NO-SHAVE NOVEMBER

French people don’t like being called “Frogs.” I have no reason to use the nickname but when you consider what people are called these days, "frog" seems especially harmless.

For some reason, vacationing Frogs French Canadians migrate here to South Jersey in droves. It must be something in their DNA because they are easy to spot due to their difficulty with English, uppity attitude and a reluctance to mete out decent gratuities. Nevertheless, I would never resort to calling someone in shorts with black socks and scarf around their neck childish names like; weasels, spineless piss-ants or surrendering salamanders. But in the rare circumstance that I’m being irritated by a frog gentle person from the Great White North who has introduced them self as being from Montreal or Quebec City, I ask, “Are you sure you’re not really from Drummondville?”

The small blue-collar town of Drummondville Quebec Canada lies in the shadows, halfway between the cosmopolitan cities of Montreal and Quebec City. So by suggesting that someone was really from that hick town, it implies that they are a "poser” and lack any level of sophistication.

In early November 1991, (in the pre-Internet days), my wife Sue and I set out on a spur of the minute vacation to Quebec Canada. Our goal in this predominately French-speaking province was a brief stop in Montreal with the bulk of our stay in Quebec City, (my blog from November 29, 2010 called, “JE PARLE FRANCAIS…NOT!!!!” addressed a different aspect of that trip).

I sold Sue on Quebec City because it’s not only romantic but also has the feel of being in France. I based my authority on having visited both places, (France 1968 and Quebec City 1976).

We left south Jersey on a glorious 70° (F) morning. Many hours later on the New York State Throughway, (Interstate 87), snow covered cars came from the opposite direction. By the time we passed Glens Falls, it was bitter cold and windy. We advanced into a higher elevation and noticed at the same time, a sprinkle of towns with French names as well as a dusting of snow. In the blink of an eye, the pretty falling fakes had morphed into heavy snow. Soon, all the traffic slowed down and merged into the right lane. We were crawling at 20MPH when I noticed an apropos exit sign for the tiny berg of New Russia.

The worst of the weather was over when we passed through Canadian customs. On the Quebec side, we experienced cultural shock because they use the metric system, military time and most signs are bi-lingual, (English and French).

On the foreign highway, even with my pocket abacus, I could not convert their per liter gas prices to the good ole American way. In Montreal, the digital clock on top of a bank told us that we arrived at twenty o’clock. We parked in the business district and shivered as we tip-toed around slushy snow banks and icy patches. Stupidly, in winter coats, no gloves and sneakers, we weren’t bundled-up properly for -11º (C).

We had a nice dinner in the backroom of a bar, (I had a Montreal steak).  Later, we found a motel. The next day, we froze our asses off touring the city. We gravitated to Vieux Montreal, (the Greenwich Village-like old town section of the city). We had lunch in a quiet cafè, (onion soup and Caesar salad), visited historic cathedrals and browsed in quaint shops.

It pissed me off that Sue was swept off her feet when I asked a French-accented tourist guide Richard (Ree-shard), for directions.  I tried to tuck away my Brooklyn accent but I couldn't compete with the ever-suave, Ree-shard.

On that same street, we were the only customers in a souvenir store.  Sue asked the cashier a question in English. The girl said in pigeon-French, “I don’t speak French.” Sue picked up on the fact that this poor girl spoke neither French nor English.  I thought Sue was clever as she communicated in Spanish.

For dinner, we found a fancy seafood restaurant, Le Ancora d’Ouro, (the Golden Anchor). It was a week night, so damned cold and off-season so it wasn’t shocking that the main dining room was empty, except for a table of two young couples sitting behind me. They were chasing whiskey shots with Molson beer and having a good old time. Sue whispered, “Now they’re making out big time and are all over each other.”

I couldn’t resist and glanced back. One guy was fondling his dark-haired date’s breasts under her cable-knit sweater while the blond in the sleeveless dress was massaging her boyfriend’s groin. Sue kept up a detailed blow-by-blow narration until the giggling blond stood up. Sue guessed that in French, she wanted the brunette to come to the ladies room with her but was turned down. The blond staggered away.

Despite being inebriated, the three remaining lovers spoke quickly and came to some sort of an agreement. The odd man came around the table. He was welcomed by the brunette as the two men double-teamed her. The new guy pulled her sweater up. I saw her bare back as he suckled her breasts. At the same time, she was in permanent lip-lock with her boyfriend as he checked her oil.

A few minutes later, at the far end of the room, the waiter, busboy and bartender converged to enjoy the ménage. The mood changed when the giggly blond bounced off walls as she unevenly walked between the voyeurs and back into the dining room. The drama started when she spontaneously sobered-up upon focusing on the three Musketeers. She screamed. Her boyfriend got up to explain. Sue and I guessed that he was suggesting a foursome but she shunted him aside. The brunette rose, flattened her hiked-up skirt and advanced towards her objecting friend. We didn’t need a translator to figure out that the girl in the sleeveless dress was cursing her out. The brunette tried a rebuttal but got slapped. In smacking the girl with the cable-knit sweater, the blond revealed to Sue and I, a forest of hair in her armpit.

I whispered to Sue, “I guess it’s, ‘No-Shave November.’” She said, “Nah. Legs, pits it don’t matter, the French are like that all the time.” The girl grabbed her coat and seemed to be demanding that her beau leave with her…he refused. Later, when the three of them left, they were still groping each other.

In the morning, Sue and I set out for three-hour drive to Quebec City. On the highway, we stopped at a rest stop in the town of Drummondville. While waiting at the lunch counter, Sue rubbed her hand on my sprouting facial stubble and smiled, “Ah, vacation means no-shave November for you too, I like this Don Johnson look.”

ACTOR DON JOHNSON (above) PLAYED JAMES "SONNY" CROCKETT ON THE HIT NBC TV SHOW "MIAMI VICE."  IT AIRED FIVE SEASONS, (111 EPISODES), FROM 1984-1989.  THIS PROGRAM WAS THE COOLEST COP SHOW EVER AND BOASTED NEW WAVE CULTURE, CUTTING EDGE SOUND TRACKS AND HIP COSTUMING. JOHNSON'S PERPETUAL FIVE O'CLOCK SHADOW BECAME A FASHION STATEMENT THAT REGULAR GUYS STROVE MAINTAIN.

Maybe that was my cue to make-out with Sue and pull her sweater up…but I didn’t. But during the next ten minutes, the last warm embers of afterglow from the previous night’s exposure to French romantic culture died. That’s when we realized that the staff was ignoring us.

I'm guessing even in Drummondville, arrogant frog-ettes French Canadian waitresses can spot non-Frenchie invaders in their territory...as well as I can identify Frogs them in New Jersey.

We might have been kept waiting for hours except a Good Samaritan (customer) came by with menus and translated, called for service and put in our order. Whether we were on the Quebec version of, “CANDID CAMERA” or not we’ll never know. But Fi-Fi and the other bitches proved to us that they’re reputation for being rude and aloof to English-speaking people was true. To be on the safe side, we examined our meal for spit before we ate it.

Quebec City is truly beautiful. It’s old world charm had to be explored before we checked into our bed and breakfast.

FOUNDED IN 1608, QUEBEC CITY IS ONE OF THE OLDEST CITIES IN NORTH AMERICA.  SURROUNDED BY RAMPARTS, THE OLD QUEBEC SECTION IS THE ONLY WALLED-IN CITY IN ALL OF CANADA OR THE USA. (above) THE ATMOSPHERE IS SIMILAR TO BEING IN FRANCE.

Quebec City is so much more charming than the big city (Montreal).  But I must report that all the signs are in French and the locals, even businessmen, are nasty to English-speaking customers, (Sue's cutie-pie Ree-shard would have been a breath of fresh air).

The afternoons were extremely cold.  The streets had much more residual snow than Montreal.  Sue and I slipped and slid on icy pavement as I took her to places I was familiar with from my 1976 visit. While checking-out an outdoor, a starving artists colony, we noticed les assholes shoveling snow, willy-nilly off three-story rooftops.  The heavy splatter could be dangerous...even fatal to unwitting passersby, so I'm guessing the Frogs Quebecois have a secret signal that lets them know when its safe to hit the streets?

OVERLOOKING THE ST. LAWRENCE SEAWAY, THE HOTEL FRONTENAC IS THE FOCAL POINT OF THE CITY.  THE GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS INCLUDES IT AS THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED HOTEL ON THE PLANET, (OUR BED AND BREAKFAST WAS TWO BLOCKS AWAY).

