EVOLVING PAST BERNIE "BOOM-BOOM" GEOFFRION AND UNCLE SEAWEED

Oh no!  Run for your lives.  I'm coming out of blog retirement to share my latest inspiration.

This sudden impulse to dust off my MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND blog materialized when I dreamt I was telling people about a segment from the story below.  Don't worry, this isn't that tired, recurring nightmare I had as an eight year old when my class trip to a firehouse took a painful turn when a hook and ladder ran over my foot.  Instead, it's a true story (with the usual 15% enbellishment factor that my regular readers have grown to appreciate).                                                                       

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I was approaching adolescence when my friend Jason turned me onto tabletop hockey.  To this day, I doubt no game ever beguiled me that much. 

JASON'S TWO OLDER BROTHERS CLEVERLY TAPED PLAYER NAMES ACROSS THE CHEST OF THE "SKATERS." THE BLUE TEAM REPRESENTED OUR CIRCA 1965 HOMETOWN HEROES; THE NHL DOORMATS KNOWN AS THE NEW YORK RANGERS.  THEIR RED-SHIRTED OPPONENTS BORE THE NAMES OF THE LEAGUE'S TITANIC ELITE, THE MONTREAL CANADIENS.

This game was the full-blown entry-level drug that triggered my teenage obsession for hockey.  It also hastened my vast international sophistication as I learned the subtleties of French, like knowing Henri Richard wasn't pronounced Henry Richard, Jake "The Rake" Plant was actually Jacques Plante, (Plont) and Yvan Cournoyer wasn't spelled Yvonne Corn Y-A.  However, the most engaging name on the Canadiens belonged to Bernie "Boom-Boom" Geoffrion.

HALL-OF-FAMER BERNIE "BOOM-BOOM" GEOFFRION (1931-2006) PLAYED 16 NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE SEASONS, WAS A SIX-TIME STANLEY CUP WINNER AND THE 1951/1952 ROOKIE-OF-THE- YEAR. HE AMASSED 393 CAREER GOALS, IS ASSOCIATED WITH POPULARIZING THE "SLAP-SHOT," HAD HIS UNIFORM #5 RETIRED BY THE CANADIENS AND WAS VOTED IN 2017 AS A TOP 100 ALL-TIME NHLer.  PLUS, HE COACHED THE ATLANTA FLAMES FOR 3 YEARS AS WELL AS A PARTIAL SEASON FOR THE NEW YORK RANGERS AND MONTREAL CANADIENS.

I have no memory of Geoffrion as a Canadien.  So, I'm not certain why I was attracted to him.  Was it his colorful and emotion-filled personality, a cool sounding French name or perhaps his tough-guy "Boom-Boom" nickname?  Most likely, it was a combination of all three, with a side-order of wisdom gained from Jason and his brothers. All I know is, when the NHL was still a six team league, he had faded past his prime. So, despite a decent 21 goal season, he retired at 32, in 1964.  

In 1966 with the NHL on the verge of expanding to 12 teams, Bernie ended his two-year sabbatical and made a comeback. To my utter delight, my cellar-dweller New York Rangers signed him.  Geoffrion's transition back as an active player resulted in an unspectacular 17 goals in his first year, (and a much more deflating, career-ending second season). 

Simultaneously, I was entering Junior High, (a much bigger school), where I was blind-sided by the unexpected collison of mind, body and spirit called "puberty."  This process also coincided with my impending rite of passage into manhood, (aka, Bar Mitzvah) which like a spector, ominously loomed over my next year's horizon.  

The blue lining during this bombardment of change was that seventh grade exposed me to hygiene classes (which was so shrewdly presented, that it's sexual components created more questions than answers).  Luckily, I met a wider range of kids who helped me untangle the complexities of  maturity (with extremely entetaining misinformation) which resulted in making new friends.

MY NEW MIDDLE SCHOOL FRIENDS MIKE F, DAVID B AND DONNIE S...AS WELL AS JASON FROM THE TABLE HOCKEY GAME ARE IN THIS 1968 BAR MITZVAH PHOTO.

Mike (the funny one), David (the studious one) and Donnie (a nice kid) and I walked to school everyday. Mike kept us rapt as he pandered to our over-active curiosity with exaggerated details from his health class. I figured it "had" to be true because his teacher's name was Miss Ball.

