QUESTION...WHAT SUCKS, WHEN IT DOESN'T SUCK?

KURUDAVE once said about me and my struggles with handy work around the house, “Even oddball repairs are usually common sense.” The implication that I lacked common sense was not appreciated. Deep down, I was confident that if I set my mind to any project, I could do it. So I said to KURUDAVE, “How many of me would it take to screw in a light bulb?” He pondered my silliness as if it was as intricate as Zen philosophy until he shrugged, “Dunno.” I said, “It would only take one me to screw in a light bulb…the real question is…how long will it take my lazy ass to get around to it!”

I didn't get this trait from my father.  He was a doer and a handy fellow. He, along with most Depression-era folks had the mentality to conserve money by being self-reliant. Dad absolutely tried to instill these skills and mindset into me. For whatever reason, these valuable lessons didn't stick. Down through the years when my own ineptitude let me down, I used dad as a scapegoat and convinced myself that he was a lousy teacher.

Now, I'm nearly sixty and through careful self-analysis, I realize that to protect myself from the likelihood of humiliation, I disguised my life-long fear of failure with an invisible force field that’s screamed out…I’M NOT INTERESTED. My point was proven when I tried to bestow the little fix-it knowledge I had onto my son Andrew.  That's when I realized, that my reluctance to mend things might be an inherited trait because…HE WASN’T INTERESTED either.

2003.  AFTER EARNING THOSE TWO DOZEN HOME DEPOT "KIDS PROJECT PINS" (ACROSS HIS CHEST), ANDREW ANNOUNCED THAT HE DIDN'T WANT TO PARTICIPATE ANY MORE...ON THE GROUNDS THAT HE, "OUTGREW IT."  IT IS FAIR TO SAY, THIS PICTURE MIGHT BE THE LAST TIME HE HELD A HAMMER OR ANY OTHER TOOL.

We didn't have Home Depot "Kids Projects" when I was young. So somewhere in my adolescence, I developed this “fix-it phobia.” Perhaps this fear was a convenience to support the laziness theory because I was convinced that I had a talent for making things worse.

On a 90º day in 1967, Dad gave me a quick tutorial on how to wash and wax his car. I breezed through the “wash” segment of my mission. Next, I smeared the Turtle Wax, with the care of an expert, twelve year-old artisan, over every inch of that Dodge.

TURTLE WAX HAS BEEN AROUND SINCE 1941.  TODAY IT'S AVAILABLE IN OVER 90 COUNTRIES.  FOR BEST RESULTS, IT SHOULD BE APPLIED AND TAKEN OFF IN SMALL SECTIONS, (WITHIN A MINUTE OR TWO).  DAD PROBABLY TOLD ME THAT AS MY WANDERING MIND WAS DISTRACTED BY THE DISTANT SOUND OF THE ICE CREAM TRUCK'S THEME SONG.

When I finished covering the entire car with Turtle Wax, it was time to wipe away the residue and reveal the shine.  But the baked-on wax refused to budge. Dad wasn’t pleased. After several unhappy trips to a car wash, nearly all the little gray flakes were gone.  Nevertheless, dad never asked me to wax his car again.

That same summer, I found out the reason why my father wanted me to mow the lawn once a week and water it EVERY day. Soon there after, dad didn't take the death of our grass well. For the next few years, he hired a service to do my gardening job.

Dad couldn't do every job.  He was a practical man and "farmed-out" the ones beyond his expertise. In the late 1960's, there was nothing sadder to him (or me) than seeing our gigantic console TV in pieces. It was bad enough that we were exposed to the sight of the repairman's butt crack but dad really got pissed-off when he was handed the final bill. Dad objected to a 29c burnt-out tube resulting in a $25.29 fee.  The repairman defensively made medical references and shrugged, “Yeah, the patient needed a 29c tube but all my years in med-school cost you $25.00...because I know where to put it.”

Of course getting the TV fixed on the spot was the good scenario because most times the guy would grunt, “There’s nothing I can do for you here, I’m gotta take the whole kit and caboodle back to the shop…for a couple of weeks." To rub salt in the wound, it was a guarantee that while our behemoth entertainment center was being wheeled out, the repairman would crash the chassis and put a dent in the wall or rip off floor molding.

Experiences with the TV didn’t make me see washing machine repairmen or auto mechanics as doctors, I saw them as villains. Unfortunately, to avoid being at their mercy, I couldn’t envision the value of learning simple repairs.

If I needed a push to further solidify my evasion of household chores and repairs forever…it happened when I was fourteen. My friend M’s dad was a union electrician. M always bragged that it was a “blood union” and that his father-son relationship assured him an apprenticeship that would lead to a great job when he was old enough. But M was forever swayed away from becoming an electrician when his dad nearly electrocuted himself. While it was true the ol’ boy survived, he was forced into an early retirement, went on permanent disability and was the shadow of his former self, physically, mentally and emotionally. M forgot about a career as an electrician. At the same time, I saw what can happen to a professional, so it seemed rational that I turned my back on doing repairs.

In the early 1980’s, my attitude was forcibly changed when I bought my condo in Las Vegas. Through the help of mentors, I became more responsible. Oh the joy of bleeding my own radiator, replacing antifreeze and doing my own oil changes.  But my past caught up with me on my 26th birthday when I became a victim of circumstance and ceased the engine on my wife Sue’s 1974 Mustang.

SUE'S ILL-FATED MUSTANG.  IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE AT THIS ANGLE BUT TWO PAD LOCKS HELD DOWN THE HOOD.  ON THE WAY BACK FROM MOUNT CHARLESTON, THE IDIOT LIGHT CAME ON.  SUE HAD THE ONLY PAD LOCK KEY BUT SHE LEFT HER KEYRING HOME.  STUPIDLY, I DILUTED MYSELF INTO THINKING WE COULD MAKE IT HOME.  THIS WASN'T HORSESHOES OR HAND GRENADES...SO GETTING CLOSE TO HOME WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH! 

At around the same time, I also learned basic plumbing techniques that saved me big bucks. As soon as I appreciated the nearly-erotic pleasure of using a seat wrench, I couldn’t wait for another leaky faucet. Too bad my prayers were answered by a drip inside my bathroom wall. I watched in earnest and took notes as my friend Manny easily pealed away some wallpaper, cut a hole in the wall behind my toilet, “taped” the worn pipe, replaced the hole in the sheet rock (with a miracle product called *spackle) and glued the wallpaper back into place.

* Hard to believe but true, I had never heard of spackle before 1981.

In 1989, I became a proud New Jersey homeowner. Lucky for me, Sue knew what she was up against with me and already owned a pink tool belt.

We were in the house about three years when a smashed, glass, spaghetti sauce jar compelled us to pull the refrigerator out (for the first time) and clean underneath. Attached to one of the metal supports under the fridge was a flat, grayish, blackish, brownish piece of plastic with dust and hair on it. It was the size and shape of a half piece of thick chewing gum with rounded edges.

PICTURE HALF OF AN UNWRAPPED, DARKENED STICK OF GUM.

Sue went to pull it off. I yelled, “Don’t touch that, it’s a fuse!” I flashed back to M's father (an actual electrician) almost killing himself and shared this indelible memory with her. So rather than take any chances, I called my friend Dean-Michael Hughes, (Dean). He had offered to help me anytime in an emergency...and he lived up to his word. Dean immediately laughed in my face.  He pulled the dusty plastic off and pretended to take a bite out of it.  I was confused until he correctly identified the culprit as a fossilized Vienna sausage. We don’t eat that crap so Dean presumed that one of the builder’s workmen left it for an archaeological dig in the distant future, (for a more in depth story about Dean, see my September 17, 2012 blog, "THE SHORT FUSE OF OFFICER DEAN-MICHAEL HUGHES)."