 The old city surrounds the hotel.  In the photo, to the right of the hotel, there are train track-like lines going down.  That is the Funicular, a glass-walled, one-floor elevator that leads to more quaint streets and the picturesque waterfront.

On the first day, we were both wearing sneakers and our feet felt frost bitten.  We drove to the more modern, residental part of town, to a mall.  Their Macy's-like store is called, the Bay. Hard to believe but true, in the lady's shoe department, those snooty bastards shrugged in ignorance...thus getting across the point that they have no English-speaking associates.  Like desperate idiots, Sue and I had to go back into the mall concourse and enlist help (and it wasn't easy) to broker her purchase of leather boots, (back home we found out the Frog salesman duped us into paying top dollar, for pleather).

We took the scenic route back from the mall and found Le Colisee where the Quebec Nordiques of the NHL played their home games. In the gift shop, an enthusiastic English-speaking clerk helped me pick out some chintz, (since then, the franchise moved to Denver and became the Colorado Avalanche).

On the way back to our B and B, we discovered an upscale row of gourmet restaurants as well as Dagobert's (Day-go-bear's) a cutting edge discotheque, (we returned that night and enjoyed a fine dinner opposite the disco.  Afterwards, we came across the street to dance and party). 

Outside the gate to Old Town, we passed the municipal complex.  We saw a mob of angry protesters who wanted the province of Quebec to secede from Canada and become its own country, (the hardcore Frogs Quebecois have been working on that forever and twenty-three years later, are still trying).

One night after dinner, we were surprised to find an outdoor rink teeming with ice skaters. We had hot chocolate and appreciated their fun. We also learned that because it's so friggin' cold up there that an annual Winter Carnival is held to promote civic pride and get people out of their house, (later, it was hinted to me that by having something to look forward to, the Carnival reduces the suicide attempt rate...)

THESE DAYS, THE WINTER CARNIVAL BOASTS OVER A MILLION VISITORS.  IT HAD BEEN HELD, ON AND OFF, SINCE 1894, (BUT NOW WITHOUT INTERRUPTION SINCE 1955).  IN 1955 BONHOMME (above) BECAME THE OFFICAL MASCOT, (THE NAME IS SHORT FOR BONHOMME DE NEIGE...WHICH MEANS, SNOWMAN).

Even during the first week of November, we found evidence, across from the rink, of participants already gearing up for the big event.

(STOCK PHOTO OF AN AWARD WINNING ICE CASTLE)  VERY "COOL," WE SAW TWO COMPETITORS ALREADY WORKING ON MUCH SMALLER ICE SCULPTURES.

On the long trip home to New Jersey, Sue voiced her boredom several times.  We were still in Vermont when I perked-up and said, "Hey, did you know that in three hours..."  She got excited and said, "Yeah, what happens in three hours?"  I teased, "In three hours, we'll be halfway home."  She didn't appreciate my humor and pinched by cheek. To get back at me she said, "I hope this isn't your version of no-shave November because your beard is coming in gray...and you look like an old man."

THE LAST TIME I HAD A FULL BEARD WAS AT BROOKLYN COLLEGE (APRIL 1977)

For a week, I had survived being insulted by the Frogs French Canadians...only to get ripped by my wife.  Her scathing comment was unfortunately accurate and I have avoided even mustaches ever since, (please note today's college kids really celebrate No-Shave November.

MY ANDREW CAN FORGET THE DON JOHNSON LOOK.  IN THIS PICTURE, HE MIGHT HAVE ALREADY SHAVED THAT MORNING.  IF HE LETS IT GO, HE'LL LOOK LIKE RIP VAN WINKLE BY ELECTION DAY, (TOMORROW).

We had a great time in Quebec City and I recommend it to friends all the time.  That praise is usually coupled with a red caution flag concerning the *Frogs.  But now, I can just refer everyone to this and my, "JE PARLE FRANCOIS...NOT!!!" blogs and use them as snippy attitude warning labels.

*Jeez, now that I think about it, I do call them Frogs all the time.  And I feel justified! C'est la vie, mon ami.

BREAKING PROSPECT PARK'S CYCLE OF NEGATIVITY

I haven't set foot in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park in forty years.  Oddly, everything I recall about it, is negative. These days, the entire area around the park is in the throes of an upscale metamorphosis.  So to maintain my of peace of mind, I’m counting on the park to re-blossom to its intended grace, beauty and recreational splendor.

Sheltered from the hubbub of New York City's craziest borough, the oasis known as Prospect Park was built and has survived since 1867. Its 585 acres are nestled between Downtown Brooklyn, Flatbush and Park Slope. Nearby landmarks include, Grand Army Plaza, the main branch of the Library, (at Grand Army Plaza), the Brooklyn Museum and the Botanical Gardens, (the site of Ebbets Field…the home baseball stadium of the Brooklyn Dodgers until 1957, was a couple of blocks beyond Flatbush Avenue).

History tells us that the park's negativity goes back hundreds of years. During the Revolutionary War, George Washington lost the Battle of Long Island on the grounds of the present day park, (he did successfully retreat to Manhattan and obviously go on to bigger and better things).

Prior to the colonization of America, the park was a heavily wooded area. Unfortunately, only a few small groves exist and are nicknamed, “Brooklyn’s last forest.”

Prospect Lake is the only lake in Brooklyn. Visitors can still rent boats and relax amid the harsh work-a-day-world that surrounds the park. Additionally, there is a zoo, playgrounds, a merry-go-round and ball fields.

NEAR THE LAKE IS THE BEAUTIFUL, LULLWATER, SOUTH OF TERRACE BRIDGE.  I NEVER SAW THIS MYSELF AND WOULD HAVE BET THAT NOTHING THIS NICE WAS IN THE PARK.

Another area that I didn't known about, is Quaker Hill.  There, in a private cemetery founded by the Society of Friends, actor Montgomery Clift is interred.

Prospect Park is far removed from my hometown of Canarsie. That means due to inconvenience of distance, all my visits to the park were special occasions. That makes it unfathomable that all my dealings there were negative. My hope is to finally reverse this trend…and my deadline is July 22, 2014.

My earliest recollections of the park (I was five) were outings with my paternal grandmother and sister. Prospect Park despite its size was small compared to Manhattan’s Central Park. Plus, due to my bounding imagination, it seemed empty because the park lacked trees, gigantic, prehistoric-looking rocks to climb on and twisty paths with cool bridges and tunnels to run over and through.

While on granny’s watch getting us home in one piece was job ONE.  She didn’t take many chances and ruled with an iron fist.  So with me being glued to her side, running wild wasn’t an option. To make matters worse, to prevent accidents or nausea she restricted me to the carousel’s bench seat.  I can still remember doing a slow burn in my seat as my sister joyfully bobbed up and down, on one of the magnificent antique stallions.

Through no fault of my grammy, even the zoo was a drag because the animals were in brick and cement cages behind prison-like bars, (as an unsophisticated kid, even I saw the differences between this so-called zoo and the more natural, top of-the-line one in the Bronx).

My biggest dose of Prospect Park negativity happened in 1967, (I was twelve) while attending the H. E. S. Day Camp, in Wyandanch New York (Long Island). One day we went to Brooklyn’s Prospect Park for a special activity called, “THE JUNIOR ANGLER COMPETITION.”

To prove how many geniuses there were on my bus, (mostly adolescents and young teens) no one knew what this funny, odd-ball "angler" word meant. The camp’s higher-ups didn’t want to give up the surprise either so they cleverly kept us in dark…otherwise there probably would have been a mutiny, organized by me.

Once we were there, my fellow campers and I found out the hard and disappointing way that "angler" is a fancy synonym for fisherman. I was well-versed in profanity by that age and trust me, I didn’t cry out, “Fishing? Are you kidding?”

Yeah, in the morning, we got to run around like little animals, play ball and see the zoo's depressed animals...who had NO room to run around. By lunch time, the visitor population of the park swelled to epic proportions, due to other camps, organizations and individuals gravitating to the FREE festivities.

To improve the attraction, the event organizers hired the comedy team of Allen and Rossi who served as emcees. At their best, these has-beens were a cheap knock-off of Martin and Lewis, (Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis).

DEAN MARTIN (left) AND JERRY LEWIS WERE ENTERTAINMENT GIANTS FROM 1946-1956.  WHEN THE PAIR SPLIT-UP DUE TO PHILOSOPHICAL DIFFERENCES, THEY EACH WENT ON TO TREMENDOUS SOLO CAREERS.