These friends weren't sports fanatics and none of them had the same passion for athletics as I did. So I was surprised when the four of us arrived outside school (JOHN WILSON, JHS-211), when Mike saw a guy from his band, (Borealis) and introduced me as "Boom-Boom Aidelbloom."  Not only did we all laugh but the nickname went viral.  It stuck and remains active in the heart and mind of several 50-year friendships including MGTP blog readers: Stu W, Skip E, Ernie S Stu R and of course my sister.

This new nickname came at a good time because for around a year, I had been trying to shed the childishness of being called "Stevie."  My insistence led to clashes with my mom.  After a while, she probably sensed that a compromise was in her best long-term interest.  She allowed herself to lose this petty battle to save her big guns to quell possible rebellions over future teenage issues. But as soon as she started answering phone calls from my new friends asking--"Is Boom-Boom home? " She'd cup the phone, use a funny voice with a sly grin to say something like, "Is there anybody here named Boom-Boom?"  Her passive aggressive point was, I may have graduated from "Stevie" but I was still her little creampuff.  I always speculated that she associated my new moniker with henchmen from Murder Incorporated? Either way, she steadfastly refused to call me Boom-Boom without at least a little dig.  To prove my snail-paced evolvution, I tolerated her low-level ribbing. Taking the high road was a good decision because soon, the Boom-Boom nickname had morphed into a more socially acceptable and sustainable, "Boomer."

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I moved to  Las Vegas in 1979.  Overwhelmingly, only my strongest friendships (with the help of Facebook), survived the time and distance as the Boomer nickname faded into oblivion.

In 1984, Boom-Boom Geoffrion's name came up in conversation when I was visiting Marietta Georgia. I knew he had been the expansion team Atlanta Flames first head coach (1972), so as a storehouse of useless information, I found it fascinating that he was now a permanant resident of Marietta.

40 YEARS AGO, MY NIECES AND THEIR FAMILY  CALLED ME UNCLE STEVIE. MY ANNOYANCE WAS REBORN!  BUT WHEN THE YOUNGER ONE WAS A BABY, IT SOUNDED LIKE SHE WAS SAYING "UNCLE SEAWEED."  THEY STILL SAY STEVIE NOW, BUT I HEAR SEAWEED.  SO, DECADES LATER, THAT FAMILY IS EXEMPT BECAUSE I WAS FOREVER SMITTEN BY CUTENESS.

A few years after returning to the eastcoast, I was hired in April 1990, in Atlantic City, at the new Taj Mahal Casino. On New Years Eve, I was dealing craps on a high-roller table. It was still early, (9:30PM), so we were open with no players. We heard rumors that there were celebrities in the crowd, (it was true, I had seen "Smokin' Joe Frazier sitting next to the singer Tiny Tim, at a blackjack table). So I was on my toes during this down-time, to see who else I could pick-out of the parade of revelers.  Suddenly, as if by wizardry, I couldn't believe my eyes. I saw Bernie "Boom-Boom" Geoffrion. 

Casinos, (in general) had a perceived etiquette back then.  Some of these "unwritten undertandings" focused on decorum from the staff, respect for customer anonymity and an unyielding rule prohibiting solicitation of tips, favors, discounts etc.  So asking for an autograph was strictly verboten.

Even though my immediate supervisor, (Bruce W.), was a "house man," the impulse was irresistable.  I called out, "Mr. G!"  Boom-Boom didn't respond.  I had to think quick or he would've disappeared in the mass of humanity. I summoned my long dormant "vast sophistication of the subtleties of French," and shouted one word, "Monsieur!" He turned.  We caught eye contact.  We both smiled.  He said something in French.  Starstruck I blithered in English, "I'm your biggest fan...I was in Marietta six years ago but I didn't realize you lived there...can I have your autograph?"  He made an abrupt about face and literally ran away, disappearing into the crowd. I was stupified and crushed. 

I was so disappointed that I insulted him. At least Bruce didn't reprimand me.  Instead he smiled, "Who was that guy?"  Before I could answer Monsieur G. returned.  I said, "Where'd you go?"  He shugged and said in his charming French-Canadien accent, "I don't get recognized very much these days."  After an awkward pause he held up a Taj Mahal pen and grinned, "I can't sign for you without one of these..."  He interrupted himself and added, "Wait! I got to get some paper."  He was turning away when Bruce said, "Mr G. it's okay." He removed the empty "player rating card" from his clipboard and handed it to my hero, blank side up.  Like music to my ears Boom-Boom said, "How should I make it out."  In my glory I said, "Easy.  Bernie 'Boom-Boom' Geoffrion."  He did leave out the "Bernie" in the finished product but that didn't tarnish a moment that will forever shine on the highlight reel of my life.

