I DOUBT EDGAR ALLAN POE COULD WALK PAST THAT MANY RAVENS WITHOUT CRAPPING HIS PANTS

When I was fifteen, I was waiting to place my order in a greasy spoon luncheonette. While trying to get the counterman’s attention, another worker came out of the storeroom with a humongous, generic, white can whose only markings were these four, gigantic, black letters, T – U – N – A.

TO ENVISION HOW BIG THE CAN WAS, FORGET ABOUT THE FIVE OUNCE CANS YOU HAVE IN YOUR PANTRY.  I NEED YOU TO PICTURE AN INSTITUTIONAL-SIZED, FIVE-POUNDER.

Two girls about my age were sitting on the stools to my left. The further girl said, “That is the biggest can of tuna I ever saw…” The girl next to me scoffed, “Don’t be stupid.” Then she used her thumb and index finger to approximate a normal-sized can and added, “Tuna is a little fish.”

In 1976, I took a film studies course at Brooklyn College. It was supposed to be a candy-coated easy “A” (and was). But while I expected to goof-off and watch classic movies, I developed a deeper appreciation for film as an art form...and that appreciation eventually spread to literature and art.

This transformation began on day-one. In the dark auditorium, during the opening credits of the first film we saw, the spark inside was lit. It started when I noticed an undercurrent of excitement from apparently unacquainted students, happily whispering to each other.  I got the impression that something was about to happen onscreen. I was still clueless until the movie’s director (I soon found out this gimmick was his trademark), made a cameo appearance.

That first movie was Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 suspense thriller, “PSYCHO.” When I found out the history of these incidental appearances, it felt so good to finally “learn” something at college after three years. But beyond being in on this one subtlety, I soon realized how backward I was when I discovered how symbolism is used to support the plot with cryptic messages and themes.

OF THE 52 SURVIVING, MAJOR HITCHCOCK MOVIES, 39 INCLUDE HIS CAMEOS. THESE WALK-ONS WERE USUALLY AS AN ANONYMOUS PASSERBY.  BUT (above) IN 1944's "LIFEBOAT," HE HAD TO BE MORE CLEVER BY INCLUDING HIMSELF IN A NEWSPAPER ADVERTISEMENT AS THE 'BEFORE AND AFTER' MAN FOR "REDUCO OBESITY SLAYER."

I remember how my jaw dropped when the professor began listing “Psycho’s” recurring “bird theme.” (The opening scene was set in a high rise hotel room, in Phoenix. Then the voyeuristic audience has a bird’s eye view from the open window as a couple has some afternoon delight).

Also, actor Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates, has his beady eyes described as bird-like. In the Bates Motel office, taxidermy birds and paintings of birds are used as decorations. Later, the first murder victim, Marion Crane, was said to have eaten like a bird.

(above) THE ICONIC SET FROM "PSYCHO." THE STORY ORIGINATED FROM ROBERT BLOCH'S NOVEL THAT WAS INSPIRED BY WISCONSIN MURDERER AND GRAVE-ROBBER, ED GEIN.

Maybe Hitch had something for birds because three years later he directed, “THE BIRDS.” I saw it in the Canarsie Theater with my sister, (actually, she was so scared, she spent more time shreiking on her way to the lady’s room and lobby). Even when she was lured back to me by her share of the popcorn and raisinets, she covered her eyes with her hand.

AT THE MOVIES, WE HAD A LIMITED BUDGET.  BUT BY AGE TEN, SIS WAS ALREADY A DRAMA QUEEN.  SO REGARDLESS OF HOW IMPORTANT IT WAS TO DRAW ATTENTION TO HERSELF, SHE KNEW BETTER AND NEVER LEFT ME FOR LONG WITH ALL THE CANDY.

Once sis's curiosity got the better of her, she would separate her fingers, take a peek at the screen, scream and run back to the santuary of the women's lounge.

Edgar Allan Poe realized how scary birds can be 168 years ago. He wrote “THE RAVEN” in 1845 and it is still considered one of the most famous poems of all time. This Gothic, supernatural tale involves a mysterious midnight visit by a talking raven, to a man on the brink of losing his sanity, while mourning the death of his love, Lenore.

EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849) IS BEST KNOWN AS AN AUTHOR OF MYSTERIOUS AND MACABRE TALES.  HE WAS ONE OF THE FIRST AMERICAN SHORT STORY WRITERS AS WELL AS THE INVENTOR OF DETECTIVE FICTION AND A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE EARLY SUCCESS OF SCIENCE FICTION. THE (above) ILLUSTRATION OF THE RAVEN WAS DONE BY JOHN TENNIEL IN 1858.

I never really gave much thought to the actual raven until the NFL put a team in Baltimore with that name.

ALTHOUGH EDGAR ALLAN POE WAS BORN IN BOSTON, HE WAS A LONG-TIME RESIDENT OF BALTIMORE.  HE WROTE "THE RAVEN" WHILE LIVING THERE.  SO THE TEAM NAME "RAVENS" IS A TRIBUTE HIM AND THE ON-FIELD MASCOT (above) "POE," BEARS HIS NAME.

Due to the poem, I've been under the impression that ravens are dangerous but I had no deeper ideas about them.  I just figured they resembled crows or magpies, lived far away and didn't affect me.  I was also incorrectly influenced by their size because the John Tenniel illustration above as well as others I have seen, make them seem small.

DON'T BE MISLEAD BY THE PICTURE, AN ADULT RAVEN AVERAGES TWENTY-FIVE INCHES TALL.  THERE ARE EIGHT MAJOR SPECIES OF THEM AND THEIR RANGE IS NEARLY GLOBAL. THEY ARE SO MENACING THAT MANY EXPERTS REFER TO THEIR FLOCKS AS AN "UNKINDNESS" OR A "CONSPIRACY." 

