EDELBLUM MYSTERY THEATER: DON'T LOSE YOUR HEAD

I was still 23, (January 10, 1979),  when my career as a craps dealer started in Las Vegas.  During my third shift, the toilet I worked in hired Eddie Murphy.

EDWARD REGAN "EDDIE" MURPHY WAS BORN IN BROOKLYN NY, ON APRIL 3rd 1961.  HE ROSE TO PROMINENCE AS A STAND-UP COMEDIAN, THEN SUPER-STARDOM, AS A REGULAR ON SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, (1980-1984).

To clarify, I worked with a different Eddie Murphy.  This Eddie Murphy (Edwin Murphy), was a pot-bellied redhead from Western Pennsylvania.  He had a scar from a brawl above his left eye that permanently arched his eyebrow making him look consistently confused.

He once told me that when the coal mines began closing, the best chance of earning an honest living was either as a cop, a clergyman or going into the service. Due to his complete disinterest as well as several drunk and disorderly arrests, becoming a police officer was never going to happen.  He was certain there was no God so the church was out.  And when Eddie got his draft notice during the Vietnam War, he was rejected due to heart problems. So after many years in odd-jobs, he came west to take a stab at casino work.

The dump we dealt in had the most toxic environment to learn a trade.  So Eddie and his confused facial expression lasted about three weeks.  One day, he was a "No Call, No Show," and never came back. In the short time before he abandoned his job, we were on same craps crew about ten times.  He was smart to leave.  I lasted 90 shifts and frequently reflect on the experience by saying, "If I knew then what I know now, I would've quit before Eddie did." 

The extreme awfulness displayed by the managers and low-level supervisors was aimed at the customers...and the break-in dealers, (everyone who had the misfortune to work there were newbies).

I never imagined seeing Eddie again.  Oddly, ten years later here in New Jersey at the Shore Mall, we crossed paths.     

"SEARSTOWN" OPENED IN 1968 AS AN OUTDOOR SHOPPING CENTER, (ANCHORED BY SEARS).  FROM 1971-1974,  IT WAS REFURBISHED AND ENCLOSED.  IN 1976, ITS NAME WAS CHANGED TO THE SHORE MALL.  IN 2009, THE PROPERTY WENT BANKRUPT WITH BOSCOV'S AND THE DEPARTMENT OF MOTOR VEHICLES AS THE SURVIVING TENANTS.

Eddie and I sat on a bench and swapped war stories for a half hour.  But this article is being billed as a mystery and so far there has been nothing enigmatic about it...till now!

I remembered most of his stories and he seemed to remember most of mine.  Finally, he started telling me a familiar tale.  Rather than say anything, I let him talk without interupting because not only did I know exactly what he was talking about but wanted to hear his entire version.

Eddie's account was spot on!  I didn't tell him that I knew all about it and that I used to tell it a lot but stopped because it was so crazy. It was so far-fetched that I began doubting my memory.   Far worse, my audience didn't believe a word of it.

Yes, the art of story telling includes exaggeration.  I usually tell my readers that they should allow for a 15% embellishment factor. Bottom line, I'm not reporting the news, I'm trying to be entertaining. But the looks I got from telling this true story stirred my insecurities...and I didn't like the idea that friends thought I was a liar.

Let's fast-forward to earlier this week.  Please bear in mind that the only reason I'm sharing this, is because I sort of have a witness, otherwise, you might think I was telling a tall tale now..

When I lived in Brooklyn there was so little wildlife (not counting insects) that if someone said, "Oh no.  A dead bird."  The other person would look up and say, "Where?"

Since then, Las Vegas (1979-1984) and suburban New Jersey (1984-present) I have been exposed to tons of adventures (and misadventures) with the animal kingdom.  But never have I ever been so intrigued until a week ago.

HERE IN JERSEY I'VE SEEN A DEAD BABY SHARK ON THE GROUND IN A PARKING LOT.  A SWARM OF LOCUSTS CROSSING THE LIVING ROOM, IN MY LAS VEGAS CONDO, BATS DIVE BOMBING MY FAMILY'S HEADS AT THE GRAND CANYON AND NOTHING BEATS THE THRILL OF A COUPLE OF TURKEY BUZZARDS GOING TO TOWN ON A DEER CARCASS.

My latest escapade happened at dawn. I brought my recycling out to the curb and on my way back, a downed tree limb caught my attention.  But beyond it, near the gate to the backyard, I squinted in the semi-darkness at what I thought was a squirrel standing on its back feet.  Suddenly, Rocky took flight. It was not a squirrel, it was a bird, (a foot tall or better). Actually, it was two birds.  At first, I thought it was a momma hawk teaching its baby to fly.  It just couldn't be because the little one's flight was perfectly synchronized with its mom.

It was all over two seconds. I scratched my head and inched closer to where they blasted off from.  YUCK!  There were a gazillion feathers clustered there.   I'm so naive to the notion of the circle of life and the whole reality of survival of the fittest but that's what I just saw.  The poor kid was in the bird's talons and was wisked away to become a meal.  Not much of a consolation, but judging from the plummage strewn everywhere. at least the tyke put up a heroic fight.

Later, I told my wife Sue.  She listened but my explanation wasn't very rousing to her.

A few days went by.  We were returning from taking Daisy (our dog) for a walk. I said, "Sue, wanna see the clump feathers that I was telling you about?"  She said, "Not really.  But let me bring the dog in first."  A minute later we went back out for my first visit to the battleground in full daylight.  So we were simultaneously shocked.  Attached to winter's dead grass, the feathers were still there.  But seemingly stuck in the ground like a commemorative statue was the erect head of a tiny black bird with its long beak running parallel to the earth of killing zone.

We went inside and spoke about it.  I told Sue I would attend to the creepiness.  Around ten minutes passed and I went back out with garden trowel and a cell phone to take a picture  I couldn't believe my eyes...the little head was gone!  It's damned near impossible.  After being outside for days, the little bird's head had vanished. You snooze, you lose.

There is NO exaggeration here.  My only witness never saw that the head was missing and I don't even have a photo.  Still, it's 100% true.  With no embellishment. Jeez, now I'm starting to feel insecure. I would to lose my own head. Maybe I shouldn't have told anyone  I wish Eddie Murphy was here to back me up...    

HUMMINGBIRDS AND THE CIRCLE OF LIFE.