Hours later, I told my friend MLPJ about this.  She said, "That's why I keep a baseball in my locker.  Remember when Jose Canseco came in last summer. That ball is in a plastic thingy on top of my entertainment center as we speak. Besides, those 'no fratenizing with the guests' rules are bullshit. Everyone gets free stuff from customers and we ain't talking about autographs."  She inspired me.  A week later, I bought a baseball and put it in my locker.  Twenty-Five years later, I cleared out that locker when the casino closed and that unisgned ball, (still in it's little factory-sealed box),came home with me.

15 YEARS BEFORE GETTING INVOLVED WITH EBAY, MY WIFE SUE AND I VISITED TORONTO, (1992).  I SAW A SPORTS MEMORABLIA STORE AND FOUND THIS PHOTO OF GEOFFRION.  IT (AND BOOM-BOOM'S AUTOGRAPH) HAVE SINCE REMAINED BURIED TOGETHER IN A CLOSET.  I SHOULD FRAME IT AND HANG IN OUR COMPUTER ROOM.  BUT I WON'T. THOSE WALLS ARE ALREADY FULL OF SHINIER MEMORIES FROM THE "REAL" HIGHLIGHT REEL OF MY LIFE...PHOTOS OF MY SON ANDREW AND HIS NEW BRIDE, GOLNAZ, (GOLI).

Somehow, my nickname was never brought up at home.  For no particular reason other than since the 1970's,  I've seen so little of the old gang who still call me Boomer.

ANDREW IN THE HEIGHT OF HIS FARNSWORTH-PHASE, OCEAN CITY MARYLAND BOARDWALK (JUNE 1997).  THAT WAS THE CLOSEST I EVER GOT TO MENTIONING MY NICKNAME TO MY FAMILY WAS WHEN WE MET THAT DOG,  "BOOMER." 

So rather than resurrecting Boomer, I'm thrilled to announce that beyond my wildest dreams, my new and eternal nickname has evolved; surpassing the distinction of Bernie Geoffrion and loveableness of Uncle Seaweed. I officially encourage my readers, family, friends and everyone else to do the same. Please, call me BABA STEVE. 

YES, THERE'S A NEW EDELBLUM IN THE WORLD!!! YEARS BEFORE BECOMING MY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW, I FELT GOLI WAS THE DAUGHTER I NEVER HAD.  BUT BEFORE THAT, SHE WAS ALREADY CALLING ME "BABA STEVE," (DADDY STEVE).

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February 16th would've been "Boom-Boom" Geoffrion's 94th birthday.  Please lift your glass of Canada Club whiskey, bottle of Labatt's or goblet of almond milk to honor this day and thank Boom-Boom for this MGTP stroll down Memory Lane.

TELEPHONE CALL FOR DR. FREUD, DR. SIGMUND FREUD, TELEPHONE.

A couple of nights ago, I dreamt that my father's band was coming off stage.  I ran up the aisle to greet him as he came down the steps.  Dad was pumping his saxophone triumphantly in the air as he turned to me.  When we got eye contact, his face blossomed into a warm smile and he "high-fived" me as he went by.  I woke up immediately.  It was the best dream I've had in a long time.

I'm thrilled that I remembered that dream because so few make it into the old memory bank.  But when I do, I have enjoyed some doozies.  My all-time favorite dream was incredibly vivid and detailed.  It happened when I was at Brooklyn College, (1974-1977).

For the sake of clarification, a "revenuer" is a government tax agent.  My only knowledge of the term comes the revenuers who hunt down illegal moonshine stills.

ASSOCIATED, BUT NOT LIMITED TO APPALACHIAN HILLBILLIES, "MOONSHINE,"(aka, WHITE LIGHTNING, MOUNTAIN DEW, HOOCH OR TENNESSEE WHITE WHISKEY),  IS LIQUOR, (MADE BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON) THAT IS NEITHER TESTED FOR QUALITY STANDARDS NOR TAXED.

Still operators paid big money to daredevils who were willing to transport the moonshine from the back woods to market.  A real go-getter, squeezed in more than one "run" a night and at least doubled his payoff.