I never knowingly crossed paths with a raven until June 2009.  My family vacation took us to the Grand Canyon.  Park rangers, in addition to answering questions about the incredible scenery, are quick to point out how rare California Condors are and how they are often confused with the abundant raven.

KIN TO THE VULTURE, THE CALIFORNIA CONDOR IS THE LARGEST NORTH AMERICAN BIRD.  IN 1987, THEY WERE NEARLY EXTINCT.  THROUGH ARDENT CONSERVATION EFFORTS, BY MAY 2012 THE POPULATION HAS RISEN TO 405, (187) IN CAPIVITY.

One night, during a Grand Canyon lecture on the park's wildlife, a film estimated that there were less than four-hundred condors and most of them lived near the park. (If my math is right, they've made some modest progress in the last four years).

We were reminded of the extreme rarity of these birds when we were told, "Don't be fooled by similar birds in flight." The similar birds he spoke of were ravens.  He mentioned that unless you see white plumage underneath the wings, you were looking at a raven.  What he should have said was,  high flying ravens seem as large as condors.  And when you look hundreds of feet into the air, you lose prospective of just how big Poe's fine feathered fellows are.

On several occasions the next day, I noticed people pointing to the sky and boasting, "I see a California Condor!"  So due to the lack of prospective and the inability to spot white feathers under the wings from so far away, all you can say is, maybe they did a condor up there...but overwhelmingly...they did not.

OUR MOTEL, THE RED FEATHER INN WAS IN THE TOWN OF TUSAYAN ARIZONA (ADJACENT TO THE GRAND CANYON ENTRANCE).

Both mornings in Tusayan, I woke up at 7:00AM and did my hour-long power walk through the mostly uninhabited streets.  On the second day, I retraced my steps.  One strip mall wasn't as recessed from the street as the others.  I went out of my way to take advantage of its shady boardwalk-like path along the store fronts (it was already ninety degrees...but it's okay because it's a dry heat). 

JUNE 29, 2009, IN PAINTED DESERT ARIZONA, (THREE HOURS FROM THE GRAND CANYON), OFFICER OBIE EXPLAINS WHY 112 DEGREES "TAINT" SO BAD.

At the end of the Tusayan walkway, I knew remembered the open space before the next set of stores had a row of ten dumpsters.  Within seconds when I looked that way, I was shocked to see that I surrounded by two-hundred ravens, (I didn't need them to lift their wings to see if there were white feathers...these had to be ravens or else it would have been every condor in the wild).

While sifting through the garbage, these hungry bastards seemed angry that I was disturbing their feeding frenzy. In that instant, I was the most scared I ever was. It didn't help that I flashed-back to Hitchcock's, "THE BIRDS" ad that the park ranger claified for some kid that being omnivores meant ravens eat anything.

I thought I was going to spontaneously soil myself when I realized that they might attack. I pictured them trying to peck out my eyeballs and making me a part of their balanced breakfast.  When a few of the giant black birds made the threatening gesture of flapping their wings, I thought for sure my life was over.  Lucky me, not only did I not crap my pants but holy schnikees, I was able to verify that the feathers under the wings were pure black.  Thus my astute eye proved that this was indeed an "unkindness" of ravens!  Somehow, I had the wherewithal to keep moving.  Then without any unnatural or sudden movements, I veered right and got the flock out of there.

IMAGINE THIS SCENE FROM "THE BIRDS" WITH THIS MANY TWO-FOOT TALL RAVENS...I GUARANTEE, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN THE SCARIEST SEQUENCE IN MOVIE HISTORY.

Like the girls in the luncheonette, we perceive how big things should be and have difficulty accepting new realities.  But I bet Edgar Allan Poe never conceived of a situation with that many two-foot tall ravens, (like the photo above ).  So I sincerely doubt, even on Halloween, he could have ever walked past those monkey bars...nevermore!

LAUGHING THROUGH THE CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS

Did you ever wonder what life would be like without humor?  Seems incomprehensible because no matter how bad it gets, the human spirit always overcomes adversity.   

Think back to the worst moments in the last hundred years...did the stunning Stock Market Crash of 1929, Lindbergh kidnapping or the Great Depression permanently end silliness? What about Pearl Harbor, the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, two world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Iran, Iraq and Afghanistan...I say, “NO!” Even when the nation’s psyche was rocked by the triple assassinations of John Kennedy, Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy our smiles were only temporarily shuttered. Plus, the more recent storms like Katrina and Sandy and the terror-filled day of 911, couldn’t stop our laughter for long.

"OH THE HUMANITY." THE HINDENBURG (MAY 6, 1937) WAS THE FIRST DISASTER AIRED LIVE, (BROADCAST THE NEXT DAY ON A NEWSREEL).  THE COMMENTATOR (HERBERT MORRISON) WAS SO SHAKEN HIS VOICE CRACKED AS HE STRAINED TO KEEP HIS EMOTIONS UNDER CONTROL. THERE WERE 35 FATALITIES ABOARD THE SHIP AND A MEMBER ON THE GROUND CREW.  NONETHELESS, AFTER A SHORT WHILE, THE WORLD WENT BACK TO LAUGHING.

Hidden in all the tumult listed above, there was one event that seems universally overlooked, (this month, marks the 51st anniversary of thirteen tension-filled days that almost changed the world forever). 

This near catastrophe is not for the squeamish, it had the potential for long-term serious consequences that we can barely imagine. However, because we narrowly side-stepped it, this incident is either taken for granted or, because of the negative ramification...is conveniently forgotten. Now I’m going to tell you just how close we came to losing the entire joy of the American way of life...or far worse, being completely annihilated by a nuclear holocaust.