In 1996, on a desolate road near my house (in South Jersey), I slammed on my brakes and did a crazy, screeching U-Turn. This wild maneuver contradicted my usual conservative nature…even worse, my two-year old son Andrew was in the back seat.

What would cause me, to do something so desperate and irresponsible? I can tell you in one word, turkey buzzards! Wait, that’s two words.

You should be aware that I am a city boy and grew-up in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn. While some people imagine my formative years to be associated with the mean streets of New York, the reality is, I enjoyed a pleasant and naïve childhood, in a safe, suburbia-like pocket of the greatest city on earth. So in terms of animals in the wild, my upbringing was boring.  That means if I saw a squirrel it was rare and spotting a praying mantis made front page news.

Most of my early knowledge about animals came from zoologist Marlin Perkins. He was the moderator for the TV show, “WILD KINGDOM.” The series (for all ages) brought exotic animals into our homes and taught us about conservation.

ON THE RIGHT, MARLIN PERKINS (1905-1986) WAS A ZOOLOLOGIST WHO HOSTED "WILD KINGDOM," FROM 1963-1985.  IT WAS ALWAYS FUNNY TO ME THAT BEFORE CUTTING AWAY TO AN INSURANCE COMMERCIAL, PERKINS WOULD SAY SOMETHING LIKE, "WHILE JIM (FOWLER) IS WRESTLING THE ALLIGATOR, I'LL BE SAFELY DOWNSTREAM WITH SOME WORDS ABOUT WHOLE LIFE POLICIES."

I had Marlin Perkins in mind as I impulsively turned my car around. I couldn't wait to get back for a better look at those ugly, huge vulture-like birds.  I had never witnessed Mother Nature in action like this and was fascinated.  I gaped for nearly five minutes as they tore flesh off fresh road kill (a deer)…it was incredible.

Since then I’ve gained a greater appreciation for the danger flying in the sky.

In 1997, my family and I met vacationing friends (also New Yorkers), for a picnic lunch on the beach in Cape May, (NJ). In addition to being germophobes, this couple shunned the sun. So we rented an umbrella, plus, both of them left on their tee-shirts and covered their legs with towels. Whatever bare skin that was left exposed to the elements was doused in sun-bloc, the way an obese guy would slather maple syrup on an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast.

The wife was overly concerned about the filthy beach sand getting on her hero sandwich. She looked like a kneeling Statue of Liberty with her torch-like lunch held high when a sea gull did a kamikaze dive, swooped down and bit off a chunk, (and nipped her finger too). The "disgusting" scavenger bird did not break her skin.  Still, at the fear of her internal system being tainted, she cursed in fluent profanity while panicking...as if she was hemorrhaging gallons of blood. We dropped everything we were doing and rushed her to an emergency room, (don't worry about me, I managed to finish my Italian sub during the hysteria of our exodus).

We waited almost an hour at the hospital and she still hadn’t been admitted. Rather than keep our three-year old (Andrew) cooped up any longer, we left the imperiled pair behind and drove home, (the woman did not contract any disease and was fine).

That experience furthered my awareness of the dangers flying over head. That’s why when I found out that one of Andrew’s little friends was spooked by a hooting owl outside his bedroom window, I didn’t think it was weird that the boy's family rearranged everyone’s rooms.

Indeed, the woodlands around my house are filled with other birds of prey. The king of the treetops here is the hawk. Within a few years, I recognized them. So when I saw one soar high above searching for food or gliding through the canopy of trees, I marveled at its majesty while fearing its possibilities.

We got Andrew a guinea pig (Zhitnik) when he was four. In addition to being a pet, this rodent was a friend and a toy for my son while also becoming our family mascot.

Andrew’s friends loved to come by and play with Zhitnik, and “the rat” dug the attention. Soon my boy was becoming more sophisticated and wanted to share his pet with the kids at school. Upon the success of taking Zhitnik to “Show and Tell,” my boy started taking the little bugger to a friend’s house. This evolved into him taking the rat for a walk up and down the street.

YOU THOUGHT I WAS KIDDING BUT I WASN'T, ZHITNIK WAS A MAJOR PART OF OUR FAMILY AND NEEDED TO BE PROTECTED.

I knew the reputation hawks had and...they're all over the place. So I didn’t want to be an alarmist.  But when I saw Andrew set Zhitnik free on our lawn for the other kids to play with, I had to spring into action. There was only one diplomatic thing I could do…LIE. I told Andrew that most guinea pigs were allergic to grass, (a kid in his class was allergic to peanuts, so he understood my seriousness).

I took that tact because there was no way I was going to let a dive-bombing hawk snatch-up our pet, carry Zhitnik off and eat him for dinner.  The fib was worth it because if the worst case scenario happened, I didn't want to risk psychologically scarring my kid (or his friends) for life.

ANDREW'S KNOWLEDGE OF HAWKS WAS LIMITED TO HENERY, (above to the right).  THIS LOONEY TOON CARTOON CHARACTER WAS A TOUGH, NEW YORK ACCENTED CHICKEN HAWK.  HE APPEARED IN TWELVE CARTOONS BETWEEN 1942 AND 1961.  THE USUAL THEME WAS HIM ENLISTING THE HELP OF FOGHORN LEGHORN (left), TO FIND CHICKENS TO EAT.  AS A ROOSTER, LEGHORN SAW IT PRUDENT TO MISLEAD THE LITTLE HAWK INTO TRYING TO EAT OTHER ANIMALS...LIKE DOGS.

It's important not to lie to your kids. But this time, I was justified because I wanted to spare my son his impressionable youth and not being forced to explain the reality of bigger animals eating smaller ones. Coincidentally, the movie "LION KING," came out the year Andrew was born (1994).  One of the hit songs from the movie was, "THE CIRCLE OF LIFE."

COMPOSED BY ELTON JOHN, THE LYRICS TO, "THE CIRCLE OF LIFE," POETICALLY EXPLAIN WHY THE FALCON (above) IS EATING ANOTHER BIRD.

Andrew had seen the "LION KING" countless times by the time he was twelve. So my sixth grader was better equipped to understand more mature and complex matters like the struggles for life and death, survival of the fittest etc.  That's why the timing was perfect when his school's 2006 year-end band concert rolled around.  For the program's big finish, my boy (as first flute) was selected to perform a solo during, "THE CIRCLE OF LIFE."

