PRAYING FOR MS. TREEFART'S GIANT SLAYER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FREDDY THE FINGER

Father’s Day 1998 stands out in the highlight reel of my life. On that day, I had a one-on-one, Philadelphia Zoo road trip with my four-year old son Andrew. One of the golden moments of that day was the two of us riding on a camel. It was remarkable because Andrew had difficulties with motion, (I saved a fortune by never putting quarters in the mechanical horsey ride at the supermarket.  Andrew did like climbing on but all he wanted to do was sit…still).

AMAZINGLY, BY THE TIME ANDREW WAS EIGHT, HE HAD GRADUATED TO HEAVY-DUTY ROLLER-COASTERS.

I saw the camel ride up ahead and thought it would be cool for him to see. We watched for a minute then I said with tongue in cheek, “How about me and you riding that camel.” He said, “Okay.” I was in shock. On one hand, I wanted to strike quickly before he came to his senses…but on the other hand…just going on wasn’t good enough for me. I rolled the dice and took a gamble. I scanned the benches in the shady spectator area along side the ride and scoped-out the most trustworthy looking senior citizen I could find. I approached a kindly looking gentleman and asked him if he would mind using my camcorder to chronicle our three-minute odyssey.

I DON'T HAVE ANY STILL PHOTOS OF THIS WONDERFUL MOMENT IN PARENTING, BUT YOU'LL GET THE IDEA OF WHAT WE DID FROM THIS SHOT.

In adulthood, I have prided myself as being as excellent judge of character. Had I not trusted my thousand-dollar photo equipment with this man, I would have lost out on a tiny segment of film that’s worth a gazillion dollars to me.

This great moment in my life came to mind last month but for the wrong reason; this time my usual sharpness about people let me down. I’m certain when Charlieopera hears how I missed spotting a hump in the crowd he’ll say, “Oy vey! Are you stunod or what?”  (Of course there’s still a glimmer of hope that I’ll be proven right, but until that happens, it seems that my random act of kindness has come back to bite me in the ass…to the tune of a thousand dollars).

I won’t bore you with the details of my poor judgment until a final decision is reached, (maybe a lot will change until I go to press…in 48 hours). Until then, I will demonstrate a 1981 example of how I developed my ability to judge good character.

The following is an excerpt from my short story, “FREDDY THE FINGER.” This story is significant because it represents why I turned to writing out my Las Vegas adventures. I rarely told my father any details of the craziness I was exposed to while living out west. I was afraid he wouldn’t approve of my associations and the situations that I got into. After dad died suddenly in 1995, I realized how much he loved, “Freddy the Finger.” I should have had more faith in him and shared all my experiences with him. So, as a legacy to my son, wife and friends, I started writing these stories, (there are twenty).

I was twenty-four when I started dealing craps at the Stardust, on the fabulous Las Vegas strip. That’s quite an accomplishment considering I had no connections and only fifteen months experience. The other dealers were savvy and much older than me.  The low-level managers (boxmen and floormen) were rarely under forty and many were over seventy.

While I was still trying to fit in when my boxman (the immediate supervisor sitting between the dealers who regulates the game) fell asleep while our craps game was in progress. During his snooze, unattended cash buy-ins were strewn in front of him...and the other dealers weren’t rousing him. I wasn’t sharp enough to realize that Freddy Cantor was widely disliked. Far worse, I was witnessing him getting “jackpotted,” in the hope that this dereliction of duty would get him fired. When he started to snore, I nudged him and said, “You okay?” He sprang to life, plunged the money into the drop box and murmured, “I’m just a little tired.”

On one of our mutual breaks, Freddy profusely thanked me and added, “I owe you big time.” I shrugged it off but he said, “Lemme give some thought on how to repay you. You might have saved my job.”

