banana, James MacArthur who portrayed, subservient Danny Williams.

While bashing 5-O, I switched gears and concentrated my lambasting energies on Mr. MacArthur. My rant was spurred by my memories of him as a child actor, playing, "Boy," in "TARZAN," movies. I was absolutely raving by the time I concluded that MacArthur's mother, Helen Hayes had big influence in Tinseltown and that her juice was the only reason MacArthur achieved any stardom.

HELEN HAYES, (1900-1993). HER ACTING CAREER SPANNED OVER 70 YEARS. SHE EXCELLED ON STAGE, IN MOVIES AND TV. THIS SUCCESS EARNED HER THE NICKNAME, "THE FIRST LADY OF AMERICAN THEATER." IN HER PRIVATE LIFE, SHE HOBNOBBED WITH THE ARISTOCRACY AND WAS KNOWN FOR HER GENEROUS PHILANTHROPY.

While researching this blog I was surprised to discover that I was making a common mistake about James MacArthur playing, "Boy." Actually, that role was played by a look-a-like, actor Johnny Sheffield. I was proved to be wrong again because MacArthur came up the hard way. He struggled as a young actor and earned his way into movies and TV on his own merit. Nevertheless, I still feel he was a sub-standard actor...so much so that when I watched him, I could tell he was acting.

My first evidence of an unconvincing MacArthur was his lead role in 1957's, "THE YOUNG STRANGER." While playing a good kid unjustly labeled as a delinquent, he (and the whole movie), looked like an alternate cast of, "LEAVE IT TO BEAVER." He was a cardboard cut-out of a clean-cut kid and laughable as a tough guy.

MacArthur seemed to be typecast as a submissive underling. In 1965's cold-war thriller the "BEDFORD INCIDENT," he (of all people) is in charge of deploying nuclear weapons on a destroyer. To make matters worse, the ship's captain, (Richard Widmark), is constantly criticizing him for minor errors. Later, the ship encounters a Russian submarine. In the style of Captain Ahab, Widmark's character relentlessly chases it. His quest exhausts the crew. At a tense moment, MacArthur who's already been proven to be shaky, misinterprets an innocent comment by the Captain as an order. Accidentally, he launches a deadly salvo at the Soviets...that in turns sparks an equally lethal counter-attack...oopsies. Did I forget to include a "spoiler alert?" I think I just gave away the end of the movie.

In the WWII epic film, "THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE, "MacArthur plays an inadvertent hero. Based on a true story, German tiger tanks are annihilating the Americans. But the Germans have an Achilles heel standing in the way of a certain victory...they don't have the resources, primarily gasoline for the battle's long haul.

James MacArthur plays an inexperienced lieutenant. He gets captured with a large group of our troops. They are herded together like lemmings and mercilessly exterminated by the enemy. However, MacArthur survives and sneaks away. I'm okay with that, its perfectly plausible to see anyone in that situation, do what they have to do and run away. But where they lost me is that after floundering beyond enemy lines, MacArthur accidentally re-unites with a rag-tag squad of leaderless Americans at a fuel depot. In the style of John Wayne, Rambo, Steven Seagal and Superman, MacArthur turns the course of the mighty battle by making a split-second decision. In a combination of Einstein and the Amazing Kreskin, he rallies his new, rudderless rag-tag squad into machine gunning down apparent GI's. Because in one in a million shot, he realizes that they are Germans in disguise, stealing truckloads of fuel.

The plot becomes more of an idiotic fantasy as MacArthur has the wherewithal to destroy the entire gasoline dump in the face of advancing hordes of Huns. That is so incredible that you might need two barf-bags because even the Hulk couldn't have handled that job!

I appreciate the high praise MacArthur's acting career has received but it is my belief that his, "HAWAII FIVE-O," character was consistent with my negative spin on his talent. It seemed that the entire cast was over-shadowed by Jack Lord's, Steve McGarrett. He was an imposing character but MacArthur (as second in command) was a rigid, do-nothing in the background and when called upon, he was never more than a milquetoast even when addressing his underlings or the public.