Today, maybe it’s a generational phenomenon but it seems once things get beyond their warranty, they are made to break. Cameras, telephones, appliances and so many more things that used to be repaired are now routinely disposed off. So even if your mindset isn’t to trash whatever doesn’t work, the Internet and Plumbing for Dummies-like books are chock-full-o-information.  Therefore, the villainous TV repairman and handyman work in general have become as obsolete as the village blacksmith.

About ten years ago, we bought a new vacuum cleaner. Over time, I became accustomed to troubleshooting it. I maintained that baby well. In addition to keeping it clean, I could take it apart and eliminate any clog. Plus, I knew the ins-and-outs of replacing its belt.  We were happy with it. Long after the warranty was up, it stopped working. There was nothing my mechanical prowess could do. My wife insisted we buy a new one, I said, “Let’s see how much it would cost to have it repaired.”

I allowed the repair and got a year guarantee. Two months after the damned warranty was up, it died. Again Sue wanted a new vacuum. I said, “No! I’m taking it back and that weasel will fix it for nothing!”

The owner of the repair shop said, “It’s out of my warranty.” I explained, "Yes, but for such a short time.  Besides, it's probably a simple fix."  The man balked.  I said, "Look, I'm not giving you another dime to fix it and I'm not buying a new one from you.  So you have nothing to gain from disappointing me. But in the name of goodwill, you should take care of it because the negative press you’d get wouldn’t serve you well."  I don't know how much the sixty-dollar repair actually cost him to do...but he did it for free. A week later I picked it up.  He droned on and made a big deal out of the difficulty in replacing the filter and used technical terms that just sounded like double-talk gobbledygook to me.  I politely nodded and asked for a demonstration.  I was satisfied that it worked after he sprinkled some dust bunnies on the floor (it reminded me of "Honeymooners" when Ralph Kramden bought a vacuum cleaner after it passed the salesman's oatmeal test).

DESPITE ONLY BEING ON THE AIR ONE SEASON (1955-1956), THE ORIGINAL 39 EPISODES OF "THE HONEYMOONERS" ARE CONSIDERED BY MANY AS THE GREATEST SIT-COM OF ALL-TIME. WHEN RALPH BROUGHT HOME A VACUUM FOR ALICE (right), IT DIDN'T WORK.  ED NORTON (center) TRIED TO DIAGNOSE TO PROBLEM.  HE SOUNDED LIKE MY VACUUM REPAIRMAN WHEN HE SAID, "THE PROBLEM IS THE ARMATURE SPROCKET IS BLOCKING THE FLOW OF THE DYNAFLOW."  RALPH SAID, "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"  NORTON SAID, "I DON'T KNOW."

The owner of the repair shop handed me a receipt that included in big red magic marker letters, "OUT OF WARRANTY!"

Incredibly, my vacuum cleaner has needed little maintenance since then. So yesterday when Sue announced, “The vacuum isn’t sucking.” She added, “And I want a new one!” I joked, “It's like a riddle...what sucks, when it doesn't suck?"  Before she could respond I said, "A vacuum cleaner! It sucks…when it doesn’t suck.” She ignored my comic genius and repeated herself, “I want a new one and THIS time I’m serious!” I said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Let me take a look at it first.” During my examination, I found on the bottom of the vacuum, an encrypted, dated message from January 2011, identifying that last service call. That means we got four years use…and our money’s worth…from the free, professional repair.

I was playing with house-money as I continued my search. The only abnormal thing I discovered was that the brush had a tangle of stringy carpet fibers hindering it from spinning. I pulled them out and used clumps of my dog Roxy’s shedding hair for my version of the oatmeal test.

ALWAYS READY TO LEND ME A HELPING PAW...OR SOME OF HER SHEDDING COAT.

Sue wasn’t satisfied with my oatmeal test results…and she was right, (maybe I should have used corn flakes). She was venting her displeasure when I said, “Wait, there’s one place I didn’t check (in retrospect, if I was truly mechanically inclined, it should have been the first place I looked). When I pulled the stringy fibers from the spinning brush, it stopped me from examining behind it for clogs. When I dis-assembled the brush housing, I discovered what should have been the obvious problem…the belt had snapped.

A two-pack of belts was $5.00. It took a minute to install. My vacuum doesn’t suck now because it sucks! I must have touched a positive nerve in Sue because later that afternoon I overheard her say to Andrew over the phone, "Thank God daddy fixed the vacuum." Yay me, I looked good to my family for once, saved myself from a repair bill or better yet, the cost of a new vacuum.

Just remember one thing.  If you need repair help, Kurudave was unfortunately right, I don't have the common sense necessary to do most jobs.  So you’d be better off with just about anyone else on the planet but me...and by the way, don't ask Andrew either.

AUGUST-FIRST-O-PHOBIA

It sucks! It blows! It’s hard to believe but true that a mere date on the calendar can breed disillusionment, disappointment and hatred in me. And although hate is a strong word…to me, when I was a ten-year old…August the first was not just a simple thorn in my side. It was a hint that the red death of plague (school) was starting a four-week incubation period, ready to fester and destroy my rapidly evaporating freedom.

In my adolescence, like a dagger through my heart, I recognized August first as the halfway point of the summer. This annual observance signaled my impending doom because I was never an enthusiastic student. So each August, I would torment myself to get in as many adventures and fun times as I could. But as a kid with few resources, I realized that there was little I could do to improve my circumstance. Far worse, this situation developed into pressure and anxiety. So much so that I am positive this caused my first sense of depression.

On the positive side, I believe this fear of August first (August-First-O-Phobia), forced me to develop a keener sense of urgency…in so far as seizing the moment. This was evident in 1976 when I hitchhiked cross-country, (I took Greyhounds too).

The night before I left with all the preparations made, my "friend" backed-out on me. Even though I was a college senior (twenty-one years old) and it was the last week of June, I was reminded of my August first syndrome.  I was so stoked to go…that I went alone.  Like the syndrome that signaled the beginning of the end, (of something good), , I understood that my carefree days of childhood were dwindling and that summer was my last gasp of worry-free freedom.

It is not an exaggeration to say that every day of my sixty-eight day odyssey brought new and wonderful experiences. While there certainly were slower days, the overall flow of my journey resulted in a continuous, connection of interesting stories.

Before I started, I mapped-out a rough itinerary.  I succeeded in making it to the majority of my destinations. But I used a feather in the wind mentality, so some desirable tourist attractions slipped through the cracks.

By the time August first rolled around, I was disheartened to learn from fellow backpackers that I didn’t take enough advantage of Beale Street in Memphis (the birthplace of the blues), missed the Astrodome in Houston, the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, the Monument Valley (the four corners of Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico and Utah), Yosemite National Park, the 1849 California gold rush area, Alaska, Yellowstone (Wyoming), Mount Rushmore in South Dakota and the Canadian maritime provinces of Nova Scotia, Newfoundland and Prince Edward Island.

IT STILL IRKS ME THAT I DIDN'T HAVE THE FORESIGHT TO REALIZE THAT I MIGHT NEVER GET ANOTHER CHANCE TO SAY I WAS IN ALASKA.

Still, I can take solace in the fact that I covered so much territory and that it’s impossible to see it all. Nevertheless, over the last 47 years, I would have hoped to have scratched a few more off the list but alas, I’ve only managed Yosemite.