To begin, let's examine how my prospective of danger was formed. It started on my first day of kindergarten. No my teacher Mrs. Konawalikowsky wasn’t a nasty fire breathing dragon...my first day was shortened by Hurricane Donna.

LETHAL HURRICANE DONNA ORIGINATED NEAR CAPE VERDE OFF THE AFRICAN COAST, MADE A SHARP RIGHT AT FLORIDA, SLID UP THE EASTERN SEABOARD BEFORE SLAMMING INTO BROOKLYN ON SEPTEMBER 12, 1960.

Later on my first day, the school was evacuated.  One by one, panic-stricken parents came in and "rescued" their kids. It was torture to me (remember, I was five) because in my classroom, my dad was the last to show up. 

The storm must have had Konawalikowsky shitting in her own pants.  What a cold fish, the bitch ignored me. While waiting for my father, it felt like I was being punished.  She didn't let me use anything, not even a stinkin' handful of crayons and a sheet of paper. Other kids had been troublesome to her because they had tantrums due to separation anxiety issues when their mother's dropped them off.  But not me, I was thrilled to be there...I was an angel. 

KONAWALIKOWSKY MADE THE KIDS WHO REALLY FREAKED-OUT STAND IN THE WALK-IN SUPPLY CLOSET WITH THE LIGHTS OFF, (THESE DAYS SHE'D LOSE HER JOB FOR THAT). 

Jeez, unless the old battle-ax was a clairvoyant and knew that eventually I would need massive attitude adjustments, then she was just cruel. So all the fun activity items remained in their proper place. And that meant I was left without diversion...it was frightening.  While she was doing whatever she was doing, I was on my own, to watch the carnage outside and wonder if the world was coming to an end.

When my father showed up, I knew I was safe. First, he put a sailor hat on me to keep my head dry. Then my imagination made me feel like I was his sidekick and that he and I were going on a hazardous mission. Dad valiantly picked me up and carried me through the hall to the exit.

(HAWAII, JANUARY 1975).  DAD (above, THE SAME AGE AS I AM NOW), WAS ALWAYS AN HEROIC FIGURE TO ME...EVEN WITH MACAW CRAP ON HIS SHOULDER.

At the end of the corridor, there was a half-flight of stairs down to street level. The landing before the exit doors was flooded with ankle-deep rainwater. Despite the whistling wail of the wind, I thought dad, wading through the mini-lagoon, was as cool as Superman.

The instant we were outside, my hat flew off. The memory of its flight, dancing and bouncing towards Avenue J, is indelibly burnt into my mind. Maybe I pictured myself as the sailor hat...I started screaming and crying as the whining gale inhibited dad's stride and the horizontal torrents soaked me.

Weeks later, on a chilly November morning, the school was again evacuated. The phrase we heard was, “This is NOT a drill.” I guess it’s imperative to save the youngest. So while the rest of the school was sent to freeze and stand in straight lines at the end of the block, my class was sent inside a house across the street.

THE TWENTY-THREE OF US WERE CRAMMED INTO A KINDLY VOLUNTEER'S KITCHEN.  I'M CLUELESS WHERE THE OTHER SIX KINDERGARTEN CLASSES WENT.

We stood in that house like nervous statues for an eternity (half hour?).  But it was like being given rock star status compared to the frosted, upper classmen outside.

Inside this house, the shades were drawn so we only heard the sirens, the screech of fire engine brakes and the defused orders being barked-out by the fire chief. Our young imaginations went wild as we speculated about the ashen remains that were to be left of the school. When the scariness was over, I was almost disappointed that everything was normal. The school was intact, there was no smoke, fire or piles of burnt bodies.

(PHOTO JUNE 1964) IN THE EARLY '60's, EVERYTHING IN MY PART OF CANARSIE WAS SHINY AND NEW.  MY SCHOOL (P.S. 279...SOON RENAMED THE HERMAN SCHREIBER SCHOOL) WAS BUILT IN 1960.  THIS SNAPSHOT WAS TAKEN NEAR THE KITCHEN REFUGE THAT MY KINDERGARTEN CLASS STAYED IN DURING THE FIRE.

These two events played a significant role in my thought process as the grips of cold war tensions reached its apex. By the time second grade rolled around, my classmates and I were all old pros at how to handle fire drills and drills in case of a nuclear attack.

I had seen the worst storm Mother Nature could churn-out so at seven, I was jaded because I knew how easy it was to survive killer hurricanes and I personally witnessed how unthreatening a real fire was. Of course, I wasn’t the sharpest second grader, (hell, I’m still no genius). Because back then, my idea of persevering through hardship was weekends at my grandmother’s house.  That's where Oreos were substituted by cheaper Hydrox cookies, grandpa’s inferior seltzer water was supposedly just as good as Pepsi and the glory of the occasional ice pop was minimized because it was broken in half so I could share it with my sister.

THE HYDROX IS A CREME-FILLED CHOCOLATE SANDWICH COOKIE THAT DEBUTED IN 1908.  IT'S NAME WAS DERIVED FROM THE ATOMIC ELEMENTS OF PURE WATER, (HYDROGEN AND OXYGEN).  IN 1912, IT INSPIRED THE BIRTH OF OREOS.  YET HYDROX SUFFERS FROM THE ERRONEOUS IMAGE OF BEING THE KNOCKOFF.

I had no idea what level of peril a nuclear attack might represent.  Others my age might have had access to older kids to give them a heads up but I didn't.  Today, some of my contemporaries claim they saw fear and apprehension in the face of their parents or other adults.  Again, not me...everyday was the same goofy business as usual.

If you were clueless (like I was), nuclear attack drills (there were two types) were just stupid.  The first involved hiding in a fetal position under your desk. Whoever came up with that idea appreciated the most convenient way to kiss our ass good-bye if the shit really hit the fan.