"THE LION KING," IS MY FAVORITE KIDDIE MOVIE OF ALL-TIME. ITS MAIN THEME IS, THE CIRCLE OF LIFE.  THE STORY DELICATELY EXPLAINS HOW THE GRASS AND FLOWERS FEED SMALL ANIMALS AND HOW BIGGER ONES FEED-OFF SMALLER ANIMALS.  THIS SAME CIRCLE OF LIFE DEALS WITH THE UNFOLDING OF GENERATIONS, HOW PARENTS DIE AND BABIES ARE BORN.

Below are lyrics to, "THE CIRCLE OF LIFE."

From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
There's far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
Through the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round

It's the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the Circle
The Circle of Life

It's the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the Circle
The Circle of Life

It seems like yeaterday but Andrew's "Circle of Life" solo was eight years ago.  I dug out the CD of his performance and a tear still comes to my eye.  They had given him a pan-flute to use but he couldn't master it in the short time. Instead, he was able to create the haunting/whining quality they were looking for, on his own flute.  Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how to attach that one cut to this blog.  But if you click on the link below, you'll hear it from a professional.  Just bear in my mind that the flute solo at the end, was what Andrew did.
http://search.mywebsearch.com/mywebsearch/redirect.jhtml?action=pick&qs=&pr=GG&searchfor=circle+of+life+lion+king+youtube&cb=CD&pg=GGmain&p2=%5ECD%5Exdm003%5ES04317%5Eus&n=77fc41c7&qid=fc99bb6fd473469ba3850f4ff04433e6&ss=sub&pn=1&st=bar&ptb=D6B92608-79BD-4909-92A0-160CFD832118&tpr=&si=CKuH4unForUCFQPd4AodLCEADg&redirect=mPWsrdz9heamc8iHEhldEcgdjfjqpMajKYmz288FhTJ5RH%2BPhkZIGeaU%2Bcotya%2FcsW3jj6a8%2BSZwBhNLwKpthA%3D%3D&ord=0&ct=AR&

To be consistent with the circle of life theme, I want to share a beautiful bird experience I recently enjoyed...and have been lucky enough to see it repeat itself many times.

Better than seeing a turkey buzzard tearing the flesh off a deer, I saw my first hummingbird, (December 1995), in San Diego California.

THE HUMMINGBIRD IS THE WORLD'S SMALLEST ANIMAL, (OTHER THAN INSECTS).  THERE ARE OVER 300 SPECIES BUT THE "BEE" HUMMINGBIRD WEIGHS LESS THAN AN AMERICAN PENNY.  THE HUMMINGBIRD NAME COMES FROM FLAPPING ITS WINGS BETWEEN 50 AND 200 TIMES PER SECOND...WHICH CAN SOUND LIKE A HUM TO THE HUMAN EAR. DUE TO ITS HIGH ENERGY,TO MAINTAIN ITS INCREDIBLE METABOLISM, HUMMINGBIRDS MUST CONSUME MORE THAN THEIR BODY WEIGHT DAILY.  THEY VISIT HUNDREDS OF FLOWERS TO FEED OFF NECTAR AND ARE CONTINUOUSLY HOURS AWAY FROM STARVATION, (THEY STORE JUST ENOUGH FUEL TO SURVIVE OVER-NIGHT).

When I saw the hummingbird nineteen years ago, I wanted to watch it forever.  It didn't look real.  It hovered, flew backwards and upside down.  I assumed they were native to Southern California or warm climates and never gave it another thought.  That is until, my wife Sue bought two potted flowers (red) and set them on our deck.

I like reading the newspaper and doing the puzzle page with my morning coffee.  Weather permitting, I take the whole kit and kaboodle outside.  One day, Sue said she saw a hummingbird out there.  It didn't really register until I saw one myself. 

I have seen so many this past month that I position myself five feet from these flowers.  The show put on by these bug-sized eating machines is so enthralling that I stop what I'm doing and watch.  These humming-tweety-birds don't mind me either, (the one time I brought a camera outside, they didn't show up...maybe I should bring it out every day).  They get close enough to touch before a sound or a breeze causes them to make a crazier U-Turn than I could ever muster.  Then I watch in wonderment as they wisp off, in an unworldly way, (like a mechanically controlled drone or an alien organism from outer space).

While the skies are full of dangerous flying predators, it's great to sit back and see the gentle, true splendor of life up above.  Geez, now I can't get the "Circle of Life" tune out of my head, but that's good thing.

Don't worry, when I figure out what kind of flowers our hummingbirds are attracted to, I'll recommend you get some...just so you can see the show too.

PRAYING FOR MS. TREEFART'S GIANT SLAYER

I hadn't seen Lynn for a couple of years until we spotted into each other on the grocery store line. We pushed our carts outside as we reminisced about the old days when we worked together. At her SUV,  I helped load a forty-pound bag of dog food. On the back hatch, I noticed a tampered, “WHO RESCUED WHO” bumper sticker. I said, “That decal looks new. Why did you try scraping it off?”

A LOT OF PEOPLE THROW THE TERM "RESCUED" AROUND AS IF THEY PULLED THEIR NEW PET OUT OF A BURNING HUMANE SOCIETY BUILDING.  LYNN TRULY LOVED DOGS AND IN AN UNRELIGIOUS WAY CALLED THEM BLESSINGS. I SOON FOUND OUT THAT SHE HAD JUST RESCUED HER THIRD POOCH.

Lynn shook her head and sighed, "If you have time, it’s a long story about my bitchy Church-Lady next-door-neighbor. At first, I was positive she tried tearing it off...now I don't care.”

Lynn went on to say that she had been at odds for years with a mid-sixty-ish spinster named Irma Arborgast or as she liked to call her, Ms. Treefart, (or as I say MTF).

MTF lived alone in an unkempt house next door. She always wore an over-sized, opaque, plastic crucifix that dangled from a lanyard around her neck. To Lynn, that meant the old girl thought her devoutness gave her free reign to complain about everything...to anybody who crossed her path.

Lynn said, “Way back when, I was still on a nodding basis with Irma.  Then everything changed when she knocked on my door. We (she and her husband George) had friends over that afternoon and the battleaxe demanded that I turn down the music.” As an aside Lynn chuckled, "I’ve only met a couple of Irmas in my life and they were all space cases."