Steve Rossi was the good-looking, singing straight man ala Dean Martin.  Marty Allen took on Lewis' role as the goofy-looking comedian.

(HARD TO BELIEVE I COULDN'T FIND A PHOTO OF THEM TOGETHER).  AS IF DRAFTED AS REPLACEMENTS FOR MARTIN AND LEWIS, ALLEN (above in 1960) AND ROSSI PAIRED-UP A YEAR AFTER THE MARTIN-LEWIS SPLIT.  FROM 1957-1968, ALLEN AND ROSSI MADE OVER 700 TV APPEARANCES, (INCLUDING 44 ON "THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW)."  THEY PRODUCED SIXTEEN COMEDY RECORD ALBUMS, APPEARED IN A MOVIE AND THEIR OWN TV SPECIAL.  TODAY THEY ARE BOTH RETIRED.  ALLEN IS NINETY-TWO AND ROSSI IS EIGHTY-TWO.

In addition to a hostile audience overwhelmingly made up as sophomoric brats, Prospect Park's outdoor venue and poor audio system was not conducive to the subtleties of Allen and Rossi's adult-based material. So the thousand or so screaming kids couldn’t care less about their schtick, (which relied heavily on Allen's singular, over-used trademark line, "Hello dere)!"

Once the actual angling competition started, (despite the lure of valuable prizes), I couldn’t get past the tedium, the disgusting, pollution-riddled lake, handling the disgusting bait and being squashed between countless disgusting strangers that included intimidating, older hooligans who kept pretending to push younger kids into the water.

To my left, some knucklehead from another camp was so distracted by those bullying idiots that he carelessly plunged a fish hook into his palm.  As soon as I saw the blood spatter on his tee-shirt, I quit.  Then I walked away and recruited my friends to also...just say NO to fishing.

My friends and I saw that Allen and Rossi were giving autographs, (all the girls lined up for Steve Rossi’s and the boys went for Marty Allen’s). To pass the time, we started our own competition, to see who could get the most signatures.

In the beginning, I could clearly read "Hello Dere,  Marty Allen." Soon he shortened it to, "Marty Allen," then "M. Allen." After signing his name a gazillion times, all his cramped hand could muster was a straight line with a slight wiggle at the end. I got about thirty…and didn’t win, (to complete my crappy day, none of my thirty autographs made it home that night).

Another negative Prospect Park moment occurred in the spring of 1973 when I attended my first semester of Brooklyn College, at their downtown campus. To avoid the long subway ride to Hoyt and Schermerhorn Streets, my dad let drive his 1968 Dodge Polara to school on Fridays.

MAY-1973, IN ELLENVILLE NEW YORK.  TWO YEARS LATER, (1975), THE "THUNDERBOLT GREASE SLAPPER" (above) WOULD BE MY FIRST CAR.

One of the less-than-lofty goals I had then was to drive through Prospect Park. Even back then conservationist groups lobbied to eliminate auto traffic, (to maintain the park as a refuge from city life). They were partially successful so I was able to fulfill my wish during a rare time that cars were permitted. Oy, what a disappointment, it still bothers me to this day, how much nothing, the scenic-drive had to offer.

Similarly, in the late 1980's, JZIMBO's wife had a curio shop in Park Slope.  He bought a new car and on the way back from the dealership, decided to show it off to GZIMBO.  He took the shortcut through Prospect Park.  A block from the store on 6th Avenue, he stopped for a celebratory ice cream at Baskin Robbins.  To his utter dismay, when he came out slurping a chocolate-choclate chip cone, his new car of twenty-five minutes had already been stolen.  To make matters worse, he called the Guinness World Book of Records but to his chagrin, the Collyer brothers had their DeSoto stolen (1956), in twenty-two minutes, (but I'm uncertain whether they drove through Prospect Park or not).

I have been permanently out of Brooklyn since 1978. So I have little knowledge of the goings-on at Prospect Park. However, I do know that many years ago, the zoo was condemned by the board of health. Apparently the animals were fighting a losing battle for their meals with rats. While a small amount of animals were re-housed, the term zoo no longer feels apt.

Today, nearby Downtown Brooklyn is having a make-over. The property values have soared due to its proximity to Manhattan causing a yuppie renaissance to take over. Then by osmosis, Prospect Park and other neighboring areas are sharing in the enthusiasm to improve.

IN 2012, THE BARCLAYS CENTER OPENED AS AN INDOOR, MULTI-PURPOSE EVENT SITE.  IT IS THE HOME OF THE NBA's NEW YORK NETS AS WELL AS THE UPCOMING CONCERT VENUE FOR; CHER, KATY PERRY, ANDREA BOCELLI, PINK AND MICHAEL BUBLE.  TO FURTHER SUPPORT DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN'S REVITALIZATION, MAJOR CORPORATE BUSINESS AND HOUSING INVESTORS HAVE PARTNERED TO FORM A COMPLEX THAT WILL BE CALLED, "ATLANTIC YARDS."

One of the big present-day improvements at Prospect Park is the band shell which has become a sought-after haven for concerts. I’m really hoping to break the park’s cycle of negativity because my son Andrew and his hipster friends, are heading there in a couple of months, to see their favorite band, “Neutral Milk Hotel.” It may sound like an odd-ball name for a musical group but at least the name doesn’t imply hours of boredom and handling yucky bait and fish hooks…like another funny word, angling.

NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL, IS AN AMERICAN, INDIE ROCK, PSYCHEDELIC FOLK, LO-FI BAND.  THEY WERE ACTIVE FROM 1989-1999 AND FORMED AGAIN IN 2013.

So it's important to me, to break my Prospect Park cycle of negativity and know that Andrew and his hipster cronies have a great time !

FUNNY VANCOUVER

My monthly poker game lasted nineteen years.  Those great friends, through generally less than ideal conditions, have scattered to California, Florida, Maryland and Nevada.  The first to leave was FRANKIERIO.  He followed his destiny and moved from Atlantic City to Las Vegas in 1996.  To his credit,  few people slow down from their rut long enough recognize their need for change.  Far fewer, see a realistic, better way.  Even less find the means to accomplish their goal.  And only an infinitesimal amount have the fortitude to not only set everything in motion...but to actually go through with the plan.  So seventeen years later, I salute Frankie's successful upward mobility and in his honor, share with you, his favorite story of mine.

Like Frank, I reached a similar crossroads in 1980.  I wasn't even burnt-out from casino work yet when the epiphany for a more suitable way of life shined down on me. I reached for my destiny and gathered my entrepreneurial resources.  While doing my homework, I discovered that I had the right stuff to buy an "EASTERN ONION," singing telegram franchise in Vancouver, British Columbia Canada. The only thing I lacked was the gumption to drop everything (which was good) and take my shot.

A SINGING TELEGRAM IS A GAG-GIFT OF A PROFESSIONAL ENTERTAINER (IN COSTUME)  PERFORMING AN APPROXIMATELY TEN-MINUTE MUSICAL COMEDY SKIT.

I chose Vancouver because when I went cross-country in 1976, (sixty-eight days of hitchhiking and Greyhounds), it was the only place that grabbed me enough to ever think about relocating to.

VANCOUVER WAS NAMED AFTER SOME ENGLISH DUDE.  I WAS DISAPPOINTED BECAUSE I ASSUMED IT WAS THE ESKIMO WORD FOR PERFECT TOWN.  INCORPORATED IN 1886, TODAY IT'S CONSIDERED, ONE OF THE MOST LIVABLE WORLDWIDE CITIES.  IT'S WARM TEMPERATURES AND CHIC LIFESTYLE HAVE EARNED IT THE NICKNAME, "THE L. A. OF CANADA."  ALSO, BECAUSE IT HAS BECOME A TRENDY AREA FOR FILM PRODUCTION, IT IS CALLED, "HOLLYWOOD NORTH."

My attraction to Vancouver started on the way into town.  In the outskirts, at a red light, in a gap between two stores, I saw a moose step out of the bushes. 

UNTIL YOU SEE A MOOSE IN THE WILD...YOUR BUCKET LIST CAN NOT BE COMPLETE.

I was so moved by the gargantuan (once you see one up close, you'll know why they are called, a moose) that when I factored in the nearby sea, the wealth of mountains and the general rustic beauty, I was sold.  And that's before I became fascinated by the bustling, cosmopolitan city itself. 