WHETHER YOU PICTURE THIS RIDICULOUSNESS IN YOUR MIND OR SEE AN ACTUAL PHOTO, THE BOTTOM LINE SEEMS OBVIOUS, SOMEBODY HAD TO COME UP WITH AN IDEA THAT GAVE THE IMPRESSION THAT HE KNEW HOW TO SAVE LIVES.

The second, (new and improved) type of nuclear attack drill must have come from someone big in the Board of Education.  Their positive brain cramp realized that if the shit indeed hit the fan, crouching under a desk was not going to save anyone. But if the shit only slightly hit the fan, the huge glass, classroom windows would shatter and severely cut-up the left side of every student. That’s when these drills were switched into the halls, away from windows.

COLD WAR HYSTERIA WASN'T RESERVED FOR SAVING ONLY SCHOOL CHILDREN.  NUCLEAR FALLOUT SHELTERS SPRANG-UP BENEATH LARGER, BIG CITY BUILDINGS.  TODAY, A SHORT TOUR OF OLDER BUILDINGS IN MANHATTAN, WOULD YIELD A FEW OF THESE FOSSILIZED SIGNS (above) STILL BOLTED TO WALLS.

The big question is, how necessary were these precautions? And the answer is, EXTREMELY ! The Cuban Missile Crisis was not listed above as one of the worst (most dangerous) moments in the last hundred years. But if you don’t already know, you’ll be shocked how one last second decision prevented the possibility of the end of the American (global) way of life.
In 1962, rhe island nation of Cuba stood alone as communist Russia’s only ally in the western hemisphere. Their leader Fidel Castro allowed Soviet ships to import the makings for nuclear missiles. Once assembled, a scant sixty miles from our coast, these devices of mass destruction were then to be aimed at our capital, key military instillations and heartland.

Luckily our U-2 reconnaissance planes spotted what was perceived to be tactical nuclear devices being shipped to Cuba. President John Kennedy stepped up and installed a naval blockade to block more ships.  Then he issued an ultimatum to the Russian Premiere, Nikita Khrushchev. During the ensuing thirteen-day confrontation Kennedy said he was prepared to bomb Russia if the Soviets ships didn’t turn around and go home.

IN MOSCOW'S RED SQUARE, AN R-12 INTERMEDIATE-RANGE NUCLEAR MISSILE, LIKE THOSE AIMED AT THE USA, IS DISPLAYED.

During this stalemate, (October 14th through October 28th), we came the closest to a nuclear war.  It also marked the first time the phrase, mutual assured destruction was ever documented. Due to the fact that a modest miscommunication, a botched interpretation or an unavoidable delay could cause a worldwide cataclysm...the idea of a telephone "hotline" was agreed to, to immediately expedite a link between the White House and the Kremlin.

The scary part is...unbeknownst to our intelligence community, the Russians already had enough fire power in place down there to blow us to smithereens. The fact that they actually backed down before either side did anything stupid...is one of the world’s greatest miracles. So thank goodness for our treasured humor, keep smiling and laugh as much as you can because we never know when it all might en

A MOTH THE SIZE OF A '48 BUICK

RODNEY DANGERFIELD LIKED TO SAY, “I ONCE READ, TO AVOID BULGARIES THAT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA WHEN YOU’RE NOT HOME AT NIGHT, TO KEEP YOUR LIGHTS ON. THE FIRST TIME I DID THAT...MY HOUSE WAS BROKEN INTO AND THE THIEVES LEFT A LOVELY NOTE SAYING, 'THANKS FOR KEEPING YOUR LIGHTS ON, IT MADE IT MUCH EASIER TO FIND YOUR GOOD STUFF.'"

My friends and I had a monthly poker that lasted nineteen years. Slowly, many of the charter members left town.

AUGUST 6, 2009, AT MY HOUSE. NOW SCATTERED TO MARYLAND, NEVADA, CALIFORNIA AND FLORIDA, THIS WAS THE LAST TIME THE CORE POKER BUDDIES WERE TOGETHER.

Three years ago, these gatherings ended. Now, all I have to cling to is the warm glow of the great memories. To honor the upcoming celebration of Halloween, I want to share with you…perhaps the strangest of those memories. Coincidentally, this incident also happened just before Halloween…and oddly, didn’t involve actually playing cards.

We used a rotating host system so the game shifted to different people’s houses. Mid-October 2000, marked the first time STAGE39 had us over. I drove SHMEE and KURUDAVE twenty miles north, into the Pine Barrens…affectionately known to us city slickers as, the bowels of rural New Jersey.

I exited the Garden State Parkway at New Gretna (Exit 50). After a series of turns, I found myself on a dark stretch of road.  A couple of miles later Kuru said, “It’s weird, there’s no people, houses or businesses out here.” I said, “No cars from the either direction…” Shmee cut-in, “It’s crazy, there’s no street signs…and for that matter, no signs of life.”

Kuru had once been to STAGE’s house (during the day) and insisted we were going right. These were the days before GPS’s, so buoyed by his confidence we plowed on. In the inkiness, up ahead, I saw a fork in the road. Kuru read from the directions, “I think we bear right?” Seconds after following his uncertain direction, it looked like the pavement was ending. I slammed on the brakes until I realized that where the blacktop ended was not a dirt road but a light-colored, paved surface without any painted lines on it.

Before I accelerated, I took a deep cleansing breath. Our journey only became eerier as we ventured deeper into the nothingness. Shmee nailed exactly how we all felt when he joked about the “BLAIR WITCH PROJECT” and added, “The three kids (amateur film producers) were never seen or heard from again.” I said, “Which one of us would be the girl?” Shmee said, “I’ve seen Kuru in a little black dress…and va-va-va-BOOM!” After some guarded laughter Kuru said, “I should've brought my phone…” Shee said, “Why? Are you so spooked you want to call 911.” Kuru said, “No genius, I wanted to call Stage39 to make sure we’re not lost.” Shmee said, “I have my phone…”

Over the phone, Stage laughed about our Blair Witch reference. He assured Shmee that his was the first house and we were a minute away. From out of the blackest forest, Stage’s house was isolated but a short distance beyond it, we were able to see civilization.