In the days that followed, I was told that he was the most hated guy on our shift and that everyone called him, “Freddy the Finger.” I guessed his nickname came from the middle finger or giving someone the finger. But instead, it pertained to him, because the staff thought he was a rat, (a weasel that collaborated with management to “finger” malcontents, thieves and poor employees). Interestingly, Freddy was also missing his left ring finger, (even stranger, he wore his wedding band on his middle finger).

FREDDY TOLD DIFFERENT PEOPLE DIFFERENT STORIES ABOUT HIS MISSING FINGER.  THE MOST COMMON VERSION WAS IT WAS CUT OFF WHILE SCREWING-AROUND WITH THE MACHINES IN HIS UNCLE'S LEATHER GOODS FACTORY.  BUT HE ALSO TOLD A SELECT FEW THAT IT WAS SHOT OFF IN A POLICE RAID WHEN HE WAS A BOOKIE.  THE DRIBBLE HE SAVED FOR ME WAS, THE LEADER OF A PUERTO RICAN YOUTH GANG CUT IT OFF AFTER FREDDY IMPREGNATED THE GUY'S SISTER AND REFUSED TO MARRY HER.

Freddy didn’t help his cause by smoking effeminate, thin, brown cigarettes and speaking with a creamy lisp. But what galled the casino staff much more was that he was sarcastic and had the swagger of a tough guy. Plus, he was also a namedropping braggart who implied he was so well-connected that he was untouchable. I learned right away that the possibility of this assertion being true saved him from getting his ass mightily kicked. I was so young, I thought Freddy was interesting. But just about everyone else thought he was a boorish exaggerator and a chronic liar.

Part of what made Freddy interesting to me was that he was from the Bronx and we shared many cultural similarities. So when we worked together and had laughing fits that bordered on being unprofessional, his enemies assumed that he was taking me under his dastardly wing.

One afternoon, the skies blackened as a wind-driven rainstorm ravaged Vegas. At 4:00PM, it was so dark that the automatic street lights cut on. An hour later, the power went off and I couldn’t get a dial tone. Huge palm fronds flew off the trees and smacked the exterior walls of my apartment. I kept imagining that a tree was going to crash into my kitchen. I couldn’t even take my mind off the situation by reading the newspaper because I had no candles or a flashlight. I was too nervous to sit there by myself so I got ready and left for work early.

The walk to my car was treacherous as rain and debris pelted down on me.  I must have looked like a mime struggling against the gale as I side-stepped loose household garbage, branches, rolling trashcans and a plastic chair. I turned on the car radio to hear a weather report but the Allman Brothers, “RAMBLING MAN,” caught my interest.

My two-block drive down Harmon Avenue to the strip was like viewing a nightmare through a kaleidoscope. My defroster didn’t work so I had to use my dealer’s apron to constantly wipe away the condensation. Up ahead, in the odd eclipse-like darkness, between the sweeps of my hyper-speed windshield wipers, I noticed something curious. Through the blurry, surreal mosaic, it turned out to be the twirling rack lights of a police cruiser. I was going five miles per hour as I zig-zagged around the obstacle course of fallen crap in my path. When I reached the cop car, a crew of fluorescent yellow-slickered workmen attended to a downed telephone pole.

On the next street, I saw a single dim, auxiliary light at the back of the Aladdin Casino. I made my right onto the strip and couldn’t believe that the daily glut of pedestrians (tourists) was missing. It felt apocalyptic without all the glittery neon signs as I crept without having to compete with other traffic past the MGM, Caesar’s and Flamingo. Next I went by the equally eerie, unlit Desert Inn and Sands. At the Frontier, their majestic marquee publicizing Roy Clark’s week-long appearance was half lit. On the brighter side, I caught a glimpse inside and it seemed like normal casino activity.