The bottom line is, his career was a long and prosperous one. He was looked upon by his peers as a reliable actor with a good range. So whatever my opinion might be, it is secondary to the fact that so many people in my generation associate him with being a polished man of action because of the famous McGarrett catchphrase, "Book 'em Danno."

REST IN PEACE JAMES MacARTHUR, (December 8, 1937-October 28, 2010).

NEXT STOP WILLOUGHBY...I MEAN, HURLEYVILLE

My weird dream this past Saturday night was so vivid that I told my son Andrew immediately. Halfway through my recital he told me, "How many times have I told you not to eat Vienna sausages, yellow onions and sauerkraut right before bed?" When I continued, his arched eyebrow suggested that he thought I was crazy. Afterwards, he meshed some industrial-strength sarcasm with some constructive insights and theorized what it all might mean. Now, all you amateur dream interpreters, its your turn to give me feedback ...or at least a bunch of snide and snappy remarks.

I BET IF SIGMUND FREUD, (1856-1939), WAS MY ANALYST, AFTER HEARING ABOUT THIS DREAM, HE WOULD HAVE TURNED HIS BACK ON PSYCHOANALYSIS FOR THE MENTAL STABILITY OF A JOB AT THE CAR WASH .

My dream reminded me of the, "A STOP IN WILLOUGHBY," episode from the original, "TWILIGHT ZONE." It was the thirtieth show of the first season, (premiering May 6, 1960). The main character was a successful advertising executive who was burnt-out at work and had a miserable home life.
THE MASTER OF MACABRE, ROD SERLING, (1924-1975), IS MOST FAMOUS FOR THIS AWARD WINNING SCIENCE FICTION ANTHOLOGY SERIES. DURING ITS FIVE SEASONS, HE WROTE 92 OF THE 156 EPISODES AND APPEARED AS THE HOST/NARRATOR, IN ALL OF THEM.

Serling's opening narration in the, "A STOP IN WILLOUGHBY," episode was:

This is Gart Williams, age thirty-eight, a man protected by a suit of armor all held together with one bolt. Just a moment ago, someone removed that bolt. Mr. Williams' protection fell away and left him a naked target. He's been cannonaded this afternoon by all the enemies of his life. His insecurity has straddled him with humiliation and deep rooted disquiet about his own worth has zeroed in him and blown him apart. Mr. Gart Williams ad agency exec, who in just a moment will move into the Twilight Zone--in a desperate search for survival.

On Mr. Williams' sleepy, commuter train ride home, he dreams of being back in 1888. His dream then comes alive as the train and its riders are transformed to that period. The old-fashioned conductor then calls out, "Next stop Willoughby." At the depot, Williams sees a quiet, idyllic community. He hesitates and is sorry that he missed his opportunity to get off. The next day Williams dreams again and this time, he gets the courage to check-out the town. However, in his depressed stupor, he is actually jumping to his death from his speeding commuter train.

BEFORE HIS FATEFUL ARRIVAL IN WILLOUGHBY, WILLIAMS HAS MANY QUESTIONS FOR THE CONDUCTOR.

Serling closed that episode with this narration:

Willoughby? Maybe its wishful thinking nestled into a hidden part of a man's mind, or maybe its the last stop in the vast design of things or perhaps for a man like Gart Williams who climbed on a world that went too fast, its a place around the bend where he could jump off. Willoughby? Whatever it is, it comes with sunlight and serenity and is part of the Twilight Zone.

The opening scene of my Twilight Zone-like dream is a beautiful, sunny day in my old neighborhood's, Canarsie Park. I am playing stickball with my son Andrew. The two-prong significance is, my boy almost never participates in sports and I played stickball with my dad there once when I was about twelve...and it was a great moment in my life.

Andrew and I interrupt our game to look for a restroom. Suddenly, we're standing in front of one of the men's rooms where I work. I recognize MARKT, a kid of little significance, from my childhood. While making introductions, I tell my son that this adult had moved away in 1967 after sixth grade. I then whisper to Andrew, "I wonder if he remembers this." Then I tell MARKT, the time in 4th grade after lunch when he raised his hand and said, "I smell doody."

