CALL OF THE WILD

Jack London doesn't have to worry about copyright infringement from me, but I did have a backyard animal adventure that Steve Irwin and Marlon Perkins would appreciate.

Even if you aren't one of the people I've told this story to, you won't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what happens in the end.

My dog Roxy has two different calls of the wild. The first is how she expresses her need to go potty. This "call" takes place with her quietly standing still at the back window and staring into the backyard. When she is allowed out, she proceeds at a leisurely gait and sometimes she changes her mind and doesn't go out.

Her other call of the wild occurs when she becomes agitated by her spirit of territoriality. This is not done quietly or still, She'll continue pacing and/or going nuts barking, until you let her out. Once the door is opened just a crack, she runs out like the Dickens to the part of the yard that needs "protecting." (Did Charles Dickens run particularly fast? If so let me know).

This animal stuff is all new to me. I'm a city boy and while living in Brooklyn I was limited in seeing varmints. Actually, it wouldn't be that much of an exaggeration to say that other than loose domestic pets, my neighborhood offered little more than dead rats and little brown birds. So, coming to South Jersey and having rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, deer, moles, voles, snakes and possums running (and slithering) around is kind of refreshing. I even saw a fox for the first time in my life a few months ago.

The refreshing part ends when you let the dog out and she dashes with malice at one of these uninvited guests. I sometimes worry what would happen if she ever ran down one of the critters. The point is moot because, luckily, no self-respecting squirrel, rabbit or chipmunk is ever going to be tracked down especially when they have the luxury of a head start..

Now its time to tell Watson to fetch your pipe and deerstalker hat, (that's a Sherlock Holmes reference).

A couple of weeks ago a new denizen of our backyard moved in and has taken refuge under our deck and shed. Andrew, Sue and I have all seen it and thought it might have been a gopher, hedgehog or a groundhog. We have these clues, it's not nocturnal, the backyard isn't full of holes and it's rodent-like. Its kind of big maybe 10-15 pounds, has solid brown fur but not the small eyes of a burrower.

We sometimes call him Sonic (the hedgehog) or Ralph. But I lean towards Waddles or Waddles Canal because from the back, the only way to describe his walk is; waddling.

We had a few days of rain and Roxy wasn't getting out as frequently as she liked to do her business. When the rain let-up, she seemed to be jones-ing to go out. Sue let Roxy out and instead of flying towards the fence where the squirrels hang out, she ran to the middle of the yard. Unfortunately for Waddles, that's where he was...about 75 feet back, (25 feet in front of the shed.)

Apparently Waddles is neither a heavy thinker nor an Olympic sprinter. In his life or death moment of decision with so little distance between him and the sanctuary under the shed, the moron never moved! In less than 5 seconds the dog pounced and savagely took the schmendrick in her mouth. Sue screamed as Roxy viciously twisted her head from side to side. I guess that's an instinctual maneuver to disorient their prey before killing it. This attack and Sue's screaming went on for ten seconds.

From our vantage point in the Florida-Room, it looked like the dog was ripping Waddles to pieces. Roxy finally dropped the ignoramus but Waddles did NOT waddle towards the shed. The dog picked it back up and started the process again but she lost her grip. At that time Waddles, with no sense of urgency, waddled under the shed.

Since then, I haven't seen Waddles, but I haven't seen any U-Hauls out there or rodent-size luggage either. I think he got off easy, took the hint and moved in the middle of the night. Hopefully for every one's sake, we've seen the last of Waddles Canal.

Drop me a line and give me your guess on what animal he was (is). And I'll give you whatever updates that come across my desk.

"THE UNKNOWN" should be known !

My son Andrew infrequently has patience for old movies. His impatience is typified by what he perceives to be weak special effects...therefore he would consider an "old" movie like "JURASSIC PARK" to be "so five minutes ago"...(that means; passe). If we slip back another few years to Christopher Reeves' "SUPERMAN," that whole production was laughable to him.