Before I reached the blackened Silver Slipper Casino, Roy Clark came on the radio playing, “GHOST RIDERS IN THE SKY.” What a coincidence to see his name and seconds later hear him sing on the radio. A sense of normalcy hit me as I pounded the steering wheel to the beat. Suddenly, I slammed on my brakes as an inside-out umbrella flew by me, across from the Stardust’s parking lot. That’s when I noticed one billboard completely lit-up…advertising that the circus was coming to the Convention Center.

Sheets of rain and howling wind made me scurry to the Stardust time office. But as the storm continued outside, it was business as usual inside. And that meant finding Freddy the Finger in the break room telling a group who didn’t care (but politely listened) how he used a hacksaw for two hours, to cut away the branches that hemmed his car in. His captive audience rolled their eyes and snickered as he claimed to have driven onto his neighbor’s lawn, to get around a UPS truck, in order to get to work.

Freddy hustled me away for a private conversation. “I haven’t forgotten my debt. How about me and my wife, taking you and your girl, to the circus next week?” I groaned, “Nah.” “Who are you, Mr. Maturity? A friggin’ circus is too juvenile for you?” I said, “Really, you don’t owe me…” “I get it,” he said, “you’re afraid a clown is going to put cotton candy in your hair…oops bad example. I should have said cotton candy on your head.” I laughed, “You’re an asshole.” He said, “Okay, no circus. But how about lobster…you aren’t afraid of the best food on the goddamned earth are you?” I said, “Lobster is good.” Freddy said, “It’s settled, me and Estelle are taking you and your girl to the Tillerman…for a soup to nuts lobster dinner.”

A week later, two hours before our big date with the Cantor’s, Freddy called.  He lived up to his reputation of being a liar by saying, “Estelle isn’t in the mood for seafood so we’ll eat chinks instead.” I was in no position to say no. He said, “Do you know Jung Jie’s ? They make a great lobster Cantonese.”

In the restaurant’s bar, Freddy made the introductions. Estelle Cantor was wearing her gold Century-21 blazer. She was especially unattractive and a rather large woman. But that was no reason to dislike her, her personality did that as soon as she opened her big fat mouth. In an overly loud, shrill nasal voice, she announced that she could only give us two hours because she had a final walk-through on a Tudor, on Alta Drive.

IT'S NO COMPLIMENT, ESTELLE CANTOR SOUNDED JUST LIKE SHEILA BROFLOVSKI FROM TV'S "SOUTH PARK."

While sipping a tropical drink out of a plastic pineapple, she never stopped babbling about real estate.

ESTELLE WAS A PLASTIC PHONY, JUST LIKE FREDDY.

Freddy idolized his wife.  He stared in awe of her as she rattled-off celebrity clients and awards she won. When she finally paused I tried to get Sue (she was my girlfriend back then) into the conversation. Estelle interrupted, “Did I tell you that Tudor on Alta is going for 175K? Frederick darling, tell me, what’s the commission going to be?” Instantly he proclaimed, “Ten-five!”  Frederick? I was gagging from all her pretense and was about to puke in my beer when the maitre d came to escort us to a table.

I thought we were saved from Mrs. Cantor’s yapping but she started blithering to the maitre d in Mandarin Chinese. When a waiter came by with menus after we were seated, Estelle shooed him away and announced for the entire dining room to hear, “I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered for the table.”

Estelle NEVER stopped talking as the plain wonton soup arrived. She was still jawing as we each ate our one egg roll appetizer. When she finally stopped talking about herself she said, “On the way out, I must compliment the chef…he’s really out done himself.” Sue and I looked at each other and controlled our laughter.

We were all served the same entrée, roast pork egg fu yung, (a Chinese omelet). This was not lobster at the upscale Tillerman. Nor was it lobster Cantonese. Sue and I were not from Mars. In fact as New Yorkers, we are required by law to know all the ins-and-out of Chinese food...and what we had…was the most basic, cheapest things on the menu.