The music wasn’t crazy loud so Lynn politely refused. When MTF threatened to call the police Lynn shrugged, “Go ahead, call the SWAT team too.” When the cops arrived, MTF stood in the street kissing her big cross as the officer thanked Lynn for turning the volume down. Lynn pointed at MTF and said, “That bible-thumper is out of her mind…I never turned it down.  You know why?  Because it was always like this.”

Another time MTF phoned her house to complain about Speedo-clad George smoking a cigar while mowing the back lawn. Lynn said, “How can that bother you? You only leave your house to go to church! And if the aroma is so offensive why are you spying at George from an open window in your upstairs bedroom?”

The real problems seemed to revolve around MTF’s hatred of dogs. Lynn’s first dog was a beagle mutt named Julio (all her dog names were inspired by Simon and Garfunkel).

PAUL SIMON (left) AND ART GARFUNKEL WERE FOLK-ROCK STANDOUTS FROM 1957-1970 AND AGAIN FROM 1981-1983.  IN 1990, SIMON AND GARFUNKEL WERE INDUCTED IN THE ROCK-N-ROLL HALL-OF-FAME.

Julio got loose once and dug at MTF’s two rose bushes that sprang-up in the weedy wildflowers along side her house. MTF with God as her witness claimed to have witnessed the whole affair. She accused Lynn of "coveting her beautiful flowers" and purposely letting Julio out because she knew the mongrel would destroy her prized possessions. Lynn said, “Your ‘landscaping’ looks like a vacant lot. And your damned roses weren’t disturbed…if anything…now, your so-called garden looks better.” When MTF threatened to call her lawyer Lynn scoffed, “Sue me!”

A couple of months later, two-year old Julio mysteriously died. It seemed impossible that MTF could have poisoned the dog. But Lynn figured that the spiteful old biddy threw something like aspirins, chocolate or onions over the fence. But Lynn found no evidence to support her allegations.  Still, she wanted to confront Ms. Arborgast but her husband calmed her down. Instead, they went through the great expense of having a vet see if Julio was poisoned but the tests proved negative.

Lynn and George went back to the Humane Society and rescued a Shetland Sheep dog that they named Cecilia. This puppy liked the backyard.  She spent a lot of time there and stood like a noble sentinel as she guarded her turf…and family.

George liked to toss a beach ball around with Cecilia. When the ball sailed over the fence, he wasn’t intimidated by the witchy neighbor’s reputation. He pleasantly told her the situation and she graciously went outside and threw it back over the fence. When he recovered the ball it was deflated. Upon closer examination, it had been punctured with (he guessed) a scissors.

George referred to MTF's evil eyes, wild white hair and pancake make-up and began calling her Baby Jane Hudson while keeping the beach ball incident to himself.

BETTE DAVIS WAS THE EPITOME OF A VICIOUS, DEMENTED OLD LADY IN THE 1962 SUSPENSE THRILLER, "WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE."

Weeks later, Cecilia’s preference to exclusively use her backyard territory as a toilet caused MTF to go ballistic over the wafting doggie poop stink. The old hag banged on Lynn's door and ranted about plague and pestilence. When she stuck an accusatory finger in Lynn's face and proclaimed, "You're a sinner!" Lynn said, “Shut up!” She was about to slam the door when mild-mannered George screamed at MTF and shooed the holier-than-thou zealot back to her property.

One afternoon this past March, Lynn came home and Cecilia was gone. George was certain that back gate was closed when he let her out back. A shadow of doubt was cast on MTF even though the gate couldn’t be opened from the outside. Despite searching the neighborhood, putting up reward fliers and notifying local veterinarians, Cecilia never turned up. After a frustrating two weeks, it was Lynn’s turn to pound on MTF’s door, point an angry finger and scream profanities...and it was the drone’s chance to laugh in Lynn’s face.

The feud quieted down until summer. Then Lynn rescued a huge, ugly, bullmastiff mutt with a scary bark. She named this behemoth, “Here Comes Rhymin’ Simon” but just calls him Simon.

Simon loves people. He might be frightening to look at due to his size and scraggly coat but he’s a cuddly, warm and friendly bugger.

SIMON PROBABLY HAS ROTTWEILER BLOOD COURSING THROUGH HIS VEINS BECAUSE HE WAS OVER TWO-FEET TALL AND SEVENTY POUNDS WHEN SHE GOT HIM...AND STILL GROWING.

Lynn liked to linger in front of MTF’s house when she walked Simon. The rest of her loop included a desolate, undevelped wooded area at the far end of her subdivision. In case of emergencies, she got in the habit of clutching her key ring in case she had to gauge-out an assailant eyes or use the mace spray she carried.

Lynn also kept mini-plastic bags in a sleeve attached to Simon’s leash and always disposed of his droppings properly. It was disappointing that her little boy had a favorite spot at the edge of the woods so he never left a symbolic offering for Arborgast to stew over.

One afternoon, a workman appeared between the houses and started cleaning up a modest section of MTF’s untamed wilderness. In a shady spot, he erected the skeleton of an enclosure that looked like it was going to be for a large dog. Later, around the bare wooden struts, he wrapped chicken wire. The man built a rudimentary doorway.  He then used one nail to secure a block of scrap wood that when twisted, served as a simple locking mechanism.  Later, he added a smaller, plastic shelter inside.

The next day, Lynn was watering the plants on her rear deck as the old woman pulled up in her beat-up Chrysler K-Car. Lynn made no attempt to hide as she watched the she-devil get out holding an all-white bunny. MTF placed the tiny animal in the enormous cage, looked up at Lynn and growled, “Damn snoop. Mind your business.”

THE CHRYSLER K-SERIES LASTED FROM 1981-1995.  LIKE THE 1987 ARIES (above) THE K-CARS WERE HYPED-UP TO SWEEP THE NATION AS A HIGH-QUALITY, ECONOMICAL ALTERNATIVE TO JAPANESE IMPORTS BUT FELL FAR SHORT OF MAKING HISTORY.