VANCOUVER IS LOCATED IN THE EXTREME LOWER LEFT HAND CORNER OF CANADA.  NOW THAT I THINK OF IT, I MISSED A GREAT OPPORTUNITY BECAUSE IT WOULD HAVE ONLY BEEN A HOP, SKIP AND A JUMP...STRAIGHT UP, THROUGH THE YUKON, TO ALASKA, (WHAT'S ANOTHER 1500 MILES?).

This ultra-modern city was crammed with young, friendly and cool locals.  I liked the cultural diversity spearheaded by a huge 30% Chinese population as well as more from other Asian countries.  Plus I loved the Native-Canadian influence.

VANCOUVER WAS SETTLED ON THE TRADITIONAL TERRITORIES OF THE SQUAMISH, MUSQUEAM AND TSEIL-WATAUT PEOPLES.  INUKSUK (above) AT ENGLISH BAY, TYPIFIES THE ART OF INUIT INHABITANTS THAT GOES BACK 10,000 YEARS.

I befriended other back-packers when I hit town.  There were three buddies from Ulster, Northern Ireland, an Englishman, a South African and an arrogant French Canadian guy from Montreal, (we later found out he was reallly a hick from tiny Drummondville Quebec). 

We combined our information and formed a seven-person team.  Within our group, the three guys from Ulster, (Paddy O'Furniture, "Silent" Murph and "Killer" Cadugan) kept to themselves. 

ONCE AGAIN I'M WAY AHEAD OF MY TIME.  WHEN I ASSIGNED THE "KILLER" NICKNAME TO RED-HEADED CADUGAN, I HAD NO IDEA THAT 15 YEARS LATER, "THE REN AND STIMPY SHOW" WOULD HAVE A WRESTLING EPISODE FEATURING REN AS "MADDOG HOEK" AND STIMPY AS "KILLER KADOOGEN."

The South African, (a skeevie schemer named Neelish) gravitated to the know-it-all from Quebec (Frenchy). I hung out with the Brit, Gerald "Don't Call Me Jerry" Simmons.  Our first stop was a youth hostel, a thirty-minute city-bus ride into the countryside.

OUR YOUTH HOSTEL WAS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (foreground) WITH DOWNTOWN VANCOUVER IN THE BACKGROUND.

We reserved a spot on the gymnasium floor for four dollars, (which was kind of expensive).  But Gandhi, the skeevie South African schemer was right, by doing morning chores, you received a full refund.

The seven of us took the bus back to town.  Our first stop was the zoo at Stanley Park.  The funniness of Vancouver started when Gerald and I realized that we were both MONTY PYTHON fans. 

MONTY PYTHON WAS A HIP, BRITISH, SKIT COMEDY TROUPE WHOSE HALF HOUR TV SHOWS WERE BROADCAST IN MY TEENAGE YEARS, ON NEW YORK'S PBS STATION, WNET, CHANNEL-13.

Gerald and I splintered from the group and entertained ourselves by incorporating Python humor to our traveling companions, particularly the Quebecois (Frenchy) and South African (Gandhi).  We were at the otter enclosure (those cute buggers were extremely funny them self) when Gerald said, "Frenchy is forcing me to fart in his general direction and Gandhi's mother was a hamster."  I said, "If Frenchy became a criminal, nobody's lupins would be safe."  Gerald laughed, "The only thing more lethal than the world's funniest joke, is the abysmal body odor radiating off the Ulster blokes."  I said, "You mean the three finalist in the 'First Class Twit of the Year Contest.'"

Above our laughter, we heard the roar of the lion.  We headed towards a large mass of spectators that included the rest of our team.  The king of beasts' admirers were so thick that we couldn't get near the wire mesh fence.  While we waited for another roar I whispered, "Frenchy is so full of himself that I wouldn't be surprised if he stuck his arm through the fence and tried to pet the lion.  Gerald was saying, "Then we'd have to call him Lefty," as the lion started gagging.  I motioned Gerald away and said, "Holy hair balls, this doesn't sound good."  Then there was a nauseating wretch.  The crowd gasped in disgust and fled.  But it was too late, the king of the jungle spray barfed his fan club.

God, I don't know what was funnier, Paddy O'Furniture getting hit by some projectile flak or him screaming like a twelve-year old girl and running to the restroom as if he took a bullet in the shoulder.

EVEN AFTER PADDY O'FURNITURE CLEANED-UP,  WE ALL  AVOIDED HIM.  OUTSIDE THE ZOO, IN FRONT OF A MUSEUM, I TOOK A PICTURE OF KILLER CADUGAN (left) AND MURPH.

At 2:30PM, our next stop was Gastown.  Gastown is the artsy part of Vancouver.  The other five weren't interested and detoured into a hotel's bar.  I joked, "With the bits of puke shrapnel on Paddy's shirt, I bet they won't serve him until he takes a shower." Gerald said, "No, the bigger joke is that in Canada, none of them will be served in a hotel bar until five." 

On our own, we window shopped and watched street performers.  We struck up a conversation with two hippie chicks and strolled with them a while.  One of the girls bought a cup of strawberries from a pushcart and shared them with Gerald.  The other girl got a colossal peach.  She said, "I can't eat this whole thing.  If I get him (the vendor) to cut it, would you have some?"  I nodded and the fruit man sliced it down the middle.  He gave the girl the half without the pit.  When I was about to take my first bite, like a horror movie, a gazillion ants poured out of the rotted pit.

Gerald and I were laughing over the incident long after the girls went their own way.  We had dinner after dark and later bumped into our teammates.  "We're on the prowl for tarts," said Paddy.  "Yeah, we heard there's an excellent bar on the next street," said Cadugan.  Then Frenchy boasted, "I'll show you imbeciles how its done."

A couple of streets away, we found this dimly lit generic bar.  It looked like a shoe store and an insurance agency went out of business and the two storefronts were combined to make one tavern.  The left side had a long bar on the left wall and some bar stools along a ledge of the right wall.  In the rear you could see the lady's room. The other side had rows of plain tables and chairs with the men's room in the back. 

We carried our drinks from the bar, through the cut-out in the wall near the restrooms and sat on the other side.  After the second round Cadugan said, "There's not too many lasses here."  Gandhi said, "It's still early."  Gerald excused himself and went to the restroom.  He saw men inside openly "enjoying each other's company."  On his way out, he glanced into the women's room and saw other men also enjoying each other's company.  He came back to the table and said to me, "I want to show you something."  I was stunned.  Upon closer scrutiny, the only women in the place were dressed in drag.  Gerald said, "Frenchy must have really annoyed somebody so they directed them here."  I said, "In the states, we call that getting set up, to take the fall."  We decided it would be funny to ditch the team.  So hidden by the dividing wall, we left without being seen, through the bar.

In the morning, we got the cold shoulder from the others.  Gerald was given the chore of picking up trash outside and I was given a giant, fuzzy broom to clean the dust bunnies off the gym's floor.  We were not only refunded our four dollars but were also given a roll and butter, a packet of sunflower seeds, an apple and a small container of orange juice.

Gerald informed me that he was going back to Portland Oregon.  I was heading east through the Canadian Rockies but I decided to stay another day when the other five said they were going my way. 

CONSIDERING THE BEAUTY, IT'S CRAZY TO THINK I ONLY TOOK TWO DECENT PICTURES IN VANCOUVER AND THIS, FROM THE COLLEGE LOOKING TOWARDS THE CITY, WAS ONE OF THEM.

I spent my day alone, walking around gorgeous Victoria Island.  On the bus back to the youth hostel, I got an intense urge to pee.  But the ride was going to be at least fifteen more minutes.  I was twenty-one and my bladder control was at the peak of its career so I was confident I could hold back the brewing tsunami.  I twisted, turned and did the hucklebuck for an eternity but only around three minutes passed.  That's when I became a realist.  It was officially an emergency.  I threw down my preconceived notions of my manhood and disregarded my stubbornness.  I was ready to pee! But how?  Where? 

Both sides of the road had a brick wall that seemed to never end. Each ticking second that passed was drawing me closer to the embarrassment of all embarrassments.  I looked out the window and there were no businesses, no woods, no privacy.  Knowing my luck, I'd be forced to "go" in the street, get caught in this foreign country and have the book thrown at me for indecent exposure.  Then as the bus turned, the bay became visible on the right through open fields and on the left there was woods.  I was saved.  I pulled the cord that signaled the driver to stop.  I ran out but a woman was right there walking her cocker spaniel.  This was no laughing matter until I spotted an Esso station in the distance.