BETWEEN LIVING RELATIVELY CLOSE IN LAS VEGAS, (1979-1984), AND BEING THREE HOURS AWAY, (2009), AT THE PETRIFIED FOREST (ARIZONA), I CAN'T BELIEVE I NEVER PRIORITIZED SEEING THE FOUR CORNERS.

Ironically, earlier this week, (August 1, 2013), the tiny town of Kanab Utah made the news. I was there during my cross-country trip for about six hours. A lot can be accomplished in six hours but I accomplished nothing.

This seemingly insignificant hamlet in southern Utah was part of the hitchhiking route I took with a guy (Will Raymond).  We met in the Grand Canyon and he wanted to show me a great time in his hometown, Georgetown Colorado. (The whole Will Raymond story was in a blog called, "THE STOCKHOLM EFFECT ON INTERSTATE-70," from March 2009.

Will and I learned the hard way that the generalization about NOBODY picking up hitchhikers in Utah (Mormon Country) was true! On the border of Arizona and Utah, we camped on the shore of Lake Powell. In he morning (with the air conditioned welcome center across the street), we waited three hours for a ride into Utah. Whether it was out of spite or stupidity I’ll never know but some joker picked us up and dropped us off twenty miles later, in the middle of the desert.

We had learned from this jerk's car radio that it was already 106°. So with few cars going by, no shade and limited water, we were sure to die there...with our tongues and thumbs out. Luckily, a pickup truck stopped for us. In the cab, the driver and his friend were Native Americans. The day before, Will and I were in Flagstaff Arizona.  That was when  two highway patrolmen stopped us to see if we were vagrants or runaways. When we checked out okay, one of the ignorant bastard cops warned us, “Don’t take a ride from Indians. They’ll drive to a secluded spot in the desert, cut off your hands and while you're running around in agony, they use you for target practice.”

My companion and I looked at each other. Silently we acknowledged that we had a better chance of dying from exposure…and climbed into the truck's bed. Our hosts only temporarily saved us because at a cut off for Yuba City, they too dropped us off in the middle of nowhere.

Utah is known for its incredible scenery…but not where we were. We stood, for over an hour, in a dull wasteland under a broiling sun. The occasional car that flew by, provided us with a short breeze that also stung us with a thousand dusty particles.

UTAH'S STATE NICKNAME IS DERIVED BY THE BELIEF THAT THE PEOPLE ARE INDUSTRIOUS, (BUSY AS BEES).  BUT AFTER SURVIVING THE NEXT THIRTY MINUTES, I THOUGHT THE NICKNAME MEANT, COME TO UTAH AND GET STUNG.

In the distance, one gigantic white fluffy cloud seemed to be coming near.

A LOCAL WOULD RECOGNIZE THIS INNOCENT CLOUD AS TROUBLE...BUT WE WEREN'T LOCALS.

I looked at the cloud and welcomed the possibilty of some shade. It crept closer and was almost over head when it changed from white to gray. The breeze picked up as the cloud turned dark gray to black. Suddenly the winds swirled and penny-sized hailstones fell from the sky. At first it was cool.  Then the heavens opened up.  We had no place to hide.  We were forced into a fetal crouch while covering our heads.  For ten minutes, painful golf ball-sized ice pellets zinged us from above as the dust from the crosswind sandblasted our sweaty exposed skin. When the unrelenting sun returned, we half-heartedly wanted more hail.

The first vehicle after the storm, picked us up. It was a big Winnebago with four generations of non-English speaking Germans.

FOR FOLKS WHO WANT TO ROUGH THE GREAT OUTDOORS WITHOUT ROUGHING IT, THE WINNEBAGO (SINCE 1958), IS STILL ONE OF THE MOST POPULAR MOTOR HOMES. 

We were unable to communicate with our benefactors so we rode in comfort while staring at them with uncomfortable grins. In the later afternoon, they dropped us off in oasis-like Kanab.

On the main drag, we found a shady spot in front of a filling station. Over the next six hours, several cars stopped…the folks inside sincerely wished us good luck…and left us behind.

Will and I were going to need a Plan-B because the last glimmers of dusk were giving way to night. Then like a knight in shining armor, a man in a dry ice delivery truck "delivered" from that hell hole.

For the next 47 years, my only discussion about Kanab told that story…until the tiny town made the news, last week. Coincentally, I saw the article…on August first, the dreaded anniversary of my personal depression day.

All this time, I was unaware that there is a tourist attraction on the outskirts of Kanab called, “The Wave at Coyote Buttes.” It is billed as one of the most photographed places on earth.

HOLY CRAP!  WHO WOULDN'T WANT TO SEE THIS?

In retrospect, it's frustrating to find out that I wasted so much time in Kanab when I could have taken the scenic hike to such a natural phenomena. I kept reading and found out that the terrain is so fragile that these days, only twenty permits are issued each day.  But the demand in the summer is so high that a lottery system is used to see who “wins” the opportunity to walk this uniquely beautiful, three-mile trail.

The article mentioned that hikers are issued required reading material that includes the dangers of the desert. I understood this necessity because similar warnings were issued to my family and I, when we attempted to hike down the Grand Canyon’s, nine-mile, Bright Angel Trail, to the Colorado River.

Some of the Grand Canyon’s reminders were:

• There is limited shade on the trail.

• The temperature gets hotter (up to ten degrees as you go down).

• It’s better to go early morning or close to dark.

• Wear a hat

• Bring plenty of water

• Bring healthy snacks like fruit.

In big print at the bottom, a disclaimer stated that helicopter rescues started at $2,000.00 and most insurance companies don't cover it.


To make the story interesting, we started our hike at 2:00PM, on a 100° day.

OH HOW SMUG WE WERE ON THE WAY DOWN...WE LAUGHED SKIPPED AND JUMPED UNTIL WE SAW SUPER-FIT PEOPLE STRUGGLING TO COME UP.

We had little water and a couple of apples. Our casual, joyous stroll down ended when we saw the condition of people coming back up. My wife Sue overheard a breathless Adonis say he wished he had given up and gone back sooner. At first we revised our goal, (to the first rest station 1.25 miles down).

We continued a drop further down, saw more people creeping back up the steep incline and fortunately decided to immediately scrub our mission.  We chose wisely because within fifty feet of retracing our steps, we were exhausted. We were never in trouble but it took an eternity to reach the top because we stopped to rest a gazillion times.  At the summit, my son Andrew claims he saw me humping a Pepsi machine...I know my tongue was scraping the floor at time but I still most adamantly DENY mounting the soda machine!

The Wave at Coyote Buttes article told the story of an Arizona couple who won (seven months earlier) the lottery for the hike permit. The jaunt was to be a part of their fifth wedding anniversary celebration.

ANOTHER VIEW OF THE WAVE.

The story explained that the rough, unmarked three-mile trail is easy to follow on the way out.  But despite GPS coordinates and other landmarks, it is apparently much more difficult to follow on the way back. Like others before them, the couple got turned around and disoriented.  After three hours of wandering around, the wife collapsed onto the sun-baked rock. The husband searched for service on his cell-phone.  When the rescue party arrived, his twenty-seven year old wife had already succumbed to heat prostration...and died. Far worse, this isn't the first hiking fatality at The Wave.  So maybe I’m not so depressed about missing it after all.

TAPPING INTO THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING...AGAIN

My lucky number is twenty-two.  My mother's birthday is August 22nd but that's not where it originated.  Coincidentally, it was my dad who put the magic in that number.