Lynn was walking Simon around the corner when one of her lady friends was getting her mail. The friend patted Simon’s gargantuan head as he slobbered in delight. She knew of Lynn’s difficulties with MTF and confided, “Ms. Arbotgast is getting a rabbit.” Lynn said, “I saw it. It’s pretty and pure white.” The woman said, “She told me it’s a rare breed called a Flemish Giant.” She intensified scratching Simon’s head and added, “I guess she wants to compete with this bundle of joy.” Lynn said, “I didn’t get much of a look…but it seemed like normal size to me.” “Well, I don’t have to tell you how pixilated she is but…you'll never guess what the goofball named it?” Lynn smiled in anticipation, “What?” “She named it David…as in David and Goliath…I swear. That’s what she told me.”

For several weeks, a period of peaceful coexistence developed between the women. During this time, Lynn googled Flemish Giant rabbits and found out that these monstrosities are actually docile even if they exceed twenty-five pounds.

AS WARPED AS MS.TREEFART WAS...SHE COULDN'T POSSIBLY EXPECT HER RABBIT TO SLAY SIMON.

Lynn was unthreatened but was curious to watch the bunny's growth spurts. Every few days, from the only clear vantage point (her rear deck) she looked over the fence. But David always seemed about the same size. By the beginning of June, Lynn was convinced that MTF had lied to the neighbor about the bunny's pedigree. So she lost interest in the transformation.

Later that month as storm clouds hid the sun and the howling wind dropped the afternoon temperature, Lynn heard the unmistakable sound of MTF’s rickety screen door slam. From the upstairs window, she watched her nemesis open the rusted-out rear passenger side door of her K-Car and set a small valise on the back seat. Lynn was watching her back into the street when she noticed a wind gust move her backyard gate. Seconds later another fierce gale pried the gate slightly ajar. She immediately flashed-back to Cecilia and realized how the closed gate might have opened enough for the slender dog to get out.

She reported her findings to George and he promised to repair the gate on his next day off. But before that could happen, Simon disappeared from the backyard. Lynn investigated the gate and was convinced that the small gap could be forced wider by the stouter dog.

In a misty rain, panic-stricken Lynn drove all over the neighborhood. From her cell-phone she made a dozen calls. She explained to suspicious friends that this couldn’t have been the handiwork of MTF because she had already been away for a couple of days. And that the wind probably opened gate.

Lynn was mentally and physically exhausted when she got home but was happily surprised to see Simon lounging on her dry porch, atop the welcome mat. When Lynn got out of her car, she saw something white, furry and quite dead in Simon’s mouth. “Jesus H. Christ,” Lynn wailed. It was David. She hid the dead rabbit in her bushes, took Simon in the house and ran between the houses. Lynn saw her worst fear…David’s cage was open and empty.

Lynn was uncertain when MTF would return so she went on an inspired mission (from God). After measuring David, she raced to the pet store. Lynn bought an all white rabbit that was the same size as the decedent and replaced it in the empty cage. She got a shoebox, placed David's carcass inside and drove to the lonely edge of the woods where Simon did his business. She used her SUV to shield away possible witnesses and in a steady drizzle, dug a grave.

MTF returned home early that same rainy evening. It would rain for the next two days. On the first nice morning, Lynn was walking Simon. Lynn was worried that MTF would realize that Simon killed David and that she supplied an imposter rabbit. Lynn wanted to maintain normalcy so she and Simon lingered as usual in front of MTF’s house. Suddenly, MTF bolted out her front door. She was charging, at senior citizen speed, towards them in such a menacing way that Lynn readied her aerosol mace can. Even Simon recognized the potential danger and used an uncustomary growl. Up close, Lynn saw something she never saw…Irma Arborgast was smiling.

Ms. Arborgast exclaimed, “Do you believe in miracles?” Lynn was afraid to say anything. Then she was completely stunned when MFT massaged behind Simon’s ear and said, “David has ascended from the dead!"  Lynn said, "What do you mean?" "It was an abomination, I happened to look outside and saw a gopher or a possum or some such critter carrying him off. It was horrible, David must have put up a struggle..."  Her voice cracked until she continued, "I-I-I then watched the heathen shake my poor baby to death.” Lynn cautiously said, “No way…” MTF gestured behind her house and bleated, “I buried my angel out back." 

There was a long awkward pause until MTF added, "I was so upset that I went to my sister and together we prayed for guidance.” Lynn smirked, “He was dead...and now he's alive?  You have no idea how happy I am for you.” MTF sniveled, "I-I-I checked his final resting place and it was undisturbed.  I'm telling you, praise the lord, it's a miracle!"  Lynn was thinking that Simon didn't kill the rabbit, he dug it up after it was already dead.  And all that rain might have filled in the hole enough to fool the nut-job.  Then as MTF knelt down and hugged Simon’s head Lynn thought; This old screwball really lives in a fantasy world.  That's when MTF looked up and said, “It's just a matter of faith.  David is my savior and all pets truly are blessings.”

Lynn looked at me as she fiddled with the frayed edge of her "Who Rescued Who" bumper sticker and concluded, "Maybe I saved Ms. Treefart too."  Then as she got in her car Lynn grinned, said, "Nah!" and drove off.

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!

SLUGGO'S REVENGE

SPOILER ALERT – Animals were indeed purposely killed, by me, in the making of this story. If you can’t come to grips with that...this story isn’t for you.

My friend, crime novelist Charlie "Charlie Opera" Stella is also a gym rat. Due to a combination of factors including being busy with professional priorities and laziness, he strayed from his passion for quite some time. Recently he informed me that his hiatus from the workout room is over. (See his blog at:  temporaryknucksline.blogspot.com).

The part of Charlie's news flash I liked best was his proclamation, "The 'Bull' is back!"  He was referring to his high school nickname and that he had bench pressed 392 pounds, cold turkey." He also bragged, “Not bad for a fifty-six year old. Hell, you should've seen the shocked faces of the babes struggling to lift half that weight.” He looked at me with an odd expression when I said, “Your admirers would have been even more impressed if you told them that in dog years, you'd be the same age as the 392 you lifted.”

Later on FACEBOOK, I congratulated him again and added, “Even if I used the dog year conversion chart in reverse, I doubt I could lift fifty-six pounds.”

On FACEBOOK, Charlie occasionally writes hilarious dialog sequences involving his mother...that may or may not have have actually happened. As homage to both of them, here’s my feeble attempt to address the passage above:

C – (enters his mother's apartment) Hi mom.  Why aren't you watching your "MENTALIST" reruns.

M - The rat bastids put golf on.

(They both laugh)

M – Where were ya? You were supposed to be here at 4:30.