FOUNDED IN 1912, "ESSO" IS DERIVED FROM THE INITIALS OF STANDARD OIL, "SO."  HERE IN THE USA, THE NAME WAS CHANGED TO EXXON IN 1972.  PRETTY MUCH THE REST OF THE WORLD STILL CALLS IT ESSO...LIKE THE ULTRA-MODERN STATION (above),  IN HOLLAND.

I lumbered as fast as I could while controlling any leakage.  When I reached nirvana, I couldn't believe my bad luck, the station was abandoned and boarded-up.  I hustled to the side of the building.  I saw the men's room door was tangling from one hinge.  I kicked the door in so well that Bruce Lee would have been proud. But inside...I saw the most disgusting thing I EVER, EVER saw in my life.  Apparently some knuckle headed vandal with a warped sense of humor put excrement on the toilet seat, stuck a cherry bomb (or some such weapon of mass fecal destruction), in and lit it.  I saw the aftermath...and even people from Hiroshima would have said that THIS was the worst thing they ever saw...or smelled.  The entire room was painted in shit. I hurried out and was glad that I didn't slip on the glazed-over broken glass. I scampered out back and released the hounds.  Please bear in mind that in less than one second after peeing, I was laughing out loud.

Frankierio once told me that when I told him the Vancouver story that he knew, we'd be friends for life.  So despite the miles and all that time, we have indeed remained good friends.  A part of the reason why I appreciate him was he (unlike me) understood his disillusionment in New Jersey and rather than complain, made the change that improved his situation.

FRANKIERIO'S GOING AWAY PARTY AT MY HOUSE (WITH THE POKER BUDDIES). WHEN YOU CONSIDER THAT PCSCHMEE TOOK THIS PICTURE...IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE, I'M THE ONLY ONE STILL AT THE OLD CASINO.

Sometimes I wonder how my life would have turned out if I bought that singing telegram business and moved out of the country...but I never dwell on it because I have no regrets.

COLORADO IS SO BEAUTIFUL, SOME VISITORS CAN BARELY CONTAIN THEMSELF

The image of the great state of Colorado has been tarnished again.  This past week, the senseless,
cowardice of Columbine was similarly resurrected in Aurora.  My deepest, heartfelt thoughts go out to all the victims, their families and everyone who was indirectly hurt.  I hope that in some small way, I can deliver a temporary diversion from these heinous acts and remind the world of Colorado's stunning beauty...and perhaps encourage those who have never been there...to visit.

To help celebrate the wonders of Colorado, let me introduce my younger readers to John Denver.

HENRY JOHN DEUTSCHENDORF JR., a.k.a. JOHN DENVER (1943-1997) WAS A MUSICAL SUPERSTAR OF THE 1970's.  HE WROTE AND PERFORMED ON ACOUSTIC GUITAR, OVER 200 FOLK, POP AND COUNTRY SONGS.  HIS MAIN THEME WAS THE JOY OF NATURE AND IN 2007, COLORADO ADOPTED HIS, "ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH," AS THEIR STATE SONG.

When I went through the Rocky Mountains during my cross country trip in 1976, a disjointed collage of wrong John Denver lyrics played in my head.  I was probably hearing, "TAKE ME HOME, COUNTRY ROADS," as I got my first taste of the Colorado's true splendor, in Grand Junction.  Then as I came east on I-70, with nobody to share the grandeur of the incredible landscape, I'm sure I was butchering the words to, "ANNIE'S SONG."

In the past, I have celebrated Colorado with two other blogs.  The first (March 23, 2009) was entitled, "THE STOCKHOLM EFFECT ON I-70."  It centered around the strange chain of events that led me to rustic Georgetown.  The second Colorado story from May 18, 2009 was called, "MY 33-YEAR BOYCOTT, THE GREAT ROCKY MOUNTAIN BUZZ-KILL."  It also starts in Georgetown but involves different people and ends in Golden.

Today's third tribute to the state, starts in the University of Colorado, (in Boulder).  I had such a good time during my two days and one night there that I remember few details.

NESTLED INTO THE FOOTHILLS OF THE ROCKIES, BOULDER IS NOT ONLY BEAUTIFUL BUT A REALLY COOL PLACE TO BE TWENTY-ONE.

I had a great afternoon of hanging out with other backpackers in town.  I will always cherish the raw simplicity of being there.  Then, two years later, ABC-TV appreciated the vibe of Boulder too and was clever enough to set the show, "MORK AND MINDY," there.

"MORK AND MINDY," HAD A 95 EPISODE RUN FROM 1978-1982.  THIS SCIENCE FICTION SITCOM STARRED THE THEN-UNKNOWN ROBIN WILLIAMS AND PAM DAWBER.  PART OF MY ATTRACTION TO THE SHOW WAS BECAUSE MANY ESTABLISHING SHOTS AND RARE EXTERIOR SCENES REFRESHED MY FOND MEMORIES OF BOULDER.

My fellow cross country travelers told me that the youth hostel on campus was one of the best.  When dusk set in, I followed the hippie-like pilgrimage to a Greek Parthenon-style building.  An electricity of excitement coursed through my veins as I scaled the granite steps, strode between the huge pillars and advanced to the impressive ten-foot high door. Unfortunately, on my limited budget, the seven buck price tag was too steep.  An Oregonian (Kurt) agreed.  He then suggested sleeping on the nearby hillside, for free.  We met earlier and had tossed a Frisbee together.  Kurt had also told me that the University of Colorado mascot, a real buffalo, runs out onto the football field before each home game...and once got loose.  It's little tidbits like that that made me know he was okay.

IN 1976, I WAS UNDER THE WRONG IMPRESSION THAT BUFFALOES WERE EXTINCT.  ABOVE, IT LOOKS LIKE A DIFFICULT TO TASK TO KEEP "RALPHIE" FROM RUNNING AMOK AND IT'S GOT TO BE IMPOSSIBLE TO KEEP THE BEHEMOTH FROM SOILING THE PLAYING SURFACE.

Kurt brought me to a quiet area that looked like the exact spot where the Rocky Mountains started. He told some interesting stories and one of them had to do with the Native American legend that claims, it is never easy to leave Boulder. We shared our food, I had a transistor radio and we fell asleep.

KURT, FACING WEST, TOOK THE SHOT ON THE LEFT LOOKING INTO THE MOUNTAINS.  ON THE RIGHT, EASTWARD, YOU CAN SEE THE SLOPE LEADING DOWN TO THE FLAT PRAIRIE.

In the morning, I realized that I had a good time with Kurt but I decided against his offer to travel together.  This decision was based purely by the fact that he turned away from me to pee without enough of a buffer zone.  However, he did give me his phone number and address in Rosenberg Oregon and I did visit him, (but that's another story).

By noon, I was on my own trying to hitchhike into Denver.  I was out there about an hour when Kurt's legend that its hard to leave town came to mind.  Moments later, a car stopped a couple of hundred feet in front of me.  It was close enough for me to recognize that the Buick had New York license plates. I hurried over with the idea of begging my fellow New Yorker into giving me a ride.

The coincidence here is so incredible that if someone else told me that this happened to them, I wouldn't believe it.  The reason why the driver stopped was because his car trunk popped open, ( I NEVER heard of such a thing happening).  A million times crazier, when the driver slammed down the trunk, it was Ernie G. from the neighborhood.  We were never friends but we played ball together, were in the same classes and we still lived four blocks apart.  He was staying at the nearby Boulder KOA and was returning from K-Mart.  When I got in his car, he told me that Freddy Z. was waiting for him back at their campsite.  It was uncanny, Fred and I had been close friends, in third and fourth grade.

I slept in their tent that night.  The next day, we went north to the town of Estes Park to see Rocky Mountain National Park.

JULY 1976 - ROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK.  DON'T BLAME FREDDY, CRAPPY CAMERAS TAKE CRAPPY PICTURES.  AND BECAUSE ERNIE AND FREDDY LURED ME INTO STAYING THAT EXTRA NIGHT IN BOULDER, THAT REINFORCES THE INDIAN SUPERSTITION THAT KURT MENTIONED.

I gravitated to easy-going Freddy because we had a past to fall back on. Ernie was too intense, self-centered and bossy.  The watchword of my trip was freedom.  So it didn't take me long, to seek an opportune moment to ditch being ordered around by Ernie and return to the open road.

Later, we headed south on Interstate 25.  At least when Freddy drove, he played a John Denver 8-track.  It fit the mood as we passed Pike's Peak and other natural wonders. When Ernie drove, he blew-out our eardrums with hard rocking, heavy metal, "MOUNTAIN."

NO, THIS WASN'T TAKEN WITH MY INSTAMATIC.