During the Depression, my dad grew up a New York Giants football fan.  His parents managed to keep their heads above water but there was no room for amenities.  Therefore, it wouldn't be until dad was sixteen, (November 12, 1944), that his friend's uncle hooked them up with freebies to a Giants game.  More importantly, the uncle's influence was so great that they were also promised the equivalent of backstage passes, (meeting the victorious players in the locker room after their anticipated shellacking of the Philadelphia Eagles...who, two weeks earlier, had handed them their only loss that season).

A wry smile always came to dad's face when he told me how secondary the game was compared to meeting his heroes like Arnie Herber, getting autographs or the ultimate jackpot, the gift of a pro football.

Of course it wouldn't be a story if everything went right...but the gargantuans of the gridiron didn't lose...they tied 21-21.  Some how, the team was so disheartened by the manner of this outcome that non-essential visitors to the locker room weren't permitted in. 

The opportunity of a lifetime...spoiled!  My poor little immature dad was pissed-off.  His disappointment was so strong that he not only turned his back on the Giants forever but he became New York City's most ardent Philadelphia Eagles fan. Even when I became a New York Jets fan in 1963, his loyalties were still flying high with the, "Birds."

When I was eight, Dad wanted to indoctrinate me into being an Eagles fan.  Ever so clever, he incorporated a visit to the Eagles training camp with a vacation to Hershey, Pennsylvania.  That day I got a ton of Eagles autographs.  Through all the time and moving around the country, I still have this treasure.

AUTOGRAPH COLLECTING WAS FAR LESS SOPHISTICATED 49 YEARS AGO.  SO WHILE THIS TEN-PAGE HERSHEY'S BROCHURE CONTAINS MANY SIGNIFICANT SIGNATURES, THE FACT THAT THEY ARE  SCRIBBLED OR WRITTEN ON A PRINTED PAGE REDUCE IT TO MERELY SENTIMENTAL VALUE. SOME OF THE LEGIBLE SIGNATURES INCLUDE, MAXIE BAUGHN, PETE RETZLAFF, KING HILL AND NATE RAMSEY.  I'M SURE THERE'S MANY OTHERS BUT THEY ARE UNINTELLIGIBLE .

The one autograph that I know is there but I can't make out, is Timmy Brown, (#22).  I know its there because he was my father's favorite player.  Dad would ramble on about Brown's exploits so strongly that soon he became my favorite. When we got home, dad even painted green Eagle-like wings on my red, toy football helmet with the number twenty-two printed in the back.

AR FRANKLIN FIELD, TIM BROWN WAS A SLASHING SCAT BACK, AN ADEPT RECEIVER AND A FEARED KICKOFF AND PUNT RETURNER.

Unfortunately, most kids my age and their older brothers never heard of Tim Brown.  Therefore, I was told that I was wrong that the great running back was not Tim Brown #22 but Jim Brown #32.

MY CURRENT OPINION THAT HALL-OF-FAMER JIM BROWN IS THE GREATEST RUNNING BACK IN NFL HISTORY IS COMMON.  HIS COMBINATION OF POWER, SPEED AND DETERMINATION MADE HIM A FEARED AND LASTING ICON.  BUT BACK THEN, I WAS TOO YOUNG TO COMPREHEND THAT THERE COULD BE TWO MEN WITH SUCH SIMILAR NAMES, NOTORIETY, UNIFORM NUMBERS AND FOOTBALL POSITIONS.

Through the embarrassment of being told that I was crazy for telling the world that Tim Brown was the best, I stuck to my guns even when I received my reality check.  I remained stubborn even when I understood that there was a Timmy and a Jimmy Brown.  I proved that by remaining loyal to Tim and the number twenty-two for nearly half a century.

The significance of my lucky number has again risen up.  Almost to exact day of this post, I reached the twenty-second anniversary at my job.  While the economics of the day have hurt the joy of working there...a new and improved rival is ready to open its doors.

I applied.  I went through the wringer of the process and believed I took a top-notch interview.  Srill, I was rejected.  I felt so strongly that his was the right path for me, that I re-applied for a lesser position.  Again, I went through the close scrutiny of the interview process.  While waiting for the good news, I did not pray or hum my mantra ad nauseam.  Perhaps I should have because I was not accepted, again.   

Unhappily, I accepted being left behind.  Then out of the clear blue, I was invited to re-interview for the lesser position.  I feel that I understood what they were looking for and felt that I did an even better job in making myself look alluring for their purposes.

I WAS ABLE TO TAP INTO MY 1974 DISNEY TRAINING WHICH IS WHAT THEY WANT.  TO ME, IT WOULD BE A PRIVILEGE TO IN A PLACE WHO'S VERY NAME MEANS, "MERRIMENT."  I JUST HOPE I MADE MY POSITIVE ATTITUDE AND EXPERIENCED ABILITIES CLEAR.

The new place is ready to open tomorrow.  I was told that I would be notified within two weeks.  So atypically, I have reached-out to high-ranking people in their organization, to help carry me over the last hurdle.

TIME IS RUNNING OUT.  BUT I WILL REMAIN OPTIMISTIC.  MAYBE IN THE FINAL DAYS, I'LL ADOPT THE MANTRA OF HUMMING, "TWENTY-TWOOOOOOOOOO."

I am one hundred percent ready for this change.  I just wish I wasn't typing this column on April Fool's Day...but I am.  So maybe the joke is in me?   To counteract superstition, perhaps the best idea would to get all my readers (or at least twenty-two of you), to spiritually hold hands and sing, "Kumbaya." 

If you're not included in this extravaganza, please do whatever you gotta do help me succeed.  I know you can do it.  When it works, my next blog will include me wearing a new uniform and an ear to ear grin...thanks to you.          

A NATIONAL NIGHT, IN...MY CAR

The "NATIONAL NIGHT OUT," program is a community, police-awareness-raising event. Since its inception in 1984, municipalities across the USA and Canada have set aside the first Tuesday in August to promote the, "men and women in blue." (In Texas due to the summer heat, many towns observe this event in October).

In its infancy, this program took the form of a "CRIME WATCH," meeting but few people got involved. Soon, it quietly expanded to, "lights on vigils." Then through innovations like block parties, the idea gained momentum.

Earlier this week on August 2nd, my township (Galloway NJ) boasted its biggest National Night Out. Over four thousand people attended, (a thousand more than last year). The genius of this, "night out against crime," is bolstered by our economic downturn and the fact that August is the only month without a major holiday. So people gladly take advantage of the inexpensive, festive opportunity. Then in a fun and informative way, the police are honored while displaying their skills and services. The fire department, EMT squads, the military and other agencies also got in on the action.DESIGNED TO SHOW HOW THE POLICE KEEP US SAFE, MARSH BOAT PATROLS, THE K-9 CORPS, HELICOPTER RESCUES AND SWAT TEAMS WERE AMONG OUR EXHIBITED HIGHLIGHTS.

On my way to work that night, I passed Patriot Lake, at Galloway's municipal complex. I felt a twinge of jealousy as I saw the carnival-like atmosphere interwoven into the various demonstration booths with revelers full of civic and American pride participating.

A week earlier, our college search for my son Andrew led us to the University of Maryland, in the town of College Park. The traffic on Interstate-95 was so bad that our guided campus tour was over when we arrived. Luckily, we found a gracious tour guide who answered our college-life questions. Then she directed us to the admissions office where another upbeat representative gave us valuable entrance criteria info.

Afterwards we did a short...okay, very short... walking tour of the beautiful grounds, (it was 97 degrees). One of my regrets was missing the Jim Henson and Kermit the Frog statue.