Such reluctance for old movies isn't reserved for today's teenagers. In fact by the time we ratchet down the "way-back" machine to silent movies, few people of any age are interested. But I hope to change that with my critique of "THE UNKNOWN" a Lon Chaney classic from 1927.

Leonidas "Lon" Chaney was born on April 1, 1883 in Colorado Springs Colorado. Both his parents were deaf and as a natural result from it, he became a master of pantomime. He started in show-biz as an errand boy in 1902. He soon took to the foot-lights and eventually worked his way into both Vaudeville and as a theatrical actor.

YOU CAN SEE WHY CHANEY PUT HIS MAKE-UP ON WITH A PUTTY-KNIFE

Fate took Chaney to Hollywood in 1912 and he was under contract with Universal Studios for five years. His spontaneous skill with make-up earned him a wide assortment of roles. In the early years, his characterizations were limited to extra work or in bit parts. But because of his artistic imagination, he was able to use his self-invented make-up techniques to transform himself into anything from a Portuguese sponge fisherman to a disfigured ogre. Dubbed, "The Man of a Thousand Faces," it soon became apparent to studio moguls that Chaney's specialty was for the macabre.HUNCHBACK (above), PHANTOM (below)

During his film career from 1912-1930, (160 movies, all silent except the last one), Chaney is most remembered for being, "THE PHANTOM of the OPERA," "THE HUNCHBACK of NOTRE DAME" and the most famous lost film ever, "LONDON AFTER MIDNIGHT." In each of these, he managed to project a sympathetic image into the most monstrous roles.

In today's critique we 'll examine his talent for being the pitied villain. Please bear in mind that I am going to tell you most of the plot but not the surprise ending. If you want, I'll understand, stop reading now, find this movie on TCM or rent it, then finish it.

Set in Spain, Chaney portrays Alfonzo, a mass murderer on the run. The authorities only clue to his identity is his double thumb. Aided by his dwarf companion Cojo, Alfonzo appears at a circus as an armless man and gets hired as a knife-thrower in the freak show.

Alfonzo is paired with the circus owner's young and beautiful daughter Estrellita (Joan Crawford). She serves as his assistant. Estrellita has no idea that he HAS arms or that they are strapped down by Cojo, beneath the corset under his costume.

ALFONZO AND ESTRELLITA

At the same time, Estrellita is fighting off the amorous attentions of the show's strongman. Alfonzo, unaware that she is talking about men in general, overhears her say that she hates the thought of a man's hands on her. He interprets this as her hatred for his "rival." Believing this is his chance for true happiness, he tells Cojo of his intention to marry her. Cojo reminds him that if she agrees, she would eventually learn his secret and hate him forever.

While Estrellita has no idea that Alfonzo has feelings for her, he bribes a doctor and has his arms REALLY amputated. When he returns to the circus, he discovers that Estrellita has overcome her "hand" phobia and is in love with the strongman. I leave the rest of the story to your imagination.

This to me, this is a 3 1/2 star movie. It is insignificant that the story has tremendous believability flaws, but it shines because of Chaney and his uncanny ability to make you hate and pity him at the same time.

To ready himself for the role, Chaney taught himself several everyday activities to do with his feet instead of hands. The filmmakers DID use a stunt-double to play the violin with his feet but Chaney did everything else without special effects or trick photography. His dedication to his craft is clear in the scene where he sits dejectedly in a wheelchair with his legs draped over the side and effortlessly lights up a cigarette and smokes.

Maybe if I can get Andrew to take off his ipod's headphones off with his feet, maybe he'll watch it with me.

HOW DID NEW JERSEY GETS ITS NAME?

Hidden in our boondocks (a.k.a. the pinelands), not far from Six Flags Amusement Park in Jackson, New Jersey, there's a tiny town in Plumsted Township called; New Egypt.