C – You’re breaking my balls over ten minutes…can’t I at least get a decent hello kiss.

M – Kiss ya? I don’t want ya near me. Ya stink like ya been fishin’ off Fountain Avenue Pier.

C – I went back to the gym and came straight to you.  I benched 392. (He sarcastically bends towards her and puckers his lips),

M – Who’s the Patron Saint of not giving a shit! Where’s my Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and chocolate cruller?

C – No really. You have seen the faces on the gorilla-juice-heads…

M – Heh?

C -  The young guys at the gym who think they know what's what...

M - Those young bastids’ll be more impressed with me when I slap ya face with a Fountain Avenue white fish…

C – Oy vey mom. You know what oy vey means?

M – Yeah. It’s Latin for, my son has shit for brains…

C – Fuhgeddaboudit! The coffee’s here…

M – Even Stevie Wonder could see that...but something’s missin’…

C – I got the coffee but (points to his belly) we don’t need any more doughnuts.

M – Are ya out of your friggin’ mind? After three years, ya go to the gym once...

C – Wait a second…

M – No you wait! I know ya better than you know you. In the morning, you’ll call and be cryin’ like a baby; I’m dyin’ over here, I’m sore, I pulled a muscle, blah, blah, blah.…And then you’ll stick a nipple in a bottle of Chivas…and good-bye gym till the twelth of never.

C – No ma not this time…I weighed myself yesterday and already lost a pound…

M – Whaddya moron or what?  You losing a pound, is like Bayonne losin' a mosquito…

C – There was a time when I could count on you for support…

M – Fatso, you want some damned support? Before I stick my boot up your ass, get me my cruller. You’re on the clock for forty minutes…and don’t come back without a shower or Sunday’s dinner will be catered by friggin' Chef Boyardee...and the spaghetti sauce will be out of a jar.

IN 1928 CLEVELAND OHIO, ETTORE "HECTOR" BOIARDI BECAME A PIONEER FOR MAKING ITALIAN FOOD MAINSTREAM.  BUT TODAY, EVEN THE AVERAGE FOODIE WOULD CRINGE AT THE THOUGHT OF SPAGHETTI SAUCE FROM A JAR.  BUT EATING CANNED PASTA WOULD BE CONSIDERED GAUCHE AND RESERVED FOR THE BOTTOM OF THE DUNG HEAP.

On my way to work, the same night that Charlie informed me that he was back in the gym, I was running late going to work. While I was speeding through Galloway, I got the idea to write my above version of Charlie's conversations with his mother.

At about 7:30, on a bright sun-shiny early evening, I turned right onto Route-9, (one lane in each direction). I accelerated to fifty as I passed the country club. In the distance, a sleek red Jaguar convertible came out of the health spa parking lot and made a right. In a matter of seconds, I was applying my brakes in this 40 MPH zone as this fancy car with Quebec license plates preceded at 20-25 miles per hour.

I was cursing my bad luck as our ally from the great white north puttered along like he was taking the fifty-cent tour. My frustration was mounting as the next three miles of twisting road made it dangerous for passing. On the rare straight-aways, the poorly timed traffic from the opposite directions sealed my snail's paced fate.

In the next town, (Absecon), Route-9 branches off. I was hoping Pierre-Froggy would turn but he didn’t. I didn’t want to jeopardize my perfect attendance at work and recognized that this residential area would be my last chance to pass the slow-poke. I thought I had my opportunity but as I veered to pass, an oncoming car zoomed into view.

I resigned myself to making up time later, on the causeway into Atlantic City when suddenly, Frenchy slammed his brakes. An adult-sized deer ran into his path, crossed Shore Road and leapt over a five-foot chicken wire fence that was hidden by bushes. While the Quebecer was counting his blessings, I inched around him and continued my race to work.

I'M NOT SMART ENOUGH TO MAKE THIS SHIT STUFF UP. THIS WAS AS CLOSE TO A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE AS I COULD IMAGINE.  PLEASE NOTE - GIVE CREDIT TO THE DEER.  I STOOD AGAINST THAT CHICKEN WIRE AND IT CAME UP TO MY UNDER ARM.  HOWEVER, BAMBI KNEW THE LAY OF THE LAND WELL ENOUGH TO JUMP OVER THE ONE SECTION THAT WAS A FOOT SHORTER.

In a short time, I realized how close I came to meeting that deer, “up close and personal.” I managed to get in on time but was weighed down by the bloody scenarios that were churning in my mind.

I had been looking forward to writing a rough blog draft about Charlie and his mom. Instead, I told everyone at work about my narrow escape from hitting that deer.

I must admit, I felt anger towards the other driver. But on the way home that night, I was thinking evil thoughts about that deer. There are so many deer accident stories that don’t have happy endings, (I was reminded that my reader THEDONALD totaled his truck in May and was fortunate to escape without injury).

Luckily, as rage against animals surged through me, no squirrels, rabbits or aardvarks crossed my path. The trip home at 4:00AM was uneventful until I pulled into my driveway. In the dark, contrasted by the white aluminum siding next to my front door, I saw two silhouettes, the size and shape of El Stinkadora cigars. They of course were my arch enemies…slugs.

At that ungodly hour, all I usually want is, to take off my uniform and vegetate. But at that moment, I was ready to drop my personal comforts to kill these bastards. But if you know anything about slugs, always remember, you don’t want to handle those slimy buggers in any way.

I didn’t have any weapons or protective gear…but I was impatient. So rather than going inside and taking newspapers from the recyclables, I lifted my right leg high and smooshed the slug that was lower on the wall.

My second target seemed just as easy except it was a little higher and in the small alcove that separates the siding from the door's wood frame. In explicably, I missed. I raised my vengeful shoe again, nipped the frame and re-missed my target. By the time I missed five times, my dog Roxy (aka Muttzilla) was barking her head off.

Due to fatigue, I was having difficulty raising my foot high enough for another attack. I didn’t want the dog to wake-up the whole house so I mulled changing my strategy. But this was no time to get fancy...or use my hand. Motivated by hatred, adrenaline careened from my brain, through my body and into my right foot. With one last gasp of strength, I strained to get my leg higher and aimed carefully, at my obscured yet stationary objective.

Eureka! It was a direct hit! Bullseye!