FROM 1999, "THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT" WAS FRESH IN OUR MIND. TO ADD REALISM TO THE HI-JINX, THE FILMMAKERS USED THE "FOUND FOOTAGE" METHOD WHICH SUPPOSEDLY MEANT THAT THEY WERE ALL KILLED AND ONLY THEIR FILM SURVIVED TO TELL THIS HIGHLY POPULAR,  LOW-BUDGET TALE THAT GROSSED $248 MILLION.

Stage’s family was elsewhere so in no time, we had a party house going. The music was blasting and a keg, along with a barbeque was set up on the deck, off his kitchen. Like an observation platform, this raised deck stood over the edge of the mysterious backwoods. A floodlight that attracted a gazillion moths illuminated the outside area. The set-up reminded me of “JURASSIC PARK,” as I kept expecting a T-Rex to burst through brambles below.

Inside, while chowing down, I thought it was curious that Stage made no attempt to close his sliding screen door. Even worse, he was oblivious to the flying nuisances that he had “invited” in, (this would NEVER happen at my house).

When all seven players arrived, the dealer’s choice poker game started. Twenty minutes later, we were playing, “Deuces, Jacks, the Man with the Ax” when a moth the size of a ’48 Buick fluttered around the chandelier.

THE TERM, "AS BIG AS A '48 BUICK," SYMBOLIZES ANYTHING OVER-SIZED.

This mega-moth distracted everyone except Stage. When he was asked about it he said, “If I were you, I’d worry more about what’s in those woods.” ML said, “Like what?” Stage said, "We’ve seen coyotes, raccoons, skunks…” Shmee got up, closed the glass slider, and the floodlight and said, “I’m not sharing my burger with Boo-Boo and Yogi.” Stage said, “Oh yeah, around here, we also get Bigfoot, the Jersey Devil and Mothman.”

A STATUE OF MOTHMAN IN WEST VIRGINIA?  ITS ONLY BEEN "AROUND" SINCE 1966.

ML said, “Ah, a Mothman reference. How about the chupacobra?  You must be a fan of Art Bell.” The sound of the ubiquitous crickets was deafening.

CHUPACABRA IS THE SPANISH WORD FOR GOAT SUCKER.  IT PERTAINS TO AN INVENTED MONSTER THAT WAS HOPED TO BOOST TOURISM AND MERCHANDIZING IN PUERTO RICO.  THE GIMMICK IS, THIS COMMERCIAL ENTERPRISE FEEDS ON THE BLOOD OF LIVESTOCK, PRIMARILY GOATS.

On the way home, Kuru was up front with me, Shmee was in the back seat and behind us, ML followed in his car. The conversation concentrated on the paranormal. Kuru pandering to our strange night said, “Stage was kidding when he mentioned Bigfoot, the Jersey Devil and Mothman? But they are real.” In unison Shmee and I said, “No.” He responded, “Like the Loch Ness Monster, they are animals whose existence can’t be proven. I think it’s an authentic science but the so-called experts are afraid to say it's all bullshit...just in case...so they threw it all into the category of a pseudoscience and labeled it, cryptozoology."

IN DEFENSE OF KURU, DINOSAURS AND SHARKS BY TODAY'S STANDARDS WOULD HAVE BEEN PUT UNDER THE HEADING OF CRYPTOZOOLOGY.  CONTEMPORARY ANIMALS THAT WERE FOUND TO BE REAL WERE THE GIANT SQUID AND THE OKAPI (above).  IN THE CONGO (1901) THE OKAPI WAS FIRST SPOTTED.  IT WAS CONSIDERED A SUPERSTITION FOR DECADES.  IN 2000, I PAID A SEPARATE ADMISSION FOR MY SON ANDREW AND I, TO SEE ONE, AT THE BRONX ZOO.

Kuru said that he’s fascinated by TV shows about crop circles and animal mutilations. But his favorite topic is the unexplained creatures like sasquatch, the thunder bird and the chupacabra.

MOST BIGFOOT, SASQUATCH, YETI AND ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN SIGHTING WIND-UP BEING A PAID ACTOR IN AN APE SUIT, A MISIDENTIFICATION OR A HOAX

I said, “Maybe.  Because it's too bad we didn't have a camera back on 1991." 

WHEN IT COMES TO PHOTO EVIDENCE LIKE THE THUNDERBIRD (above) WHICH IS SAID TO HAVE LIZARD FEATURES AND RESEMBLE A PRE-HISTORIC PTEROSAUUS OR THE CHUPACABRA (THE GOAT SUCKER) MOST HAVE BEEN PHOTO-SHOPPED TO DISGUISE DAMNING DETAILS OR TAKE THE SIZE OUT OF PROPER PROPORTION.

Then I told him and Shmee about the weird animal I saw in Cape Hatteras North Carolina. Nobody I ever spoke to, even people who live there had no idea what animal I was talking about…most didn’t believe me, (I wrote a blog about that experience on December 14, 2009….called, “EDELBLUM MYSTERY THEATER, MANBEARPIG).”

THE INSPIRATION TO CALL MY CAPE HATTERAS CRITTER "MANBEARPIG," CAME FROM THE "SOUTH PARK" EPISODE FROM SEPTEMBER 10, 2007

We were still driving through the Pine Barrens when I remarked that we were approaching the spot where the blank, light-colored pavement changed back to the blacktop with the standard lines painted on it. In the instant that we crossed that distinctive line, I saw a deer up ahead. In the instance it took to put on my high beams, it disappeared…disappeared as in vanished. My eye never left this rascal and I’m telling you…it DID NOT run away. I gasped, “Holy shit.” At the same time Kuru said, “Did you see that?” Shmee cried out, “What the fuck?”