WHILE THE UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND TERRAPINS PRIDE THEM SELF ON "TURTLE POWER," JIM HENSON, CLASS OF 1960, (AND KERMIT TOO) , HELPED MAKE FROGS IMPORTANT TOO.

On our way out of town, I suggested going to Baltimore's Little Italy. I was left with two unenthusiastic shrugs. I said we deserve a special dinner after we killed our self to get to the college, only to miss the actual tour, have no lunch and broil while wandering around random buildings. Neither my wife or son was keen on the idea but grudgingly agreed.

While leaving College Park, I noticed several advertisements for their National Night Out. With police in mind I jokingly said, "We're headed into the teeth of rush hour traffic, too bad we can't get a motorcycle escort." This attempt at sophisticated humor went unappreciated.

We hit no traffic during our twenty-five mile jaunt. However, along the way, one of the digital signs on the interstate read; "North of Baltimore, three lanes closed...expect major delays." That's when I reminded my troops that; by stopping for dinner, that'll give them time to unsnarl the traffic.

The mile drive off the highway to Little Italy took an eternity. But we were rewarded with a nearby and ultra rare, free parking spot. We walked one city block and were suddenly faced with more than a plethora of dining choices.

I have been fascinated with Baltimore's Little Italy since 2002. That's when we had a day trip to the Inner Harbor. We shopped, took my son to the aquarium as well as the Children's Science Museum and mistakenly hiked up Federal Hill, thinking it was Fort McHenry.

We wanted to end the day with a nice meal and walked to Little Italy. Every restaurant (and remember there was more than a plethora of them), had lines out the door into the street. Rather than wait, we retraced our steps and wound up at the tourist trap, "ESPN ZONE." To make matters worse, between our "gourmet" burgers and the arcade games, our tab probably added-up to close to what the authentic Italian dinner would have been.

From working in casinos, I have met tons of people who swear by Baltimore's Little Italy. The consensus was, there's so much competition that all the restaurants are great. So I have secretly pined to return for nine years.

Last week when Sue, Andrew and I made our triumphant return, there was a fancy-looking eatery on each corner at the first cross street we saw...with another ten in sight. We were tired and hungry. It was still 97 degrees and I was under the impression it didn't matter where you ate. Of course, we picked the wrong place, (unless they all suck). We paid top dollar and everything we ordered was worse than okay or awful. Plus, when the dissociative waitress awakened from her aloof trance, her bitchy attitude was a disgrace.

On our way back onto I-95, we made fun of our terrible eating experience. In the middle of laughing, I saw a similar digital; major delays north of Baltimore sign. Except this one included the problem's location, (mile marker 64). Ten miles later, in full daylight, we learned just how serious our bad luck was. We came to a near standstill with the problem four miles away.

THIS STOCK PHOTO IS NOT I-95. AND JUDGING BY THE SPACING, I'D GUESS THESE LUCKY DEVILS WERE AT LEAST MOVING.

We inched along for forty minutes. That's when I noticed that my gas tank was on empty. It was a long time till the next exit. When I could squeeze by, I drove on the shoulder to get off. After filling up, I saw a roadway running parallel to the interstate. I only needed to go four miles north to avoid the big traffic jam. But after one mile, the road to the I-95 on-ramp came up. In the twilight, without knowledge of an alternative way around the problem, I got on...and immediately came to a stop. We crept along. On two occasions, we had to move aside for emergency trucks.

This must have been one horrible accident because it was at least two hours since we saw the first digital sign for it. And a fire truck and an ambulance were still en route from a place called Rosedale.

The situation got worse, it was now dark and we were at a complete stop. I had the car in park and soon turned off the engine. Like a dating service, people got out of their cars in the harsh hot breeze to meet, compare notes and complain. When I looked backwards, I could see what seemed like the whole country, in the form of headlights, backed-up to the horizon. This was indeed a national night, in...our cars. Even worse, looking forward, I couldn't even see the interstate.

An hour later, people up ahead came running back to their cars. At first we were inching but soon we were rolling and stopping. At the crest of a hill, we finally saw our three lanes merging onto I-95. And in the extreme distance, I saw the beginning of the end, flashing lights.

I guess we had been at a complete stop because they temporarily closed the only open lane so work crews could safely open a second lane. When we got close enough to "rubberneck," we saw no crushed cars, the worst was over. Most of the remaining thirty emergency vehicles were filing away. On the wet roadway, firemen were coiling their hoses and stowing gear as the army of rescue personnel encouraged us weary motorists to keep moving.

The usual two and a quarter hour drive back from Baltimore took five and half hours. In the thirteen and a half hours from the time we left home until we returned, we were out of the car for a mere three hours.

Sometimes we need a kick in the head like a National Night Out, to remind us of the greatness and bravery involved in being a policeman, fireman, an EMT or be in the military. Also, because we need the assistance of civil servants so infrequently, it's easy to forget all the good they do.

If you still take these bastions of selflessness for granted or you're too self-centered to care about anything but your own convenience, please remember what a wise man once said; it is far better to be stuck in a terrible traffic...than to be the cause of it.

Next year, I'll meet you at the National Night Out. In the mean time, please support your local men and women in blue.

EDITOR'S NOTE:

Before knowing the true spirit of the National Night Out, (in my November 15, 2010 blog, "GETTING HOOKED-UP BY NEW YORK'S FINEST,)" I mistakenly mentioned that there should be a day commemorating the police in a manner similar to Veteran's Day.

EDELBLUM MYSTERY THEATER: THROW THE COFFEE POT OUT THE WINDOW !

The nicest woman used to play on my roulette game. For a three-year period, this delightful, tiny lady would drop in every few months. Helped by a series of grunts and gestures, together with a tad of broken English, her aura of positivism stayed consistent despite our language barrier. I'd estimate that four out of five visits, regardless of the outcome, she remained pleasant, friendly and generous. But every now and then, she'd be the personification of evil.

What causes such a train wreck in one's nature? These days it's trendy to throw around the concept of Bipolar Disorder. Somehow, I never felt that way about her. Instead, I leaned towards the politically incorrect catchall for women's radical personality shifts... periodic discomfort.

I supported my flimsy case by doing the math. It seemed that during twenty percent of her visits; she was aloof as if she didn't remember our previous connection, was belligerent to her fellow players and verbally abusive to me in her native tongue when she lost. Plus, she never tipped...even when everything was going her way.

To reduce my chance of embarrassment, I taught myself to wait and see if she was Jekyll or Hyde before rolling out the red carpet. Then one night, she politely took the last seat on my busy table. I was relieved to see that she was in a good spirits as she, as always, surrounded the 23, (her lucky birthday number), with the most bets.

Silently, with big smiles, we caught eye-contact as I called out, "No more bets." Suddenly, a small, faceless person crashed into the backs of the existing players. This rude person's jostling created just enough room for a petite, milky white hand to thrust through the bodies and chunk forty-dollars onto the already over-loaded 23.

While this was happening, the centrifugal force that held the ball in the track gave way to gravity. During its descent, the ball clanked and crashed into the canoes and bounced off a fret before taking three big jumps. A collective gasp filled the air. It looked like any number could win until the ball and number twenty-three seemed to align, destined to meet.