IF YOU COUNT DOWN FIVE SLATS FROM THE BELL, THAT'S THE SMUDGE FROM THE FIRST SLUG.  ONLY TWO SLATS DOWN, NEXT TO THE DOOR FRAME WAS THE MORE CHALLENGING ONE.  IF YOU WANT TO TAKE YOUR OWN SNAPSHOTS OF EVIDENCE OF MY VICTORY, YOU BETTER HURRY BECAUSE ME AND MR. CLEAN HAVE AN APPOINTMENT TOMORROW TO BEAUTIFY THE BATTLE GROUND...AND NO PLAQUE WILL BE PLACED THERE TO COMMEMORATE MY DESTRUCTIVE TRIUMPH.

The slippery crud under my shoe signaled the end of my siege with Sluggo. I took the precaution of scraping any residual slug pieces on the welcome mat and went inside. Roxy greeted me with the odd look that suggests her thinking; That was you making all that noise? What are you crazy...you know what time it is?  (Here's an idea, maybe I'll write nutty dialogs for me and my pup?)

In the foyer, I pet my trusty watchdog and took off my shoes. My first step to the garage (to toss in my splatter soiled shoes), I came up limping. I couldn’t believe it; I sprained my big toe killing the goddamned second slug.

Something tells me, if my mother was around to hear that I was hobbled for two days from smooshing a slug, she would have sounded just like Charlie’s mom..  Anyone see the nipple for my Chivas bottle Diet Cherry Pepsi?

IN THE IMMORTAL WORDS OF MR. JINKS...

My folks took my sister and I to Coney Island a few times every summer. I was about ten when after a big night of fun, fireworks and junk food, we headed back to the car.  Along the way, dad, as was his custom, pointed to the distant, Half Moon Hotel and reminded us of its link to murder incorporated.

BUILT IN 1927, THE HALF MOON, (IN THE BACKGROUND TO THE LEFT OF THE PARACHUTE JUMP), WAS A 14-STORY HOTEL ON THE BOARDWALK.  ITS BEST KNOWN AS THE LOCATION, (NOVEMBER 12, 1941), WHERE MOB INFORMANT, ABE RELES (THE EPITOME OF A RAT), WAS PUSHED OUT A WINDOW, HOURS BEFORE TESTIFYING AGAINST CRIME BOSS ALBERT ANASTASIA.  LATER DURING WWII, THE HOTEL SERVED AS A NAVY CONVALESCENT CENTER.  IN THE LATE 40's, IT BECAME A MATERNITY HOSPITAL AND IN THE 70's,  IT WAS CONVERTED INTO A SENIOR CITIZEN HOME.  THE HALF MOON WAS DEMOLISHED IN 1995.

When my family turned onto Surf Avenue, somewhere between the Colossal Slide and the Bumper Cars, two kids about the same age as sis and I, approached.  They were carrying a shoebox with holes in the lid.  Inside, we soon discovered that they had won three mice, at a carnival game. The girl said, "Our parents will kill us if we bring these home."  Then in unison, they begged us to take the vermin off their hands.

I was shocked!  Even forty-seven years later, I'm still surprised that mom accepted them.  I guess she saw the excited looks on our faces, the price was right and she didn't see any harm.  Our new pets were easy to tell apart, one was black, another white and the other brown. During the drive home, dad said he'd buy a cage the next day as my sister dubbed them, Moe, Larry and Curly. 

Dad parked in our driveway.  While we were getting out of the car, the brown cutie, (Curly), escaped in the darkness. Oh well, so we had two pets.

It was an especially hot night and our house wasn't air conditioned.  So twenty minutes later, it was easy to hear our Tugboat Annie-like neighbor from four doors down, cursing and screaming bloody murder.  We all assumed that her house was getting vandalized and ran outside.  There was a small crowd in front of her house as we saw her husband laughing as he held our Curly by the tail and taunted his wife.

On the walk home, after our third mouseketeer was restored to us, I imagined that if our lady neighbor was as tough as I thought, she would have eaten him.  From that night on, I never feared her again.

NYUK, NYUK, NYUK, JEROME "CURLY" HOWARD (1903-1952)...THE ULTIMATE VICTIM OF SOIKUMSTANCE...WAS THE FIRST OF THE THREE STOOGES TO DIE.  MY CURLY THE BROWN MOUSE, SURVIVED OUR TUGBOAT ANNIE-ESQUE NEIGHBOR AND WOULD OUTLIVE HIS TWO BUDDIES.

My sister insisted that our pets stay in her room.  On Sundays when my grandmother babysat, granny couldn't stand the sight of them.  So, one day a week, the cage and all three inhabitants were exiled to Siberia, (our basement). 

Moe and Larry soon died.  But Curly was vital and was going strong months later.  My four-year old cousin Cal came to visit and I brought the cage into my room.  Then I took Curly out and we played with him on the floor.  Before long, Curly darted between us and scurried behind the open door.  Cal tried to "head" him off and closed the door.  Curly's head was crushed between the door and the door jamb.  He writhed in agony for a few seconds and died.  To this day, his vibrating body is still a clear and haunting image.

Other than that experience, (and those mice were pets), I have never seen a mouse, in any place that I lived.  In fact, I was twenty-two, the first time, I saw one in someone else's house. My friend MBF got married in 1977 and rented a basement apartment, near the Kings Plaza Mall, in Brooklyn.

If you've never experienced this type of invasion, it's quite disconcerting.  Usually you see a sudden movement out of the corner of your eye.  It happens so fast that you figure it's nothing.  The next time this impulse gets your attention, you realize you must investigate.

Mouse catching is not for the squeamish, so MBF and I half-heartedly tried but failed miserably.  However, the next day MBF solicited the aid of his father-in-law. Within a week, I got a call saying that his wife's dad used Sicilian ingenuity and some household items to capture the bugger. Lured by the scent of a spoonful of peanut butter placed in a steep-walled soup tureen...greased with butter, the rascal crept up a ramp made from a broken Venetian blind slat. At the top, the hungry pest fell into the bowl.  The combination of the high walls and slippery slope assured that the little bastard couldn't escape. I wasn't exactly heartbroken that I missed the profanity-laced ceremony when MBF's father-in-law dumped his quarry in the toilet.  At least with one flush, the varmint had a proper burial, at sea.