I said, “Where did that deer go?” Shmee said, “That was no deer, that was a silver ghost or something that vaporized straight up through the trees…” Kuru said, “No, it was like, like, like a phosphorescent green pixie or woodland spite running across the road.” I said, “What I saw was a solid deer. Three legs were on this side of the yellow line and I can tell you the exact angle of his head.” We pulled over and asked ML. He said, “I remember when you put on your brights. But I saw nothing. You guys only have bees in your bonnet because of all that “ART BELL” (radio show) jibber-jabber.” Kuru said, “We saw…” ML interrupted, “You all saw something completely different…it’s the cheap beer talking and your imagination going wild. You’re all nuts!”

I started listening to Art Bell on my way home from work, (several years ago he retired. The show is now called, “COAST TO COAST,” hosted by George Noury). The material centers on the para-normal. The best shows feature legitimate authors and scientists. But I also find the odd-ball subjects like UFO abductions, ancient aliens building the great pyramids and a multidimensional presence that can justify any crazy claim. But mostly I get a kick out of the cryptozoology.

When the crackpots call in, I feel bad that people are so lonely or have such low self-esteem that they need their ten seconds of fame. And because so many “believe,” a whole industry was developed to cater to their whimsy and monetarily take advantage of their naivete, (as P. T. Barnum said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” So within certain limits, I think it’s okay to give the masses what they want).

I feel it's all nonsense because the mind plays tricks on all of us. In my case, countless times something has whizzed by in my peripheral vision. I get an uncontrollable vision in my mind of what it was. But I don’t act on it because I’m well-adjusted enough to know that ethereal beings like “shadow people,” “hags” and “the Illuminati” aren’t coming to my house to haunt or harm me.

Still, seemingly rational people swear…usually after an experience in the dark...that what’s upsetting them couldn’t possibly be a simple impulse of light from a quiet, passing car that squeezed through their blinds, bounced off a mirror, reflected onto a glass coffee table and presented a picture in their mind of a vicious Manbearpig…no, I’m cereal.

Those with a weaker personality can blow an event like that out of proportion and send their mind reeling and their cell-phones to the 911 dispatcher. I believe this to be true because of what happened on the road coming back from Stage’s house. Plus, last week, something similar happened when I would have sworn my dog Roxy came in the room while I was blogging. When I turned to greet her, the room was empty.

For those who build-up these unearthly animalistic circumstances to capitalize on fame or fortune, we give rise to things like cryptozoology.

Last night, it happened again. I keep telling my wife that it’s a bad idea to keep the outside light on. First, as Rodney Dangerfield would attest, it’s a beacon to thieves that you aren’t home. Secondly, the light attracts bugs, particularly moths.

At 4:30AM, I ran in the house and shut the outside light. In the dark, I went into the kitchen. Before I turned on the light, by the glow of a distant neighbor’s floodlight, a fluttery impulse buzzed by the right corner of my vision. I was afraid that a bat was dive-bombing my head in the hope of building a nest in my hair, (or just landing on my head). I turned on the lights and began a futile search of the ghostly, malevolent spirit. I imagined a young thunderbird crapping pounds of baby bird turds all over the place. I was hoping that I was just over-tired and was getting psyched-out by nothing. But as I entered the darkened family-room my suspicions were verified by another glimpse of the IUFO, (interior unidentified flying object).

I turned on the light and shreiked by what I perceived out if the corner of my eye as, the colossal Mothman. Upon a closer look, it wasn't bigger than me.  But it was a gigantic moth like the one at Stage’s poker game, (the size of a ’48 Buick).  I saw it fly under the lamp shade. This bugger was bigger than a monarch butterfly on steroids. I was in no mood to capture the beast and try to rehabilitate him…I got the GALLOWAY CURRENT, (community newspaper)…flushed the bastard out the top with my hand and smooshed the fleeing devil against the wall.

A weaker indivual would have sent the Galloway Current this story for publication complete with the physical remains of the giant moth crushed into their newspaper but I'm too secure in myself to do that.  However, when my wife Sue reads this blog, she’ll notice the one infinitesimal dot of moth goop that I couldn’t scrape off the wall. If she gives me a hard time, I’ll tell her to expect collateral damage if she keeps the outside light on...the last thing we need is an exterminator to rid our house of a chupacabra.                      

NO MUDDY WINDSHIELD...THAT MAKES ME, A LUCKY STIFF

This past Thursday (three days ago) was a rough day for me…and I did it to myself!

Eight days before that, I started the ball of negativity rolling by not following my impending colonoscopy directions properly, (due to the graphic nature of the subject matter, younger or less mature readers might want to step away from their computer, I'll understand).

These difficuties were discussed in last week’s blog. They centered on the fact that in addition to a twenty-four hour fast, I was supposed to drink a ton of laxative. Powdered Miralax is an over-the-counter, scentless, tasteless treatment designed to gently purge the intestines of its bowels. Miralax dissolves well when poured into 64 ounces of an approved, clear drink, (I chose Crystal Light lemonade). Stupidly, halfway through the regimen, I got bored of drinking this tasty, non-gritty golden ticket to a shiny clean intestinal tract.

The next day, like getting slapped in the face with a flounder, my failure to follow directions caused my procedure to be stopped...because…in the immortal words of Larry the nurse, “Put yourself in the doctor’s position. Would you drive if you had a muddy windshield and your wipers didn’t work?”