Near the New Mexico border, after dinner, we split a motel room, (we ate at Pizza Hut...that's a different story when the local recipe called for packing my Italian sub with jalapeno peppers).  Our room had two queen-sized beds.  Ernie was a real asshole and insisted that Freddy and I share one bed and that he sleeps alone.  When we reached an apparent stalemate, he proclaimed that he would pay the lion's share of the cost for the solo bed privilege.

In the morning, I had had enough.  I asked to be dropped off at the Greyhound station.  Somehow I lost track of one of my goals and missed seeing, "FOUR CORNERS" in the "THE MONUMENT VALLEY."


THE MONUMENT VALLEY IS WHERE COLORADO, NEW MEXICO, ARIZONA AND UTAH ALL MEET.  IT'S UNIQUE TERRAIN MADE IT A FAVORITE LOCATION FOR JOHN FORD WESTERN MOVIES.  GOING THERE HAS BEEN ON MY BUCKET LIST FOR A LONG TIME.  THE CLOSEST I GOT WAS MY VISIT TO THE GRAND CANYON WHEN WE TOOK AN EXTRA EXCURSION TO THE PETRIFIED DESERT IN 2009...BUT WE RAN OUT OF TIME.


I never blamed Ernie for making me miss the Monument Valley.  But for the rest of my cross country trip, it gnawed at me why he was so adamant about having his own bed.

That summer, I was on the road 68 days.  In that time, I kept a journal.  In lieu of letters, every now and then, I mailed those entries to my parents.  In them, I never bad-mouthed Ernie.

When I got home, I told my parents a steady stream of stories that never made it into the diary.  When I got to Ernie's bed story, my mother smiled and said, "It's no mystery, I know exactly why he acted that way."  I said, "Why?"  She said, "I only need one word, enuresis."  I said, "Heh?"  She said, "He's incontinent."  I said, What?"  Mom said, "Incontinent means, he can't contain himself."  Mom saw my confused expression and added, "Your friend is a bed-wetter."

My mother knew this because, in the mid-60's, to generate more income, she opened a bedding store in Canarsie.  She told me that Ernie's mom used to buy rubber sheets for him when he was an adolescent.  My mom also said that if its a physical problem most people grow out of it.  But if its psychological, without proper care, the problem and the collateral damage it can cause, might linger for years.

Luckily, I think Ernie is well-adjusted enough to overcome this physical and mental albatross.  Yes, he over compensates for his insecurity and embarrassment with annoying brashness but I can recognize it as harmless and work around it.  Besides, the few times that we've crossed paths since Colorado, (the late 80's was the last time), I felt sorry that he felt forced to come off so strongly.

The shame is, that with a better way to detect and treat people with emotional problems maybe we could minimize if not eliminate the behavior that has rocked Colorado, in Columbine and Aurora.

To brighten your mood, click on the link below for John Denver's, "ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH."  And if you like it, for more positivism and inspiration, check out all of his hits like, "SUNSHINE ON MY SHOULDER" and "THANK GOD I'M A COUNTRY BOY." (or as RBOY and I used to call it, "THANK GOD, I'M A CANARSIE BOY."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWU8XWksg_0

C'mon, let's have a road trip!  Fill your car's tank full-o-gas and don't stop till he get to the Colorado side of the Four Corners!  I'll be the one scratching the first entry off his bucket list.

THE EXEMPLAR OF SLOTH...IN L. A.

In the summer of 1977, I parked in the Neponsit section of Queens with my friends, J and E.  Halfway down the beach block with the ocean breeze in our face, I found a New Yorker Magazine on the floor.

THE NEW YORKER WAS FOUNDED ON FEBRUARY 21, 1925. TO ATTRACT IT'S  TARGET DEMOGRAPHIC, THE CARICATURE OF A "DANDY," (THE EXEMPLAR OF SOPHISTICATION, EUSTACE TILLEY ), APPEARED ON IT'S FIRST COVER (above).  TODAY, THE MAGAZINE PUBLISHES 47 YEARLY ISSUES, (WITH A MONTHLY CIRCULATION OVER ONE MILLION).   ITS CONTENT CENTERS ON NEW YORK BUT CATERS TO A UNIVERSAL AUDIENCE .

My beach-going buddies and I were all under-employed college graduates.  So, maybe it was my economic prospects that compelled me to pick up the magazine.  The New Yorker was known for its highbrow potpourri of politics, social issues, art, humor, culture and counter-culture. On the cover of this issue I saw a feature called, "SEE IF YOU'RE LAZY...TAKE OUR SURVEY." When I suggested taking the quiz, J asserted, "You just disqualified yourself...by picking that rag off the ground."

Since moving to South Jersey in 1984, the person that exemplifies laziness to me has to be, forty-six year old Mystic Islander, Lew. Lew rarely leaves his apartment, is dependent on pills, has a drinking problem, squanders the little money he has left on gambling and is a chronic complainer.  Ironically, his grumblings aren't associated with his obvious shortcomings...his rantings concern his job.  He even brags about how little he does at his workplace which to him, epitomizes how backward the company is...because they tolerate or aren't sharp enough to notice his lack of effort.

Lew likes to work about sixty percent of his assigned time.  Therefore, he earns just enough to afford his habits.  Lew has never been married, has no children, no mortgage and drives a fifteen-year old Chevy Chevette that was built in Ecuador.  When I first met him (1993), he was driving (when it wasn't in the shop), the world's oldest Yugo GV with it's signature statement band-aid applique, (with the word "ouch" printed on it), covering his dented side panel.

THE 1985 YUGO GV WAS THE MONA LISA OF BAD AUTOS. IT PLACED #39,  IN TIME MAGAZINE'S WORST CARS OF ALL-TIME.  IT WAS SO AWFUL THAT; THE COUNTRY IT WAS NAMED FOR FOLDED, CARPET WAS LISTED AS STANDARD EQUIPMENT, THE REAR DEFROSTER WAS USED TO KEEP YOUR HANDS WARM WHEN YOU PUSHED IT TO YOUR MECHANIC AND RANDOM PARTS ROUTINELY FELL OFF. 

When Lew would start whining about how he hated his job, I wanted to slap him with a fish and tell him; if work was really that bad, what's holding you there?  Quit, you're not a moron, do something else.  Even if you fail, you have no responsibilities.  At that point, I would expect him to interrupt and cry, "They won't pay my benefits unless I keep up a thirty-two hour week.  That's when I'd be ready to cut him off and say, "Yeah, it must be tough being forced to make fifteen thousand more a year and have less time to waste it."

Lew's lethargic lifestyle is contrasted by Winston, (also forty-six).  He thought he had a terrible job too but Winston never complained, was an asset to the firm and was well liked.  But when he had the opportunity to expand his horizons, he absorbed the pain of tying-up family loose ends, accepted temporary financial hardships and moved to San Pedro, near Los Angeles.

Winston surprised me by moving to paradise but shocked everyone we know by turning down his new opportunity when he got there.  While its true that he's keeping his eyes open for something in his field, he has gone totally Hollywood and decided to take advantage of his two years of unemployment benefits, first.

THE HOLLYWOOD SIGN WAS BUILT IN 1923 AS A REAL ESTATE ADVERTISEMENT FOR "HOLLYWOODLAND." LONG AFTER ALL THE PROPERTIES WERE SOLD, THE SIGN'S POPULARITY, (IN ITS CURRENT SHORTENED VERSION),  HAS EARNED IT  LANDMARK STATUS AND IT IS NOW A GLOBALLY RECOGNIZED ICON.

Lew had been a Jersey boy all his life.  So this first venture (escape) to the left coast has left him anxious to soak up the sun and everything else out there. His first taste of L. A. was the typical tourist spots like movie studio tours, Hollywood Boulevard, the Walk of Fame, Grauman's Chinese Theater and the original Fat Burger.

GRAUMAN'S CHINESE THEATER IS FAMOUS FOR HOUSING GLITZY MOVIE PREMIERES LIKE, "KING OF KINGS," IN 1927, 1977's, "STAR WARS," AND DOZENS MORE IN BETWEEN.  HOWEVER, THE CASUAL TOURIST IS MORE FAMILIAR WITH THE CEMENT SLABS IN ITS FORECOURT WHICH BEAR THE SIGNATURES, FOOT AND HAND IMPRINTS OF 200 MOVIE LEGENDS.  IN MY JUNE 1983 VISIT, WAY BEFORE DANIEL RADCLIFFE INDENTED THE CONCRETE WITH HIS MAGIC WAND, I APPRECIATED JIMMY DURANTE AND BOB HOPE'S NOSE, GROUCHO MARX'S CIGAR AND ROY ROGERS' HORSE TRIGGER'S, HOOF PRINT.