When I was six years old, my family vacationed at a hotel in Lakewood. Across from the ice skating rink there was a sign that read: NEW EGYPT 20 Miles. I was intrigued by what I might find there and always thought one day I'd go. BUT, because I have a life, I never gave into this whimsy. Somehow I managed to be productive and well-adjusted all these years without kowtowing to my visions of overabundant culture.

These memories recently resurfaced when someone I met, mentioned that they spent some time there. According to him, there isn't anything Egyptian about the place. The high school football team (they don't have a high school) aren't the Screamin' Ibises. There are no street signs written in hieroglyphics, they don't have mailboxes shaped like pyramids or even a plastic scaled-down Sphinx in front of city hall. The one supermarket is an IGA and it makes no reference to Cleopatra, King Tut or Mummies. Even Oakford Lake...right in the middle of town, isn't called the Nile.

For more info I googled New Egypt and went to Wikipedia. From them, I learned that the last census gave the town a population of 2519. The people were then broken down into demographics as well as racial percentages. Oddly, individuals of Arab descent...much less specifically Egyptians, made up less than 1%. So my question is, how did the town gets its name. A COMPLETE BLANK. No one knows!

To take this naming idea of one step further, you don't have to be Albert Einstein to figure out how New Mexico got its name. If you use the same logic, you can make a pretty safe guess at how New Hampshire and New York got their names...but what about New Jersey? Hampshire and York are places in England but there is no town of Jersey.

But alas, there is the Bailiwick of Jersey!

The Bailiwick of Jersey, together with Guernsey, is one of the Channel Islands. It is located off northern France's Normandy coast and below England. Like the Isle of Man, Jersey is not part of the U. K. but is referred to as a "separate possession of the crown." However, it does rely on England for defense.

It is unclear how Jersey got its name. The island's strategic locale has put it under Roman, Viking, Celtic and Latin influence...with each culture able to make a case for naming it. The indigenous language spoken there is Jerriais...a variety of Norman French. French is also used but English has become the primary language. It should be noted that in the remote parts of the island there is a grassroots movement to revitalize the teaching and use of Jerriais. This movement is now responsible for many of the signs in St. Helier (the capital and only town) to be bi-lingual.

So how did New jersey get its name? Was it named after the breed of cow? NO! Was it named after athletic shirts? NO!

Actually, its fairly simple; King Charles II of England was exiled to Jersey. In recognition of the help given him by George Carteret, the King gave Carteret a large land grant in the American colonies...which Carteret named NEW Jersey.

Other interesting Jersey tidbits include: There is a town in North-Central Jersey called Carteret.

Jersey prints its own money called pounds and they are interchangeable with English pounds.

During WWII, Jersey was occupied by Germany from July 1, 1940 until May 9, 1945. There is photo that I once saw (google couldn't help this time) of an English bobby opening an English taxi's door and giving the" Heil Hitler" salute as a German officer got out. OUCH !

THE PERFORMER FORMERLY KNOWN AS OOFTY GOOFTY

PART - I

THE PERFORMER FORMERLY KNOWN AS OOFTY GOOFTY

Growing up, we all knew some nut from the old neighborhood who would do strange things for money. I knew a kid in grammar school who'd expose himself to girls...for chump change.  He was a bright student probably wasn't "all-there" socially.  Soon the girls realized that they could get their cheap thrills without paying.  When he complained, they ridiculed him and ratted him out to his teacher. As we get older, we realize that exhibitionists come in many forms and appear all over the global stage.

Someone like, Evel Knievel made a career out of mesmerizing audiences by defying gravity and logic while breaking every bone in his body. Currently, the TV show "FEAR FACTOR" and movies like "JACKASS" also glamorize the highest levels of rash behavior. But I'm going to tell you about a knucklehead who puts them all to shame.