Our wicked-witch teacher was deranged and extremely mean. She snarled, "Everyone, check your shoes." My seat was last in the first row and MARKT was last in the sixth row. So across the nearly empty back of the room, I got a clear view of the bottom of his left shoe. Caked into the arch of his Oxford, was a moist wad of presumably dog poo. Then other students noticed that with every step MARKT had taken, he left a trail of dog dirt dollops. Rather than call the custodian, our shrewish teacher disgraced him. She demanded that he get in his hands and knees with paper towels and wipe the floor throughout the classroom, out the door and down the hall. Forty-six years later, my sympathy for him is still acute because she doled-out plenty of other abuse, my way too.

In the dream, MARKT didn't recall the incident. But he wanted to play stickball with us. I said, "Okay." He said, "I gotta tell my wife." When MARKT went into the ladies room, I told Andrew that MARKT was a lefty and never swung until he had two strikes. I said, "I'll throw him two fastballs down the middle and finish him with a slow screwball...and I guarantee, he never swings the bat.

MARKT never returns. Andrew disappeared when we went outside to the valet parking area. An attendant brought me a tired, old horse. I mounted up. The ride was a slow process but I wound up in the countryside. In the middle of stinky cow pastures and wide open spaces, I saw a, WELCOME TO HURLEYVILLE, billboard, (there is no such town in New Jersey and I doubt I've been any place with that name). Everything is pleasant like Willoughby until cars start whizzing by me. A few drivers stick their head out the window and tell me to get off the road. I caught eye-contact with one and he gave me the middle finger.

I was wishing that Andrew (currently a driver's license permit holder), was with me to appreciate this lack of roadway etiquette. Further along as this rural, two-lane thoroughfare became more residential, my butt became saddle sore. While getting off the horse, I make a mental note to write a blog about these experiences, (remembering that mental note might be the only reason I recall this dream). When I dismount, I notice I'm barefoot and horse crap is everywhere...I cautiously tip-toe along.

When I turned onto a busy city street, the horse vanished. I am now on the promenade, between state office buildings, in Trenton New Jersey, (it should be noted that we are beginning the process of shopping for Andrew's college and The College of New Jersey, formerly Trenton State is an early, serious contender).

THE TRENTON STATEHOUSE AND CAPITOL BUILDING...OF COURSE, SOMETIMES, IN REGARD TO SYMBOLISM, A DOME IS JUST A DOME.

Along the walkway, there is a crush of pedestrians coming and going in every direction. I see a friend/coworker (JOEMAC). We're going the same way and chat as we sift through the crowd. When I look up, a three-headed man crosses our path. I whisper to JOEMAC, "You see that!" He said, "Yeah, but don't look back." Of course, I look back and the center head turns to face me. He looks like an angry/fierce version of TV pitchman Billy Mays. He gives me a dirty look...and I wake up, (Andrew was a big fan of Mays and in my boy's own way, he mourned the spokes person's untimely passing).

ANDREW'S TRIBUTE TO HIS FALLEN HERO, BILLY MAYS, HALLOWEEN 2009.

Now picture my dream as if it were the, "A STOP IN HURLEYVILLE," episode of the Twilight Zone. I would imagine that Rod Serling's closing narrative might've sounded like this:

Hurleyville? Maybe its wistful thinking nestled into a part of a man's mind. Or maybe its the last stop in the vast design that links generations. Or perhaps its a place or a temptation for a man like Edelblum who clings to the memories and monsters of the past to preserve and keep safe, from fear, dissatisfaction and evil, the worrisome vision of his legacy. Hurleyville. Whatever it is, like everything else in the Twilight Zone, it comes with sunlight and serenity packaged together with pain, grotesque beasts and plenty of feces.

Its obvious to me that I possess the mind of a sick man. So, before Freud comes back and minimizes my dream to a fantasy about having sex with an aardvark, please help me repair my, "Abbie Normal," brain. WAIT A SECOND, MAYBE THESE AARDVARKS ARE "ONTO" SOMETHING?

More importantly Igor, here's your challenge. Pick apart the mosaic of my skewed private world and let me know what you think!