Larry a true New Yorker, (from Yonkers) was doubly cool because he maintained his professionalism with a great gurney side manner as he insulted my poor judgement, attitude and laziness, in regard to the colonoscopy preparation. But inside, I knew I screwed-up…so whatever Larry was dishing-out was nothing compared to what I was screaming internally at myself.

The result was a re-test. For my Colonoscopy Part Deux, I vowed to be the best direction follower…EVER! That meant regardless of the boredom and starvation, I would be the model patient. But the doctor slipped in one little caveat that I wasn’t expecting…a two-day prep!

I was so pissed off at the prospect of the forty-eight hour starvation period that I think I accidentally activated one of my three, genie in a bottle wishes. Because when I called to set-up another appointment, I identified myself to the representative as having failed and that the doctor was putting me on a two-day prep. She said, “I have your file but the doctor is recommending just a one-day prep.” I was pleased to have dodged the bullet...massive quantities of Crystal Light, here I come.

I'LL LET YOU IN ON THE SECRET TO MY WEALTH, COMIC GENIUS AND DROP-DEAD GOOD LOOKS, ALWAYS REMEMBER TO SAVE YOUR THIRD GENIE WISH FOR...THREE MORE WISHES.  I'VE BEEN GETTING AWAY WITH THAT SCAM FOR FIFTY YEARS.

Unfortunately, sometimes the old adage; careful what you ask for...because you just might get it; jumps up and bites you in the ass.  It happened to me when the doctor mailed me new and improved twenty-four hour colonoscopy prep instructions. The major bugger-boo included a prescription for a more heavy-duty (pun intended) laxative. And this time…I was required to drink slightly more than double the previous amount, (134 fluid ounces). And, and, and I would discover the day before, the drink had to be water AND, AND, AND…this stuff would stink to high hell and have a putrid taste.

On the Sunday between failing the first colonoscopy and finding out I was being put on more potent meds, I went to a party. The Mac Family are great friends and wonderful people. The most unique thing about them, (husband, wife and two sons) is that their extended family which might add-up to fifty that I’m acquainted with (parents, siblings, children, nieces, nephews, cousins etc) are ALL the nicest people. There isn’t a head-case, crab-apple or drama queen in the whole clan, (believe me, nobody’s ever made that observation about my extended family).

During the festivities, several folks approached me and asked about my hernia surgery.  Two others noticed my chipped tooth was repaired. Unlike teasing New Yorkers, I was the brunt of NOBODY’S stale humor. Everything was purely sensitive caring about my well being. Later, grandma and one of her son’s came by. The son wished me well on colonoscopy #2 before adding, “My mom just had one done.” She said, “The medicine tastes like sea water with a hint of effervescence.” I figured she was prescribed something else and said, “Oh.” She added, “It’s the most revolting thing I ever put in my mouth.” Her son said, “Mom said it was like drinking the crap she soaks her dentures in."  She nudged his side with her elbow, "I'm sure you can express yourself without using such bad language."  After he apologized he said, "I packed the 'stuff' with ice. My mom was a champ, she downed the whole mess in two hours.”

OUCH!  I wound-up with the same medicine as grandma. The day before my procedure, my rough day started at 9:00AM with my first four, (of twelve) Dulcolax tablets, (the first colonoscopy prescribed only eight). Dulcolax acts like a sand blaster and is designed to rid the system of whatever the Miralax missed, (only this time to avoid coming up short, I was using an industrial strength counterpart to Miralax that was called Electrolyte with a bunch of numbers after it).

At 2:00PM, I had my first sip of the new electrolyte concoction. The directions suggested drinking eight-ounces every ten minutes until the enormous plastic container was empty. Between gagging and seriously doubting that I could persevere, I convinced myself that this was indeed, the worst shit I ever intentionally put in my mouth, EVER! Even before taking my second sip, I knew I was going to struggle to complete this horrible ordeal.

While trying to psych myself up to continue, I got a calculator and figured out that I had to consume sixteen and a half glasses of this poison. Considering, I hadn’t even had one, one-thousandth of the half glassful yet, ripping my own head off seemed like a reasonable way out.

In two hours, I had knocked-off five glassfuls. But according to my math, I should have already had twelve. I felt nauseous and just looking at the imposing glass of cloudy nastiness made me feel worse. Complaining to my wife was a dead-end. Instead of sympathy, I was reminded that I put myself in this position and that if I wanted to avoid a third colonoscopy, it was time to buck-up. Then as if I needed more cajoling she added, “Grandma Mac was already finished by this time.”

That was all the motivation I needed. I started sucking those babies down. I was helped by the old trick of holding my nose while drinking. It might sound silly…but I think it did help. Still, I thought I was going to puke the whole time.

Talk about the ultimate appetite suppressor. To prove how awful I felt, I was allowed to eat Jello. I made five boxes and had them ready to get me through the night. But in the midst of my predicament, the thought of eating ANYTHING was ridiculous!

All was quiet on the western front until 6:00PM.  Then moments after taking four more Dulcolax, I recalled the song lyric, "I've got something inside me," from Harry Chapin's 1972 hit, "TAXI."  When this sense of dread became more acute, I quoted Winnie the Pooh, “I have a rumbly in my tumbly.” Except Pooh’s gurgling stomach signaled it was time to make a deposit but mine was a warning to the world that an explosive withdrawal was imminent.

POOH CRAVED HONEY.  THERE WAS NOTHING SWEET ABOUT WHAT I WAS ABOUT TO GO THROUGH.  IF THE CUDDLY CUBBIE PREPPED FOR A COLONOSCOPY, HE WOULD HAVE BEEN RENAMED "WINNIE THE POO."

Once my hydrogen-bomb-scaled discharge started, it seemed like they would never end. Soon my movements evolved to mostly liquids.  While sitting there, more tunes came to mind when I was reminded of the Doobie Brothers 1974 song lyric, “Oh black water.”