The History Channel's "WILD WEST TECH;" hosted by David Carradine, did a segment on San Francisco after the Gold Rush of 1849. During those crazy times, a man drifted into town to seek his fortune.  While many late-comers missed out on the gold, others like this fellow found unconventional ways to capitalize on the abundance of loose money around town.way.

The unique way this man earned his daily bread by becoming a sideshow performer.  Upon his success, this entertainer adopted the stage name, "Oofty-Goofty."

Oofty Goofty remained in San Francisco until the late nineteenth century. An author, Herbert Ashbury wrote about Goofty in his book, "BARBARY COAST, AN INFORMAL HISTORY OF THE SAN FRANCISCO UNDERWORLD."

Much of Goofty's early life is open to speculation, Herbert Ashbury believed his name was Joshua Marx, a deserter from the German army.

The nickname Oofty-Goofy was an offshoot from his act in which he billed himself as, "THE WILD MAN OF BORNEO.".During these performances, the "wild man" would continually roar, "Oofty goofty!"  Hence the moniker was born.

ANY ENTERPRISING PERSON CAN CONJURE UP A GIMMICK LIKE OOFTY-GOOFTY BUT ONLY A TRUE INNOVATIVE GENIUS CAN REINVENT HIMSELF AND THRIVE.

To dress the Wild Man of Borneo part, Goofty smeared tar over most of his body and added horsehair for realism. Unfortunately, this get-up clogged his pores and prevented him from perspiring.  In less than a week, he took ill. The hospital struggled at first, until finding the right solvent to save his life.

Goofty switched, unsuccessfully to legitimate theater. After a less than stellar performance of, "ROMEO AND JULIET," he was actually thrown out of a bar. He hit the cobblestone street hard and discovered that he was impervious to pain.

Armed with this new attention-getting device and a baseball bat, he roamed the streets and propositioned random men to hit him for a fee. Among these fees were: kick him for a dime, hit him with a billiard cue for twenty-five cents or hit him was the baseball bat for a half dollar.

This craziness not only vaulted Goofty to celebrity status in San Francisco, but he made a tidy living too. That is until destiny, in the form of boxing legend John L. Sullivan, crossed his path.

(aka THE BOSTON STRONG BOY),  JOHN L. SULLIVAN (1858-1918) WAS THE FIRST "GLOVED" HEAVYWEIGHT BOXING CHAMPION OF THE WORLD, (1882-1892),.  HE IS ALSO RECOGNIZED AS THE LAST BARE-KNUCKLE CHAMP. ADDITIONALLY, HE WAS THE FIRST AMERICAN ATHLETE TO EARN A MILLION DOLLARS. 

Poor Goofty, Sullivan whacked him so hard with a cue stick that he broke two of his vertebrae. Goofty's bizarre career was over. He walked with a limp the rest of his life and died a short time later.

I bet you never had a jerk like that in your neighborhood. If you did, write in and tell us about it.

*

PART - II

MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND SCOOPS ESPN BY SEVEN MONTHS

This week, the Chicago Cubs were ousted from the National League playoffs. Afterwards, ESPN put together a piece identifying a hex put on them by a disgruntled fan, seventy years ago. This, "CURSE OF BILLY THE GOAT," prohibits the Cubbies from ever being world champions again.

However, if you remember in March of this year MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND beat ESPN to the story, (by about seven months).  That's when I blogged my welcome to the new baseball season by discussing that same phenomena.

If you missed this journalistic gem or want to read it again, grab your reading glasses and go to the archives and find March 26th.

So for both stories I say, "BATTER UP!"

"WE MOCK WHAT WE ARE TO BE".....or.... DIS INGER-ISH

When I was a teenager, it was common for my father to hand me something and say, "Read this to me, I don't have my glasses." At some point I began to get annoyed and eventually turned to sarcasm to express my irritation. Of course my protests were duly noted but never acted on. However, I must have left enough of an impression because dad once rebutted, "Just remember this, we mock what we are to be."