Winston typified the east coast mentality when he told me that he liked the contradiction of being in Venice Beach and on Santa Monica Pier at Christmas time.  He then hit all the major amusement parks, hiked Runyon Canyon, toured the Getty Villa as well as the Griffith Observatory.

His macabre taste in entertainment included the Helter Skelter tour of Manson murders and the Dearly Departed Tours of L. A., who offer trips to the O.J. Simpson crime scene.  Next on his wish list are the crime scenes of the, "Black Dahlia," the murder of Robert Blake's wife and the case of the Menendez brothers.  Winston even implied a willingness to drive to Colorado, to check-out the Jonbenet Ramsey tour.

Closer to home, Winston wants to see the swanky Magic Castle.  It is so aristocratic that you need a referral to get a reservation.  But due to a fire in 2011, it was closed for several months. Since re-opening last month, it has become nearly impossible to get in.

THE MAGIC CASTLE IN HOLLYWOOD (1963-PRESENT), BILLS ITSELF AS THE WORLD'S MOST UNUSUAL PRIVATE NIGHT CLUB.  IN THIS EXCLUSIVE SETTING, IT FEATURES LIVE STATE-OF-ART MAGIC ACTS.

Last week, I told Winston that the last time I was in Los Angeles, I loved the La Brea Tar Pits.  He poo-poo'ed this idea before I even had a chance to tell him that the La Brea is a unique museum of worldwide acclaim.  At the turn of the last century, in what is now downtown L. A., a large, smelly asphalt pit blighted the landscape. The bones of unfortunate domestic animal stuck-out of the tar as a grim reminder of consequences of getting too close.  A man passing through town asked a local to identify the bones.  The man said cows.  While it was true some contemporary animals were stuck there, it didn't take long until a team of paleontologists were summoned and recognized the tar pits as a significant geological find.

 DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES AS IT LOOKED IN 1910.  THE OIL DERRICKS IN THE BACKGROUND WERE COMMERCIALLY MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE TAR PITS, (HIDDEN BY LEAVES AND OTHER DEBRIS IN THE FOREGROUND).

Excavation at La Brea started in 1901.  Into the 1940's, hundreds of thousands of Pleistocene period bone fossils, preserved from the usual bacterial degradation by the tar were extracted in pristine condition.  Over the years, the focus has gone to smaller animals. Soon, museums and researchers around the world overwhelmingly used La Brea as their source for the delicate bones of intact flying dinosaurs.  By the 1970's, attention switched to specimens like, insects, plants and even pollen.  More than a hundred years later, these excavations continue.

JUNE - 1983. LA BREA, IS THE SPANISH WORD FOR TAR. IN THE BACKGROUND (IN THE MIDST OF L.A.'s BUSTLE) THE MUSEUM IS SURROUNDED WITH WHAT'S LEFT OF THE ORIGINAL TAR PITS...COMPLETE WITH MODELS OF PRE-HISTORIC (8,000 TO 40,000 YEARS AGO), VICTIMS STRUGGLING TO GET OUT.

Los Angeles' changing environment is proven by the appearance of extinct animals in the pits and those that are no longer native to the area, (like dinosaurs, horses, camels, mammoths, mastodons, long-horned bison, sloths and sabre-tooth cats).

THE SMILODON, (THE MOST FAMOUS SABRE-TOOTH CAT),  IS THE SECOND MOST COMMON BIG ANIMAL FOUND AT LA BREA.  FOR MORE DETAILS, VISIT THE MUSEUM'S WEB-PAGE AND CLICK ON THE SABRE-TOOTH CAT VIRTUAL EXHIBIT LINK .  IN ALL, YOU'LL FIND THAT LA BREA HAS UNEARTHED 660 SPECIES THAT INCLUDE 59 MAMMALS,  (EVEN ONE WOMAN), 135 BIRDS PLUS PLANTS, MOLLUSKS AND INSECTS.

Scientists have proven that 90% of La Brea's victims were carnivores or birds of prey/scavengers.The scenario they set is, a group of meat eaters chase down their meal.  In desperation, the unfortunate soul runs into the "sanctuary" of the sticky goo...and the hunters follow and get trapped too.  Further, the animals were smart enough that this was a rare occurrence.  If only one major entrapment like that happened every ten years over 30,000 years, that would be sufficient to account for the bone volume found at La Brea.

I was disappointed when Winston said that La Brea wasn't on his A-List of day trips.  He said he was too busy organizing excursions to Catalina Island, Olvera Street and some others I never heard of.  While Winston is between these worthy destinations, I have to fight my imagination not to picture him alone, as a sloth-like couch potato, laying around his apartment, watching reruns on TV and getting fat.

THE SLOTH IS A SLOW MOVING, APATHETIC CREATURE WHO HANGS UPSIDE DOWN IN TREES FOR HOURS AT A TIME.  ALSO, SLOTH, (LAZINESS), IS ONE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS.  IT SUPPOSEDLY DESTROYS THE CHARITY IN ONE'S HEART AND MAY LEAD TO ETERNAL DEATH.  IT IS SAID OF SLOTH; FOR SATAN FINDS SOME MISCHIEF STILL FOR IDLE HANDS TO DO. THUS SLUGGARDS, TALKATIVE PEOPLE AND DREAMERS HAVE BEEN CATEGORIZED AS WIND WATCHERS, FANTASY CHASERS AND PURSUERS OF OTHER WORTHLESSNESS.

I have full confidence that Winston will eventually snap out of Southern California's do-nothing, Svengali-like grip.  Just there mere inference that I am comparing him to Lew should spur him out of his tree to greatness. After all, I failed the New Yorker laziness test on my way to the beach and Winston is on his way to Catalina Island...but Lew, the personification of sloth, lives in a beach community and is so pale that he probably has no idea which direction to find the shore.

THE MOUNT SCARY LODGE

Can anything be more frightening than the disintegration of things we like?

In late October 1991, my wife Sue and I went to a Halloween-themed, adult, couples-weekend, at the Mount Airy Lodge, in Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains.

The accommodations, food, decor and hospitality were state-of-the-art. Plus, the added dimension of organized, spooky events made our stay...a hoot!

The Mount Airy Lodge sat on a beautiful 1000-acre tract of land.

IN 1898, THE LODGE OPENED WITH EIGHT ROOMS. IN THE 1950's THEY EXPANDED AND BECAME THE LARGEST RESORT IN THE POCONOS. THE 890 ROOM FACILITY PEAKED IN THE 1960's AND 70's.

After checking-in, we saw a piece of the lodge's storied tradition as an entertainment mecca of Northeast Pennsylvania. The wall space around the Crystal Theater entrance showcased photos of past headliners like; Bob Hope, Milton Berle, Connie Francis, Red Buttons, Tony Bennett, Nipsey Russell and Paul Anka.

We then visited the friendly concierge. She informed of the meal schedule as well as the impressive daily social agenda. Sue was handed pamphlets describing the pools, skiing, golf, snowmobiling, ice-skating, hiking, biking, archery, tennis and twenty more activities, facilities and services.

On Friday night, we participated in several Mount "Eerie" Lodge social events. Hosted by three cute and perky female employees in costume, (Mary the witch, Meg the skeleton and Maureen the sexy devil...complete with an extra short skirt and a purposely exposed, plastic derriere).

The "Ghastly Golf Putting Contest" and "Berserk Bingo," seemed farty. But because our hostesses inter-spliced a wine tasting session (from a local vineyard), between the events, we not only went with the flow but had a good time...especially watching the less sophisticated fellow-guests quickly get soused and lose their inhibitions.
STOCK PHOTO. I'M NOT A WINE DRINKER BUT I STILL SAMPLED THE CHABLIS AND ROSE. WHEN MARY SAW THE CONTORTED FACES I WAS MAKING, SHE UNCORKED A BOTTLE OF PINK CATAWBA AND SAID, "THIS WITCHY BREW IS A DELIGHTFUL SPARKLING WINE...THAT MEANS IT'S THE SAME THING AS CHAMPAGNE, BUT NOT FROM FRANCE." I THOUGHT IT SUCKED TOO.