In deference to the black waterworks, the object of the game is to “clear” everything out. So until everything was “clear” that meant there was more work to be done. But whatever momentum I had...drinking that heinous mixture was long gone.

We all know the saying; a man is the king of his castle. Well that night, in my living room, in a seat as close to the bathroom as possible, I watched a ball game. My frequent mad dashes reminded me of the baseball term, “A no doubles defense.” That meant, I wasn’t taking any chances by staying too far from my throne.

I guess with all the music I was making, another song lyric came to mind during my tribulations.  This one was, “Oo-oo that smell,” from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s 1977 song, “THE SMELL.”

LYNYRD SKYNYRD FORMED IN 1964.  THEY WERE THE FORERUNNERS OF "SOUTHERN HARD-ROCK."  AT THE HEIGHT OF THEIR POPULARITY, (1977), A PLANE CRASH KILLED THREE BAND MEMBERS.  THEIR SONG, "FREE BIRD" IS MY PERSONAL ANTHEM AND ALL-TIME FAVORITE ROCK-N-ROLL SONG.  TODAY, THE BAND STILL PERFORMS TOGETHER.

At nine, I took the last four Dulcolax tabs. By this time my butt was so sore that this new electrified stinging pain was worse than anything else I had experienced all day.

I was expecting that last dose to cause a “coup de grace” but to my dismay, at 10:00PM, I wasn’t ready to give the all “clear” signal. I traced my lack of progress, (back-up) to be linked to the end of my nausea. Then I realized I stopped drinking the laxative two hours earlier. I had downed ¾ of it and couldn’t face another drop. But the harsh reality was…to avoid another muddy windshield and thus a third colonoscopy, I was forced to endure chugging more swill.

The big ending of my rough day started almost immediately. For the next ninety minutes, like timing a pregnant woman’s contractions, I was spewing every four minutes. By 11:30PM, I was reasonably certain that I had achieved enough clarity to get through my procedure that was only eight hours off.

Before bed, I showered for many obvious reasons. I used plenty of baby powder in strategically selected areas and got temporary relief from that burning, rusty razor blade sensation in my hinterlands.

Still, it felt like suicide to lie down, close my eyes and risk what might happen in my sleep. It was my crowning achievement that I hadn’t soiled myself all day. So with that nasty thought dangling over my head, the last thing I expected was to actually dose off. I did wake-up twice during the night. I’m happy to say, neither time did I find a drowned facsimile of miniature Oh-Henry candy bar in my shorts.

In the morning at the medical center, I was asked all the same inane identification questions. I was sent inside and met all new staff members. I was disappointed that Nurse Larry wasn’t there but like the extended Mac family, every single person I came in contact with was professional, supportive and upbeat.

Afterwards, I woke up and I was greeted by a smiling stranger.  Nurse Nancy was friendly and full of boundless TLC. I asked the inevitable question and she said, “The doctor was able to complete the procedure.” However, she added, “He’ll be in to give you the results soon.”

Sure enough the doctor said, "Other than some minor hemorrhoids caused by so much straining everything is fine.  You won't need another colonoscopy for eight years."

The anesthesiologist dropped by to say hi. To further de-fog my head, she recommended some coffee. Nurse Nancy brought me some with graham crackers. A minute later, woozily, I hustled to the crapper because nothing was left inside me to slow down the impending avalanche. On behalf of me and the custodian, "YEA ME!" I made it in the nick of time. After a small amount of solid waste, plenty of hot air bellowed from my innards.

I returned to Nurse Nancy. She said it was okay to get dressed. I waited to be released into my wife Sue’s care. Before that could happen, I was forced to sprint again.

Sue was there when I got out from my second visit with the toilet. I told her that the doctor gave me a clean bill of health.  Her response was, "You do look thinner."

Our house is fifteen minutes from the medical center. We were in the car three blocks when I felt that familiar rumbly in my tumbly and said, “Quick, pull into Wawa (convenience store).” Sue said, “Really, you just went?” “Yeah, please don’t make this emergency into life’s ultimate embarrassment.”

While scurrying into the store, I reminded myself that their restrooms were “one-holers.” That meant that disaster was looming if the single stall was “occupado.” Luckily, the only person inside was using the urinal. So without losing stride, I was able to get in on the fly, (to avoid wasting precious seconds, I didn’t even use the mandatory sanitary seat cover).

A colossal concert of trumpeting farts buffered the erupting sounds of my volcanic splatter. If I was alone, I would have laughed because my rear-end sounded like a perfectly tuned Whoopee Cushion. 

IT IS BELIEVED THAT A PROTOTYPE OF THE WHOOPEE CUSHION GOES BACK TO ROMAN EMPEROR ELAGABALUS WHO USED THIS CLASSIC NOVELTY STORE PRACTICAL JOKE, THE SAME WAY WE DO TODAY.

A second person came in and bore witness to my incredible, continuous ode to gaseous emissions. After a high-octane start, I was only blowing immense volumes of trapped gas. During a lull, I was thinking about the Guinness World Book of Records when I realized, to placate my audience that a courtesy flush was in order. Seconds later, a new chorus of flatulence reverberated through the fine acoustics of the intimate venue. Then one of the men broke the unofficial "silence in the men’s room" rule by calling out to me, “Lucky stiff!”

Wow, some constipated guy was applauding my work. But the real prize was appreciating that I had survived such an unnecessary rough day. I had avoided the heartbreak of another muddy windshield, was pronounced healthy and therefore was indeed, a lucky stiff.

If you want to be a lucky stiff too, make sure when you're getting a colonoscopy, to insist on, the tasteless, grit-free Miralax, in your favorite beverage.  Even if you have to crawl over burning charcoal or walk bare-footed on broken glass, avoid the electrolyte- prep at all cost!