IN ADDITION TO LOCAL AUTHORITIES, THE RUNNERS HAD TO DODGE THE GOVERNMENT REVENUERS.

In order to increase their profit, the runners began to customize their cars.  One way was to gut the car's interior, to maximize their cargo space.

SOMETIMES ONLY THE DRIVER'S SEAT WAS LEFT INTACT.

Then to assure a faster ride, the car engines were modified to maximize speed.  The speed helped to make multiple trips possible but were also important because...in the early days...their cars could outrun anything the police were driving.  An off-shoot of all this racing around (almost exclusively down south) gave rise to NASCAR.


MANY EARLY RACERS MADE THEM SELF EASY TARGETS BECAUSE THEY USED THE SAME CAR ON THE TRACK AS THEY USED FOR HAULING "SHINE."


Like a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde or Robin Hood, some high-profile race car drivers were known criminals. To the delight and respect of their family, friends and fans, these speed demons flaunted their avocation despite the risk of imprisonment.

PERHAPS THE MOST FAMOUS MOONSHINE RUNNER WHO SERVED HIS TIME AND BECAME A PIONEER OF NASCAR, WAS JUNIOR JOHNSON.

Now, get ready to dial-up Dr. Freud, because in my favorite dream, I was a revenuer...but for illegal films. 

The nighttime scene opens with me walking (alone), towards a palatial theater.  It has all the glitz and glamor of a Hollywood premiere. On each side of the marquee, two giant floodlights, mounted on flatbed trucks, scan the heavens. 

In sneakers, jeans and a flannel shirt, I pass the box office and enter the fancy vestibule. Bejeweled women in slinky evening gowns and men in tuxedos interrupt their discussion to watch me go by.  At the entrance, a uniformed usher smiles as I go through without him asking me for my ticket.

I find a seat in the nearly full balcony. The chatter of the audience dies down as the lights dim.  The last vestige of conversation behind me ends as the curtain opens to unveil the blank screen.  Slowly, an extreme close-up of a single, bright, yellow banana materializes, (in addition to being an obvious phallic symbol, bananas are my least favorite food...the mere smell nauseates me).

Ever so slightly, the camera pans back.  Soon, a second banana attached to the first is revealed.  The process repeats itself to include five, nine, twelve bananas.  Eventually an entire bunch is visible.  The camera continues to broaden its shot as a second bunch, attached to the first, comes into focus.  Then a third, fourth etc.  A collective gasp of astonishment is heard in the theater as the viewers perceive that the collective banana bunches now form an upper case, "N." 

The composition on the screen is still widening as an upper case, "A," also made of banana bunches appears to the right of the "N."  Whispering grips the audience as a banana cluster shaped like a "Z," comes into view.  Finally, the letter, "I" is seen and the word, "NAZI," constructed of bananas, fills the entire movie screen.  Within seconds, the image fades to black and the tiny word "finis," appears.  Then the house lights come up.

The exiting audience is a buzz.  When I get outside it is daytime.  A rush of my fellow film revenuers charge forward to ask my opinion.  After a short exchange with them, they invite me to a diner. I said, "No.  It's time to get to work." I flag down an old fashion, yellow, Marathon taxi and get in. 

For quite some time, the cabbie zooms through residential streets and screeches each sharp turn. At a narrow alley, the cab makes a left.  The roadway is so tight that I sense that could touch the tall, blank, brick walls on each side.  After several minutes, the dark, claustrophobic street comes to a dead end.  The driver calmly puts the cab in reverse and floors the accelerator.  The backwards thrill-ride comes to an end when he backs into the normal street.  The cabbie puts the car in drive and passes the street we went down.  At the next left, he squeezes into an identical alley.

When the driver gets to this dead end, I get out and walk up a short stairway.  At the head of the steps, I find myself at the corner of Kings Highway and Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn.  I turn left and walk past the Nostrand Theater.  On the corner, I go into a pet shop.  In addition to caged puppies, kittens and birds...miniature elephants, (all of them were baby blue except one yellow one), freely walk about the store.

An Asian man behind a Plexiglas window signals me.  The yellow elephant rubs its face against my knee as the man, without speaking, slides a Manila envelope through the transom.  Back on the street, I summon a boxy, yellow Mercedes-Benz taxicab. Before telling the driver where to go, I look inside the envelope and find my assignment.