Freddy saw the disappointed look on my face. He cut-off his wife as she explained the value of a valley view, “Did you know Estelle made the newspaper by risking her life with an armed robber at Albertson’s?” She broke in, “It was nothing! They called it passive resistance but nobody was going to makes moi lay on a filthy floor.  Besides, I knew that runt was going to give me the gun as soon as I saw those weak, beady eyes.” Sue and I looked at each other in disbelief as she continued, “You kids should drop by my office. You can see all my awards, read the newspaper article and the framed letter of thanks I got from the supermarket.” At that point, I was positive Mahatma Gandhi would have strangled her and felt no remorse.

You'd think it couldn’t possibly get worse but it did. Estelle started a sales pitch, “You know renting is a terrible waste? What’s your combined income? Do you have any outstanding debts? Are you planning a family?”

She never came up for air as she plowed-on about a fenced-in yard, a two-car garage and the curb appeal of nice landscaping. That’s when she finally got to her point, “Because…I can work with anyone, to put them into their perfect home…”

Two bites into my omelet, I decided I had enough. I held my stomach and croaked, “I feel lousy!” In her typical nagging tone Estelle chimed in, “Listen Bubbula, you ate too fast. Take a rest, have some dessert, you’ll be okay.” “No,” I snapped as I stood. “I have terrible stomach cramps.” I turned to Sue and said, “C’mon doll, we gotta go.” Sue followed my lead. She thanked them and sharply whispered, “He can only ‘go’ on his own toilet.”

Estelle loudly said, “I understand, I’m lactose intolerant myself.” We were halfway to the exit when she blared loud enough for them to hear in the kitchen, “I’ll take care of the check.” Sue and I were at the door when she boomed again, “Wait, you forget to take my card.” I opened the door to freedom, looked back, held my hand on my belly and bleated, “Thanks.” Estelle shot up out of her chair and yelled, “Freddy’ll give you my number. Call me when you’re ready to buy.” In the sanctuary of the car I joked, “That was nothing but a friggin’ commercial. That’s why nobody at work likes Freddy, he must have promised them all lobster dinners with his wife.”

I dodged Freddy for several days. During that time, I confided in one of the elder dealers and told him how much of a douche Freddy turned out to be. He wasn’t shocked about my ordeal in the Chinese restaurant. But I got his attention when I leaked that Freddy said he was afraid of losing his job after I woke him up. That meant he wasn’t “untouchable” like had implied. This dealer concluded, “Good, I’m glad you figured it out on your own. Because it’s not a good idea to be associated with…well, you know what I mean.” I nodded but I didn’t know what he meant.

A few days later, I worked with Freddy for the first time since our date from hell. I tried not to laugh but he knew how to push the right buttons. So I settled into the idea that he was a fun work friend but not a friend outside work.

Later in that laugh-filled shift, we were standing dead. I saw Freddy staring down at the bankroll, straining to hold back laughter by covering his mouth with his hand. For a second he looked up with his hand still firmly clasped over his mouth. He looked like he was going to explode into another laugh spasm as he pointed with his eyes to the far right. He then resumed staring at the chip bank. When I saw what he meant, my head involuntarily sprang back to the left as I too became paralyzed with Freddy’s laughing affliction.

This kind of childishness was not tolerated at the Stardust and I didn’t want Freddy to get me in trouble. I composed myself and concentrated my gaze on the center of the craps game. Freddy had calmed down too but at one point, our eyes met and we started all over again. We had gotten away with our petty silliness all night but this was different, everyone near our table stopped to gawk at us.

Our floor supervisor leaned between us. In a condescending tone, he asked in his southern-accented baritone voice, “Are you two boys all right?” It sounded pretty funny coming from a man who reeked of cheap booze every night. Nonetheless, we assured him that we were all right.

To reduce the risk of a relapse with ten minutes left before my break, I stood erect and stared straight ahead. The next few minutes took an eternity. Then I heard the last thing I wanted to hear, another dealer (the stickman) on my crew calling out, “Hey little buddies, wanna play craps?”