The ball hit in the twenty-three as if guided by a magnet...but its speed and the opposite momentum of the wheel caused the ball to rattle inside the compartment. At the last second, it popped up just enough to climb over the fret and into the next number, four.
CANOES ARE DIAMOND-SHAPED METAL INSERTS BUILT INTO THE WALL OF A ROULETTE WHEEL AND FRETS ARE THE TALL METAL WALLS THAT SEPARATE THE NUMBERS. BOTH ARE DESIGNED TO DEFLECT THE BALL AND ASSURE A FAIR SPIN. WHEN THE BALL LANDS IN THE WINNING NUMBER, A CRYSTAL MARKER IS PLACED ON THE LAYOUT'S CORRESPONDING NUMBER. THE OFFICIAL NAME FOR THIS MARKER IS, "THE MARKER." IN NEW JERSEY, THE CRYSTAL MARKER IS MADE OF PLASTIC. DUE TO THE RECENT ECONOMIC UPHEAVAL, ATLANTIC CITY CASINOS NOW USE IMITATION PLASTIC.

My classy lady didn't vent her frustration over narrowly missing out on a windfall. On the other hand, the voice that belonged to the faceless late bettor, cursed me so badly in a mixture of her foreign language and English that even a longshoreman would have blushed. When everyone turned to look at this vile woman, I realized that for years, I had been dealing to identical twins.

It's funny, standing side-by-side, they were quite different. I couldn't believe that I never picked up on the obvious differences in two.

The same can be said for all identical twins, they aren't exactly the same. Once you get to know them, you can key on some aspect of their face, body or personality to make the separation. Then, even when the aren't together, you can tell who's who and treat them as individuals.

One set of twins I knew growing up were easy to distinguish because one had a clear complexion, was much better in sports and had a carefree disposition. Another pair were much harder to differentiate until I noticed that the studious one had a small beauty mark along side his right eyebrow. And twin girls from middle school made it a snap to tell them apart because one was a tomboy and never adorned herself like her high-maintenance sister who wore make-up, had fancy hairdos and wore skirts even after school.

Of course not all twins are people. Twins can also be inanimate objects. I recently had trouble figuring out what I thought were twins and it almost led to me throwing my Keurig coffee maker out the window.

Before the curse of sleep apnea invaded me, I had about five cups of coffee a week. While the whole world was enthralled with Starbucks and the like, I was able to get by with one cup before each shift at work...and because I'm not much of a breakfast person...maybe another five times a year with a morning meal.

Effing sleep apnea has changed all that. For the last two years whether I get my usual five or three and a half or eight or even ten hours of sleep, every morning I am lured to the kitchen and my Keurig.
THIS KEURIG INTERNET PHOTO IS SIMILAR TO MY SET-UP.

In two minutes, a Keurig serves up a perfect, single cup of coffee. The procedure is simple, beyond the typical extras like sugar and cream, all you need is a mug, tap water and a K-Cup, (a specially designed coffee grounds capsule). K-Cups can be bought everywhere and come in over a hundred flavors, (both decaffeinated and regular). If you shop around, when bought in bulk, they run less than fifty-cents each.

My current morning routine includes me brewing a cup of Emeril's Big Easy Bold and taking it onto my backyard deck with a Sudoku puzzle, (I feel that I have succeeded in a timely manner if the coffee is still warm when I'm done). Unfortunately, my happy habit has been continually disturbed over the last month. The stupid Keurig stopped working properly.
AN (18) COUNT BOX OF EMERIL'S BIG EASY BOLD K-CUPS. SOME OF MY OTHER FAVORITES ARE, SUMATRAN RESERVE, KONA, DONUT SHOP AND DARK ROAST.
If you're an old-school fart like me, you expect things to work, forever! And if something "made-to-break" goes down, it's still shocking to me that they are economically unfeasible to repair. Therefore, it upsets me that today's consumers, in the name of their own convenience, vanity or social status, not only accept this disposable goods mentality but frequently take pride in trashing perfectly useful (sometimes high-end) items...because peer pressure tells them it is obsolete.IF THIS TREND GETS ANY WORSE, PEOPLE WILL BE ABANDONING THEIR NEW CARS, THE FIRST TIME THEY RUN OUT OF GAS.

I do not think my attitude makes me uncool, forcibly loyal, lazy or cheap. Nor I am being overly conservative or unreasonable to think that something that isn't receiving a heavy-duty work load or being bounced around, (like a coffee maker), shouldn't last for more than two years.

The root of my problem is two-fold. On day-one, the Keurig did not make the coffee hot enough for my taste. By the time I added half-n-half, it was barely lukewarm. However, I showed my flexibility and decided to use the microwave after my wife Sue told me that the temperature was just right for her. Now, two years later, problem number-two crops up, every day...I'm only getting, a half cup of coffee.

At first, I figured this to be a self-correcting mistake. Even though everything is measured to be precisely the same each time, there is also a set procedure to operate the unit. If you vary from this, sometimes the machine won't work or will stop prematurely. Most of these problems are human error...in my case that's easily explained because of sleep deprivation. But this half-filled cup was happening every day.

As you may recall, I am a charter member of the Junior Sherlock Holmes Club so after a couple of weeks, I finally whined to my wife, "Does the Keurig make you a full cup of coffee?" When she said, "Yes," I was spurred to investigate further.

There are few variables because the whole Keurig system is so simple. It was elementary to skip the K-Cup because they are uniform and factory-sealed. The choice of mugs couldn't be the problem because Sue and I randomly use the same ones; the one with snow flakes, the happy face, the head honcho or New York Mets, (that coffee cup has been banished to the farthest abyss of that cabinet...even behind the Mickey Mouse mugs).

The only possibility left was the water supply. Sue has a small plastic container with a pointed spout. Until we got this coffee maker, she used it to fill her iron. When she realized that a coffee mug was too cumbersome to fill the small water tank opening, she discovered that this device when filled to a notch near the top, fills the Keurig's reservoir perfectly.

I don't own a deerstalking cap or smoke a pipe, so when I do detective work around the house, I enlist the help of my dog Roxy and call her, "Watson." I was telling Watson that it was a good idea to wait until the Keurig was cold before examining the tank. I told her to expect an excess of water but there wasn't. My next step was filling a happy face mug with the right amount of water and pouring it into the machine. I told Watson to fetch my glasses so I could confirm that the height of the water matched the suggested level inside the tank...and it did?

Watson's ears went straight up in shock when I cried, "I'm going to throw the whole business (coffee maker), out the window!" I took a deep cleansing breath and relaxed. Then, as I dried the happy face coffee cup, I began to gather my thoughts for a letter of complaint to the Keurig company. Then I received my Sherlock Holmes moment of epiphany and poured water into the measuring device and then into the mug. Eureka! The mug was about half full. There MUST be two measuring devices.

Genius, right? Well, not exactly. A minute later, when I opened the cabinet to put the mug away, I discovered a second, identical, yet slightly smaller measuring device sitting on the shelf the whole time. Yes I solved the mystery but Roxy made it clear that she never wants to play Watson, ever again!

NATIVITY vs NEGATIVITY

We are bombarded with bad news every day. Even during the holidays, we are constantly reminded that the economy is tanking, unemployment is soaring, the future of health care is unsettled, the fabric of America's way of life is challenged by threats of domestic terrorism, tensions in the Mid-East seem like they'll never end, plus our military is being picked-off one by one in far off outposts in Iraq and Afghanistan...and if that wasn't enough...North Korea is now flexing its bullying muscles too. But somehow, this past Friday, just five miles away, I received an unexpected moment of calm that translated into the greatest gift of all, hope. This nice surprise happened at the Shoppes of Historic Smithville, (New Jersey)...when I "high-fived" Santa Claus.

Santa's early December arrival has been a Galloway Township tradition for years. Recently, the historic Towne of Smithville has been the honored host. But what is Smithville and what makes it historic?