In the countryside, we are soon traveling parallel with a babbling brook. I see an old, galvanized metal trashcan bobbing along in the current. Then I notice another one behind it.  I look ahead and in the distance, I see more.  I get out of the taxi and go down the incline, to the water's edge.  I need to put one foot into the stream, in order to grab a garbage can.  I lift the lid and discover, a pile of fluorescent, amber-colored, movie theater-sized film spools.

I want the cabbie to drive me further but the taxi has been abandoned.  I take one step up the embankment but the cab makes a U-Turn on its own and leaves me behind.  I walk beside the small river for a long time.  On the horizon, I see a medieval castle with the stream forming a moat around it.  I walk-up one side of the twin earthen paths that rise up towards the entrance. A heavy wooden gate which doubles as a door when up, acts like a drawbridge. I fear that I will fall into the waters below and gingerly tip-toe across, into the castle.

From the shadows, I look straight ahead into the sunlight and see a Feudal-era fair...but there are no people and no sounds.  To my left and right, a circular tunnel-like area rims the castle grounds.  To my left, I hear a faint moan. I walk through the semi-darkness towards the sound.  The right wall has evidence that it was once a horse paddock.  Every ten feet, the left wall has vertical slits in the masonry with a well-worn stone platform beneath each one.  I picture defending archers shooting their arrows at attacking marauders from these stations.

The sound is clear to me as the sun rays sift through the archers slits.  My pace picks up around the next bend when I understand that I am hearing tortured groaning.  In one of the horse stalls, I see a slight, barely clothed old man with a long white beard, chained upside down, by one ankle, to the wall.  At the same time, I am too startled to speak as I think I hear a young girl's laughter.

The prisoner then murmured, "They are coming back. Run, run for your life."  At the opposite wall, I stood up on a stone platform and looked through a slit.  Five, blond, hippie girls in flowing white sundresses and a much shorter dark haired man approach. When they got a little closer, I recognized the man, Charles Manson.

The prisoner's hoarse voice crackled, "Don't be a fool.  Save yourself." I couldn't leave him there. I squatted next to him and leaned close to his face.  Before I could offer him help, he spit on me and yelled, "Go!"  I ran.  Through the darkness, I hurried towards the entrance.  Outside, I flew down the ramp.  I was almost at the bottom when a female blared, "There he is.  Get him!"

I ran to an enormous pasture.  I saw about a hundred golden haystacks and thought if I could make it there, I could hide.  I passed by ten piles before angling to the right and stopping.  I was huffing and puffing as Manson and the girls neared the first haystack.  I watched them sing and dance during their malevolent search for me. When they weren't looking, I scurried to a farther stack.

Behind me was another huge field and on the far side of it was a big hotel.  I scrambled back to the last hay pile.  I decided to wait until I caught my breath before making a mad, half mile dash to sanctuary.  It was then that a little nerdy boy appeared from behind the next hay bale.  He reminded me of Poindexter from the, "FELIX THE CAT," cartoon.  He was wearing a black and yellow beanie that suggested he attended an English Prep School as well as black Bermuda shorts and long black socks that revealed only his knees.

WHEN POINDEXTER STARTED GIGGLING, I SAW THROUGH HIS COKE-BOTTLE GLASSES, THAT HE HAD AN EVIL EYE.

I put my index finger to my lips as a signal to be quiet...he nodded.  Then I peeked around my hay and saw Charlie and his girls twenty feet away.  Two of the girls were bored and wanted to leave.  Charlie whined, "C'mon, we need fresh blood, it'll be so cool..."  Then one of the girls grabbed Manson around the waist and led him back towards the castle.  That's when laughing Poindexter jumped into the open, pointed at me and yelled, "There he is!"

In retrospect, I bet you thought one of Charlie's girls was going to stab me to death with a banana...didn't you? Either way, don't call Freud or size me up for a straight jacket or order me a padded cell. Please, please, please believe me, I liked my dream of my dad playing his saxophone much better.


IN 1946 ITALY AFTER WWII, IT WAS SAID OF MY DAD'S SOULFUL RENDITION OF, "THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER," THAT GENERAL GEORGE PATTON WAS MOVED TO TEARS, EACH TIME HE HEARD IT.

More importantly, the next time I dream about my dad, somebody please remind me to ask questions.  There's tons of stuff I'm dying to know.

NEXT STOP WILLOUGHBY...I MEAN, HURLEYVILLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serling closed that episode with this narration:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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