That night's highlight was the horror movie/TV show trivia contest. Mary was the moderator, Meg played mood music cassettes with rock-n-roll songs like; "WEREWOLVES OF LONDON," "TUBULAR BELLS" and "PSYCHO KILLERS." She also had a tape with a collage of sound effects that included; macabre harpsichord music, crackling thunder, sinister laughs, screeches, screams and shrieks as well as chains being dragged and a howling wolf.

Maureen operated a movie projector and mingled with the contestants. She also served spiked gummy worms, Jack-O-Lantern candy and other ghoulish treats from coffin-shaped trays . However, she didn't appreciate several drunks, including a couple of women, pawing her exposed, plastic butt.

WHEN I GAVE-UP ON THE WINE, I STILL MANAGED TO MAKE A MEAL ON CHEESE, CRACKERS AND OTHER HALLOWEEN TIDBITS.

Mary announced that the trivia winner would receive a bottle of Chablis but if someone got all ten questions right, the special prize was Pink Catawba. Meg was quick to add, "But I put in a 'hundred buster!' If you know that extra hard answer and get all the others right too, then you deserve the bonus."

We watched a montage of horror movies snippets during the quiz. I needed to make a calculated guess on a, "DARK SHADOWS," question but the rest were easy like; Eddie Munsters' middle name, the city that "PSYCHO," opens up in and the actress that played the bride of Frankenstein.

Meg interrupted the proceedings after the ninth question, to ask the one she carefully researched. What a pleasant coincidence it was when she asked us the title of, "ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS," theme song. Just a few days earlier at work, FRANKIERIO had told me that factoid."ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS," WAS A *HALF-HOUR, TV ANTHOLOGY OF DRAMAS, THRILLERS AND MYSTERIES. CONSIDERED ONE OF THE TOP HUNDRED SHOWS OF ALL-TIME, IT'S 363-EPISODE RUN LASTED TEN SEASONS, (1955-1965). *THE LAST THREE YEARS FEATURED HOUR-LONG PRODUCTIONS. THE TWO INDELIBLE TRADEMARKS OF THE SHOW WERE, HITCHCOCK IN SILHOUETTE WALKING TO, AND FITTING INTO A SKETCH OF HIMSELF AND THE OPENING THEME, "FUNERAL MARCH OF A MARIONETTE,"
COMPOSED BY CHARLES GOUNOD, IN 1873.

Many of us got the first nine questions right. But I won because I knew the hundred-buster. Maureen presented Sue and I with our major award, (I'm guessing that all the ass-grabbing and fondling had gotten tedious because she had changed into jeans).

EDITOR'S NOTE: Somewhere in the clutter of the most remote alcove of my garage, I'm certain that that unopened bottle of Pink Catawba crap is still in my possession.

On Saturday night, we missed the horse-drawn hearse, "HAUNTED HAYRIDE." But we came down in time for the big scavenger hunt. They divided us into five groups, our three-couple team was called the, "HOUNDS OF THE BASKERVILLES."

Mary gave us added incentive by declaring that each couple from the winning squad would receive a $25.00 certificate, good for hotel services. At that moment none of us took into account that we were all checking-out in the morning. So the "generosity" of the payoff was not only superfluous but unusable, (unless you came back in the next six months).

AN ORDINARY HOTEL MIGHT HAVE STOPPED WITH VIRTUALLY USELESS GIFT CERTIFICATES...BUT NOT MT. AIRY. THEY LAVISHED THE WINNERS AND SECOND PLACE FINISHERS WITH REAL "KEEPERS"... SOUVENIR RIBBONS.

Mary, Meg and Maureen gave the same clues, in different sequences, to each team. I'm guessing it was because I was the only sober man that a redneck from Roscoe New York anointed me captain.

My team found the "raven" in the bird cage at the duck pond and "Igor's Lavatory," wound up being the men's room door, next to the arcade. Towards the end, we were stumped trying to find the, "39-STEPS." On a hunch, I led the team to the indoor tennis pavilion and started counting the stairs. The Roscoeman's girlfriend LuAnn was singing the, "MONSTER MASH," when he belched, "Shush, El Capitan is counting!" Somehow, I was able to maintain my concentration and find the final, winning clue...just ahead of the, "PHANTOMS OF THE OPERA."

In the morning, after a big breakfast, we packed and came down to check-out. We met the Roscoe couple on line. We agreed that the whole weekend was great. I said, "It's too bad the scavenger hunt prize was such useless bullshit." The man said, "LuAnn hoped to get a facial out it but we can't wait around till after noon." She pointed down the corridor towards the bowling alley and said, "But we got full use out of our certificate." He said, "On the way back from the beauty salon, we weren't thinking of food when we passed the snack bar." LuAnn said, "But I took a shot and asked if they take those stupid certificates...and they do." He said, "We have a long drive home. We got four sandwiches...to go. Plus, four sodas and some fruit...we'll have a picnic lunch in the car." Sue and I followed suit and felt like we actually won something.

We liked the Mount Airy Lodge so well that we returned two years later. The hotel was pretty boring because we had already done everything. Or what we wanted to do, like use the Jacuzzi, steam room or sauna, was no longer available. The only thing new was outside the theater, a "Starving Artist Sale." Even the concierge desk was gone. It was replaced with a "help yourself," rack of brochures for other local destinations. That's what inspired us to horseback ride and spend the next afternoon at the outlet center.EVEN STILL, OUR SECOND MOUNT AIRY GET-AWAY WAS GOOD. PERHAPS MORE SO FOR SUE...DUE TO THE 102 STORES OF THE "CROSSINGS OUTLET MALL," 1000 ROUTE 611, IN TANNERSVILLE.

I never thought I'd see the Mount Airy Lodge again but in March 1997, they advertised such an inexpensive deal that we thought it would be fun to give my three-year old a change of scenery.INDIRECTLY, THIS VISIT TO MOUNT AIRY HAD A HALLOWEEN THEME. THE HOTEL WAS SO EMPTY, IT REMINDED ME OF THE, "SHINING." EVERYTHING HAD GONE DOWNHILL. THERE WERE VIRTUALLY NO SERVICES. THE HEALTH CLUB WAS CLOSED, THERE WERE NO LIFEGUARDS AT THE POOL, THE HIGHLY PUBLICIZED INNER-TUBING MOUNTAIN WASN'T MAINTAINED WITH ARTIFICIAL SNOW...AND IT WASN'T EVEN STAFFED. FAR WORSE, ON SATURDAY, OUR ROOM WAS NEVER MADE-UP. THE HEIGHT OF OUR WEEKEND WAS TRYING TO FIGURE-OUT HOW TO USE THE BIDET...OH WAIT, THAT WASN'T WORKING EITHER.

This time around there were no headliners, the cute social directors and the holiday themes vanished and they fired the all the masseuses. The only added "amenity" was a fund-raiser bazaar for the Mount Pocono volunteer fire department, in the theater. To encourage customers to come, area businesses gave away key-chains, water bottles, pads, pencils and other chintzy advertising. We lasted ten minutes, (fourteen years later we still use our Cumberland County Bank jar opener).

Later, a gossipy woman told us that the Mount Airy Lodge had been cited for several health code violations...including an infestation of bed bugs, fire hazards from exposed wiring and failed kitchen inspections, (Kind of makes you wonder why she came). Then in an annoying nasal whine she concluded, "Even if you find someone to complain to, they all act like zombies."

The hotel was plummeting fast but wouldn't hit rock bottom for a couple more years. The escalating popularity of cruise ships and Caribbean tourism had a lot to to with their demise. But the final dagger in the heart was the new national fixation...gambling. So the allure of Las Vegas and Atlantic City made the less than sexy lodge, (still clinging to the memories of Bob Hope, Nipsey Russell and Connie Francis), teeter on obsolescence.

We got lucky because I'm not as tough as I seem. If I had seen nauseating creepy crawlies in our bed like that woman suggested, I would have gone bonkers. I would have been put in a straight-jacket and hauled off to an insane asylum. Instead, we were only exposed to cracked tiles in pool, horrible buffet-style dining and an acute lack of premium hotel activities and facilities.

After 1997, people all but stopped coming to the Mount Airy Lodge. The quality of the food was significantly cut. The chambermaid staff was greatly reduced and groundskeepers were almost eliminated. Then more terrible rumors about the lodge's safety and cleanliness surfaced. Finally in 1999, the Mount Airy Lodge closed it doors and went into foreclosure.

It's terrible to see the things we like die. But like a phoenix who rises from its own ashes, the self-imploded Mount Airy Lodge was demolished...and a new hotel/casino was built in its place. That might sound interesting but for a guy like me with thirty-two years of gaming experience...the new casino...is enough to scare me away.