Its earliest prominence relates to the Revolutionary War. At a time when Philadelphia, (60 miles west) was occupied by the British, colonial privateers/smugglers used Smithville's nearby Little Egg Harbor River to sneak in goods.

After the war in 1787, the Smithville Inn opened as a single-room stagecoach stop. Over the years it expanded several times and in 1952, it and seven adjacent acres were bought by a local couple and converted into a restaurant. Soon, houses and other buildings of the Revolutionary period were bought elsewhere and transplanted on their property. These visionaries then restored the antique buildings for commerce and historic Smithville was born.

MY PARENTS LIKED TO TAKE US TO THE SMITHVILLE INN, ON OUR WAY TO ATLANTIC CITY IN THE MID-60's.

In the early 1990's, the town was going through a down turn. While the Smithville Inn remained the anchor, nearly all the other shops closed. Luckily, the village was bought by a progressive party and slowly but surely, dilapidated Smithville was resurrected. This success story combined an aggressive marketing strategy, a contemporary flavor to its early-Americana theme and a sizable expansion.

A RELAXING STROLL THROUGH ITS 60+ SHOPS ISN'T COMPLETE WITHOUT CHECKING OUT THE SWANS, GEESE AND DUCKS IN AND AROUND THE LAKE.

Today, distant visitors and locals are lured to town by the brick sidewalks and cobblestone lined streets that are packed with specialty shops, restaurants, bars, theaters, a bed and breakfast and so much more. For kids, a boardwalk surrounds the revitalized waterfront of Lake Meone that has a carousel, arcades, paddle boats and the famous Smithville Railroad.

WHEN SMITHVILLE WAS GETTING RESTORED, I REMEMBER "TRACY THE CONDUCTOR," AGONIZING FOR MONTHS OVER HARD TO FIND LOCOMOTIVE PARTS. IN THE MEAN TIME, MY THREE-YEAR OLD ANDREW OPTED TO LIVE THE LIFE OF HIS "THOMAS THE TRAIN," FRIENDS BY WALKING... MANY, MANY TIMES, EVERY INCH OF ITS VACANT RAILROAD TRACKS.

In addition to Smithville being an important destination for travelers on their way to the shore, golfing or the casinos, it has maintained its greatness by attracting huge year-round crowds to special events. The Irish Festival, Haunted Halloween, Independence Day Parade, Oktoberfest, May Fest and this past Friday's arrival of Santa are some of those highlights. TO WELCOME SANTA AND SPICE-UP THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT, THE LAKE AND ITS WHARF ARE LIT UP.

We took Andrew to see Santa come to Smithville, twelve years ago. And while the deeper significance of the occasion might be lost on four-year olds, the special experience of coming out after dark, freezing and seeing the spectacle, can last a lifetime.

This week, my son recreated this joy by being a part of the festivities. He appeared as Batman with a group of other characters employed by, "FAIRYTALE ENTERTAINMENT," to fluff-up the crowd before Santa and Mrs. Claus arrived.

IN OCTOBER AT A FAIR IN ABSECON, BATMAN SITED THE SLOPPINESS FACTOR AND ADVISED A RANDOM YOUTH TO THE ADVANTAGES OF ICE CREAM IN A CUP OVER A CONE.

Santa's arrival is aimed at younger kids however it is popular with children of all ages. On Friday night, many families, to assure easier parking, came early and had dinner somewhere in Smithville first. In preparation for the extravaganza, one of the parking lots had been cordoned-off. About an hour before hand, a semi-circle of people began to form outside the partitioned area. Then to entertain the waiting crowd, teenagers such as my son came into the circle, in character costumes. They all braved the 30 degree elements but Cinderella had it worst because she wore a sleeveless dress and open toed shoes.

IF YOU SQUINT, THAT'S SUE AND I REVELING IN THE RAUCOUS FUN FEST.

The characters were given a rock star reception as they created a party atmosphere by interacting with their adoring fans. In addition to Batman; Cinderella, Woody from, "TOY STORY" and Belle from, "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST," appeared. Other characters such as; Mickey Mouse, Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer were provided by another talent agency.

To the delight and relief of the masses, the ever-punctual Santa arrived exactly at 6:30. First, the scene was cleverly set-up as a distance siren alerted everyone that something special was about to happen. The blaring calling card turned everyone's attention through the barren trees to an intense, bright light. The alarm pierced the cold night air as it neared while baritone car horns added to the excitement. Silhouetted through the woods, a hook and ladder slowly came into view. The hordes were now primed and nearly delirious with anticipation. Just when you thought the noise level couldn't get louder, the crowd gave out an emphatic cheer as the fire truck turned into the lot.

Parents pointed skyward to the top of the fire engine's extended ladder. And there he was, the symbol of endless possibilities, lit by a spot-light, three stories up. To see that jolly soul perched so high together with Mrs. Claus, it was easy to get choked up by happiness as they waved to the thrilled mob below. The illusion of flight was completed when fire truck did a victory lap around the parking lot. It stopped at the far end. The crow's nest bucket was slowly lowered to street level. I was directly in front of them as a firefighter opened the safety gate and allowed Mrs. Claus out first then Santa. The frenzy got better as the Claus's meet-n-greet included shaking the multitude of multi-cultural mini-hands.

SANTA THEN EARNED HIS GLOBAL ICON STATUS BY LISTENING TO KIDS EXPRESS THEIR INNER MOST NEEDS AND THEN HE RESPONDED WITH MESSAGES OF POSITIVISM.

The climax of the evening came when the Claus's led the other characters into the mosh-pit-like crush of the audience. I got to watch my scion mingle with the kids, answer questions and pose for pictures.

THE CAPED CRUSADER POSED FOR COUNTLESS PICTURES AND MADE A GAZILLION NEW FRIENDS.

I was especially proud when a dad finished snapping some photos and whispered to his wife, "Batman is the nicest one (character)." I was already on cloud-nine with the worries of the world a million mind-miles away when I turned and came face to face with Mr. Kris Kringle himself. In a reflex action, I offered him a high-five and to my pleasant surprise, he responded enthusiastically. So whenever you compare the nativity to negativity, the holiday season, however you celebrate it, will always win out. Trust me, I had a smile the rest of the night and a real feeling of hope and optimism that should not wear thin for a long time.

The next morning, Andrew and the Fairytale Entertainment players got a related gig when they again joined forces with Santa and Mrs. Claus for the Smithville Inn's character breakfast.

TO ADD TO THEIR NOTORIETY, ANDREW'S CREW WAS INTERVIEWED BY A COUPLE OF NEWSPAPERS INCLUDING THE GOTHAM CITY PEE-POTTERS PRESS.

This sold-out breakfast included two seatings of 300 people. Santa's opened the proceedings with his usual announcement that he's having trouble getting down some chimneys. He reminded all the kids to limit the cookies they leave for him, to three. And always, please, please, please, NO OATMEAL!

When I saw Andrew's satisfaction at the end I said, "If Karl Marx ever entertained kids as a character, nobody would have ever heard of Communism." Then I added, "Hopefully, this success will spark additional work for you and your comrades." When Santa hears those pearls of wisdom, maybe he'll want to high-five me again.

THE JUNIOR SHERLOCK HOLMES CLUB

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SURF AND TURF...AND SURF AND SURF

Hallelujah! I finally heard this public address announcement in my mind, "Telephone call for Dr. Atkins, Dr. Robert Atkins telephone." This message from the Obesity Unit of my internal defense mechanism is telling me loud and clear...its time to go on a diet. DR. ATKINS, (1930-2003), DEVELOPED THE POPULAR BUT CONTROVERSIAL DIETING METHOD WHICH VIRTUALLY ELIMINATES THE INTAKE OF CARBOHYDRATES WHILE EMPHASIZING PROTEIN AND FATS, ALONG WITH SOME LEAFY VEGETABLES AND DIETARY SUPPLEMENTS.