It's at this point that many of you empathize for the fallen critter.  It's easy to forget that these filthy, gnawing, disruptive devils, foster disease and are the scourge of society. After all, since we were children, cartoon, Lilliputian-like mice are associated as cuddly, heroic or as underdogs.

BEFORE THE AGE OF TALKING MOVIES, WALT DISNEY DEVELOPED HIS ENTIRE EMPIRE AROUND MICKEY, (AND MINNIE).  AND TODAY IT'S GLOBAL POPULARITY IS STRONGER THAN EVER.

Think about it, cartoon mice are always sympathetic characters.  They are at the bottom of the animated food chain and are hunted by boring farmers, mean old ladies and of course, hungry cats.  Certainly we Baby-Boomers know Jerry's struggles to survive Tom.  The generation before that knew the travails of Ignatz as he avoided the certain death of Krazy Kat's romantic advances.

THE CRIME SOLVING DUO OF, "SNOOPPER AND BLABBER" AIRED 45 EPISODES FROM 1959-1961.  IN MOST ADVENTURES BLABBER, COMPLETE WITH SPEECH IMPEDIMENT, WAS THE SUBORDINATE MOUSE TO A CAT, SUPER SNOOPER.

Other cat and mouse cartoon rivalries featured, "PIXIE AND DIXIE," against Mr. Jinks, "HERMAN AND KATNIP" and let's not forget the cartoon inside the, "SIMPSON'S" cartoon, "THE ITCHY AND SCRATCHY SHOW." 

"PIXIE AND DIXIE," RAN FROM 1958-1961.  THEIR CAREER WAS CUT SHORT IN PART BECAUSE THEY DID THEIR OWN STUNTS.  IN THOSE MINUSCULE 57 INSTALLMENTS, MR. JINKS' CATCHPHRASE, (IN A MARLON BRANDO IMPERSONATED VOICE), "I HATE MEECES TO PIECES," BECAME A NATIONAL PHENOMENON.

Other cartoon mice that were highly esteemed were, "MIGHTY MOUSE," "SPEEDY GONZALEZ," Minute Mouse from, "COURAGEOUS CAT," and a favorite of my early youth, "SNIFFLES."

"SNIFFLES," WAS PRODUCED AS A THEATRICAL CARTOON STARTING IN 1939.  THE TWELVE SHORT SUBJECTS PLAYED OFF HIS CHILDISH SWEETNESS WHILE STRUGGLING WITH THE PERILS OF A DANGEROUS WORLD.

On the other side of the Atlantic, the English had heroic, "DANGER MOUSE."  I checked this program out but perhaps something was lost in the translation.

"DANGER MOUSE" AND HIS SIDEKICK PENFOLD WERE HUMOROUS SPIES.  THIS SUCCESSFUL SHOW AIRED 161 EPISODES FROM 1981-1992.  WHEN I WATCHED THE RERUNS WITH MY SON IN THE LATE 90's, WE BOTH AGREED THAT IT, "WASN'T OUR CUP OF TEA."

I was afraid that my whole cutesy perception of mice was going to change five Decembers ago.  I was in my garage and out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a sudden movement behind my bicycle.  It's amazing how thirty years later, I immediately correlated that impulse with MBF's basement apartment. 

I stood still, stared into the clutter and waited.  In a short time my suspicions were validated.  While trying to decide how to proceed against the mouse, I took a closer inspection of the area. I found tell-tale signs of a rodent infestation like; organized bits of straw, tiny turds and of course gnawed through cereal boxes as well as spillage from a hole at the bottom of our dog's forty-pound food bag.

The defense of the inside of my house became paramount! Instead of an old world remedy, I went straight to the hardware store and invested in ten, 29c traps.  That night, I discussed my situation at one of my poker games and KURUDAVE, (thirty minutes away), confessed to having the same problem.  We entered into a friendly competition and called it, "THE MOUSE TRAP GAME."  In a short time, I netted four mice to his three.

MGTP TAKES THE HIGH ROAD. BEHOLD THE OLD MOUSE TRAP BOARD GAME.  THE GREAT BWANA IS SUPPOSED TO DISPLAY HIS GREASY, BROKEN BACK MOUSE TROPHIES HERE...BUT I SAY, "NO!"

My wife didn't appreciate the joy of the mouse hunt.  And she was especially nauseated, (her scream confirmed it), when she saw one barely alive, dragging the trap behind him.  I remember running to the garage and having the tune, "WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME AGAIN," come to mind when I saw the ensnared demon limping past an empty anti-freeze jug.

The next day, she made me remove every item from the garage.  It was then I saw the impossible!  In cartoons, you know the little mouse holes in the baseboards? 

I HATE TO SIDE WITH CATS BUT I GUESS THEY CAN SERVE A PRACTICAL PURPOSE.

Well I had always thought mouse holes in the wall were just cartoon schtick, but they do exist.  However, my garage isn't rimmed with wooden baseboards, it has cinder blocks built right onto the foundation.

KURUDAVE HYPOTHESIZED THAT THE MICE GOT DESPERATE AT THE ONSET OF WINTER AND SMELLED THE DOG FOOD.  THEN...MOTIVATED BY A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH, THEY GNAWED THROUGH THE CONCRETE, ENTERED THE HALLOW CENTER CHAMBER AND ATE THROUGH MORE CEMENT TO THE PERCEIVED NIRVANA INSIDE MY GARAGE.

I bought some patch mortar and sealed the holes.  Then we bolstered how our food items are stored.  Luckily, we never had another rodent raid.  Unfortunately, Kurudave can't say the same thing.  The little intruders always return to his garage in the cold months.  Even worse, in a matter unrelated to pestilence, he recently decided to move out of state. 

The day before he left, whatever was left of the poker buddies went over to his place to have a few beers, reminisce and say good-bye.

Just off his kitchen, we were at his bar telling stories when someone noticed, (ten feet away), a brazen mouse on the stove, sniffing a skillet of macaroni and cheese.  That's when Kurudave shook-up an aerosol bug spray and squeezed the trigger. 

MR. JINKS TAKES AIM AGAINST POOR LITTLE PIXIE AND DIXIE AS HE EMULATES CAPTAIN BLASTOFF.

Kuru used some newspaper to scoop up his fallen victim.  Then ala Abe Reles, he threw the annoyance out the window and yelled, "I hate meeces to pieces!"

Yuck! I'm sure glad I sealed my garage.