That dealer was Walter "Disaster" Lemaster.  He earned his screw-up nickname by being a burnt-out Vietnan War vet with a talent for saying and doing the dumbest things. I knew what this moron was referring to so my mind screamed, "Don't turn around..." but of course I did.

In a split second, I looked, saw my worst fear and turned away again.  I muffled my laughter as saliva flowed into my palm.  But when I heard Freddy roaring, I too was howling.  With hundreds of eyes on me, I squeezed my stomach muscles.  Then from the diaphragm, I took three deep breaths. I maintained my composure even though Freddy was still in stitches.

Through my teary cataract-like eyes, without laughing, I watched the proceedings on the other side of the table.  This would be the day that I learned the difference between midgets and dwarfs.

These two four-footers were a father and son.  They were dragging slot machine stools to our table when I got my first good look at them.  The dad was excited and cheerful but the son who seemed to be going through the motions to please his dad was austere.  From his attitude, I gathered that he knew they was getting laughed at and didn't like it.

Despite my new choir-boy pose, the son who was now positioned on his knees atop the stool, kept giving me dirty looks. 

The dad was shorter.  So to play, he had to stand on the stool and hold the craps table rail with his hand.

It was decided that the father would shoot the dice first.  I am clueless (even thirty-plus years later) what possessed Freddy to tell Walter, "Give him the 'short stick.'"

Freddy was kidding.  But Walter's military background compelled him to follow orders.  He was so buried by the absurdity of Freddy's statement that he left the dice a bit too far away from the dad, (this ploy was saved for women in low-cut blouses.  So when they reached for the dice, they further exposed their cleavage). 

The dad would have had trouble getting the dice under normal circumstances.  So when he strained to pick up the dice, he lost his balance and tumbled onto the table.  Now everyone was hysterical...with Freddy screaming the loudest.

The son was doing a slow burn as his dad writhed like a turtle on its back.  Each time the poor man tried to flip over, his foot bumped the concave rubber lip that rims the table.

Our pit boss Chick Halversen rushed over and exclaimed, "What the fuck is going on?"  Now nobody was laughing!  The dad was now standing on the table as he set himself to climb the table's wall.  Chick repeated himself, "What happened?"  The dad peeked over his shoulder with a cute chuckle, "This always happens to me."  Chick shook his head, "Just when I thought I saw it all..."  Chick came around to greet the dad in the aisle and offered them a meal ticket.  As the two men walked away, the son turned back and gave me a harsh glare.  But because his dad took the high road...none of us were disciplined.

At quitting time, my crew along with Freddy, decided to have a drink across the street at the Silver City Casino.  I was tired and turned them down.  While they lingered until everyone was ready, I left. 

On my way to employee lot, I found out there had been another downpour during the night. I hopped over puddles and walked around the mini-lakes.  Then I heard my name called.  It was that idiot Walter.  He was excited and happy as he ran straight towards me.  I back-pedaled so I wouldn't lose my homeward momentum.  I was shaking my head in disbieleif as I watched the Neanderthal splash through every puddle in this path.  Then I carelessly stepped into a water-filled crater.  The bottom of my left pant leg, my shoe and sock were sopping wet.  I was hobbling when Walter said, "Are you okay?"  I was surprised he didn't laugh at my mishap and had enough sense to ask about my well-being.  I said, "I'm lucky I didn't twist my ankle."  Walter had a perplexed look as he stammered, "N-n-n-o.  Are y-y-you okay from b-b-b-before, when you clocked out?"  I knew he hated being called by his nickname and said, "Disaster, what are you talking about?"  He said, "Then you're okay?"  I said, "Heh?"  He said, "Hey man I j-j-just wanted to know before I said anything..."  "Said anything about what?"  Walter slapped my shoulder and said, "They fired the finger!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LAUGHING THROUGH THE CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A MOTH THE SIZE OF A '48 BUICK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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