I have been on the weight-loss roller-coaster my entire adult life. 222 pounds seems to be my norm but in the past I have ballooned to 231 and once melted down to 204. My diet of choice is the Atkins Diet. Mainly because I can "pig-out" on my carnivorous favorites and see quick results. Plus, I'm not the calorie counting type, I don't like being lectured and measuring my meals will never happen.

Back on May 2009, I last heard Dr. Atkins beckon me. That weight purging mission went unusually well. Over the course of six months, I lost 25 pounds and kept it off. Around Halloween, I experienced the highlight of that diet's success...my belt was too big. That euphoria took me and the belt across the street to LACC's house. He drilled me a new, skinnier hole. Spurred by a feeling of weight loss invincibility, I tightened my belt as never before. I even projected doing my own drilling on the next, even skinnier hole.
REMEMBER IN MY SLIMMER DAYS, "EVERYONE" SAID I LOOKED LIKE EMINEM...SAME TATTOOS AND EVERYTHING.

Well that next belt drilling time never came. Somewhere in the middle of November, I put the whammy on myself. I went against every superstitious bone in my body by replacing my size-million clown pants and buying much smaller ones for work.

When you think you have it, "all together," while dieting, the first mistake is making a slob of yourself on a special occasion. Mine was Thanksgiving. Brimming with false confidence, I over did it because I knew, I would never get fat again. Alas, I was full of myself and did NOT get right back on the wagon.ITS EASY TO OVER-INDULGE ON TURKEY DAY BUT I'M ALSO KNOWN TO PUT THE OL' FEED-BAG ON DURING FLAG DAY, ARBOR DAY AND APRIL FOOLS.

While I kept delaying the resumption of my good eating habits, the scale started tipping the wrong way. Then some personal setbacks derailed my focus. Trust me its not an old wives tale when they say; people take comfort in food. I was back in my belt's original last hole in no time. Then at this most inopportune time, the eating free-for-all known as Christmas came along.

I drew a line in the sand and resolved to take better care of myself after the new year. That didn't happen! My weight became a non-factor as other difficulties detoured my path.

In the late spring when the weather warms up and fat guys like me make their own gravy...the obstacles along my emotional path were finally clear. Unfortunately, by that time my sponge-like stomach had re-absorbed nearly every ounce that I had killed myself to lose. On June 24th, I was a few pounds away from my all-time high when Carnival Cruise Lines lured me to the Caribbean.

A Caribbean cruise exposes two major factors that effect a man like me. Its a week long, 24-hour eating marathon AND you spend a lot of time without a shirt on.

SOMEWHERE IN THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE, ANDREW (LEFT) NOTED THAT MY BEER BELLY WASN'T EXACTLY FLATTERING. HE TOOK LITTLE SOLACE WHEN I REMINDED HIM, "I DON'T DRINK AND THAT BEER BELLY, IS ALL FOOD !"

Like all cruise ships, ours, the Carnival Miracle offers round-the-clock buffets. Like the cadence of crashing waves, anything you could imagine for each meal...plus snacks after hours, are continuously rolled in.

I JOKINGLY TOLD ONE OF THE SHIP'S WAITERS, "I'LL HAVE THE LOT." I REALIZED THEN THAT MR. CREOSOTE HAD SWALLOWED THE EMINEM IN ME.

We thought it was criminal, the way our fellow passengers wantonly wasted enormous volumes of food. Now while its true that I rarely went more than 20 minutes without eating SOMETHING...nobody could accuse me of waste because I finished everything I started.

SIX CREME'BRULEES IN ONE SITTING, NO PROBLEM.

We ate our breakfast and lunch at the continuous buffet. Our gourmet dinners were in the elegant, Roman orgy-esque, Bacchus Dining Room. During the day, I might have been "careful" with what I ate but at night, I was an insatiable pit.

IN A RESTAURANT THAT CELEBRATED THE ROMAN AND GREEK GODS OF WINE AND FERTILITY, (BACCHUS & DIONYSUS), I BEGAN MY QUEST TO BREAK THE GUINNESS SHRIMP COCKTAIL EATING RECORD. UNFORTUNATELY, ANDREW INSISTED ON HAVING ONE...THUS DISQUALIFYING ME.

Our entire crew was cordial. However, in the Bacchus, they were saintly. In addition to the maitre d' and several hostesses, each table was provided with a three-person waiting team. This made the service impeccable. So whatever you wanted, you got...FAST! This was proven when the menu included lobster tails on the same day as New York strip steak. I wasn't going to pass up lobster and Andrew ordered the steak.

While waiting, I noshed on the bread basket. I also had, French onion soup and a Caesar salad as well as spicy Thai beef on a stick and a shrimp cocktail for my appetizers. That would have been enough for a normal fat guy...but not me.

IT IS MY UNDERSTANDING THAT IN THE OFF-SEASON, SUMO WRESTLERS COME ON CRUISE SHIPS TO BULK-UP.

I finished my lobster in seconds and pined for the steak. I flagged down our Jakartan waiter Nikko and told him of my desire for, "Surf & Turf." Perhaps because of the language barrier, he brought me the steak (with all the trimming) as well as two more lobster tails for Andrew and Sue. Well, when I downed that delicious strip steak, I noticed that they wanted to save room for dessert and didn't want the extra lobster. I couldn't picture such a delight being flung overboard and returned to its roots...so I ate them both and wound up with, "Surf and Turf...and Surf and Surf." Oh yeah, I still had room for two desserts too.

THIS GENTLEMAN WAS ON OUR CRUISE. WHEN WE DOCKED IN ST. THOMAS, HE HAD TROUBLE DECIDING WHETHER TO GET OFF EARLY OR HAVE A THIRD BREAKFAST OR A FIRST LUNCH. HE WAS DEVOURING A PORK CHOP WHEN HE PARA-PHRASED ZYMBOT, "EVEN THOUGH CARNIVAL CHARGED ME DOUBLE BECAUSE OF MY SIZE...LIKE THE FRIGGIN' AIRLINES...WHEN I EAT ON A CRUISE, I MAKE A PROFIT." BACK ON BOARD, HE TOLD ME HE GAVE BACK THAT PROFIT AFTER BENDING HIS RENTED SCOOTER'S CHASSIS.

In my eight days at sea, without impressing anyone or setting any records, my gastronomic antics resulted in a ten pound gain. Real life set in after my vacation. Especially when I took off my shirt in front of a mirror...holy man-boobs Batman, I needed a mansierre. I was so ashamed that I felt compelled to divert my eyes...and I love me!

When I tried on my new work pants, yikes, my plight worsened. I snugly fastened the belt with the last hole...going in the wrong direction. I was at a new all-time high of 234 pounds and was unwilling to test my new belt hole drilling skill. Amen, that's when I got the call from Dr. Atkins.

The first two weeks of any diet is crucial. First, to make room for MEAT, I re-arranged our freezer. The frozen pizza, French fries, ice cream and Pepperidge Farm fudge cake were the first to go. Then I made an appointment to re-acquaint myself with my butcher.

I have made it through the first week and have lost six pounds of bloating. Hopefully, I can keep at for a long time and steer a steady course back under 205. Because, we are already in the concept phase of a; flying to Los Angeles plus Mexican Riviera cruise vacation for next year.