Unfortunately dad was prophetic; because now that I am saddled with my own need for reading glasses...I frequently find myself asking my son Andrew to read things.. I confess it's my own laziness and a lack of planning but misreading things has led to varying levels of hilarity...at my expense.

I recently added a Korean dollar bill to Andrew's foreign banknote collection. On the portrait, somebody had done calligraphy in large Asian (presumably Korean) characters. Before showing it to my son, I wanted to be prepared...in the expectation that he would ask me what the fancy writing said.

I mentioned the bill to a Korean co-worker and brought it in the next day for her to decipher. Unfortunately, her English skills aren't perfect and from the second she took hold of it, I could see her struggling to put the translation into words.

Finally, her first words were, "I dunno." Then, "This NOT Korean!" In frustration, she turned the bill upside down and said, "I no can help."

I was about to take it back from her when she turned it horizontal and said, "This crazy language."

I grabbed for it again and she pulled away from me. She then tilted the money on its other end and stopped. She stared up at me and said triumphantly, "Aha, I KNEW this not Korean."

I said, "It isn't? What language is it, Japanese?"

She said, "No silly man, dis Inger-ish."

Before I could put on my glasses she pointed to the letters and said, "It say, 'To Linda, good luck.'"

I don't embarrass easily but I was mortified.

*

On September 6th, our Guinea Pig "Picasso" went to rodent heaven.

Although we avoid speaking ill of the dead, Picasso simply never lived up to his colorful potential. The son of other guinea pigs, Picasso left his humble South American roots for a better life in the U. S. He applied to many pet stores and was finally accepted at Fins, Feathers & Furs at the Cardiff Circle. While waiting to be adopted, he became exposed to the propaganda rantings of a socialist cavy named Ernesto. Perhaps because of his impressionable nature, young Picasso was derailed from his dream of becoming a martyred product-tester and was manipulated into becoming a foot soldier for a counter-revolutionary movement. That is until Andrew selected him as our family pet.

When we bought Picasso we had no idea how anti-American he was. Andrew named him Picasso because of his odd coloration,. However, from an aerial view five hundred-feet up, our guinea pig's coat had been dyed to a reasonable facsimile of the Venezuelan flag.

Picasso was showered with our family's love and affection and all seemed normal. Eventually our attention caused him to waver in his socialist beliefs and soon, he expressed a sincere patriotism for the good old U. S. of A.

These notions were verified after his death when we read some of his old E-Mails. In these correspondences, he indicated a greater joy in running free on the vast carpets of America. He also made it clear that he appreciated the freedom to gnaw on the communication wiring of this powerful nation or to chew on the walls of the very foundation of democracy.

Problems surfaced when Picasso learned of his beloved predecessor, Cutie or as he was commonly know as: Zhitnik. Zhitnik was a great family pet who loved being left over night on narrow furniture ledges and playing *hide and seek. *(He excelled at hiding...sometimes for days at a time but was a less than enthusiastic seeker). Zhitnik loved the attention of children and handled being pawed at by visitors gracefully. He also excelled in traveling to school to entertain large crowds of second graders.

Moreover, Zhitnik liked quiet Norman Rockwell-like evenings with the whole family. He liked sitting on human shoulders and watching TV. At these times, during commercials, he loved to play, "Pass the Pig." A take-off of "Hot Potato" Andrew, Mommy and I would keep handing off our little Zhitnik until he peed on the loser...truly hours of fun.

Picasso yearned for such fun but his anti-capitalist spin on life cut the joy out of most everything. He finally sank completely back into anti-American sentiments when we brought our dog Roxy into the house. Immediately Picasso protested. In defiance of house rules, he began throwing litter from his cage. This action caused him to be relegated to one of the back bedrooms. Cut-off from the mainstream, he began calling himself Che and calling for the death of his oppressors.

DURING A RARE MOMENT OF CALM IN THEIR RELATIONSHIP, THE PIG EXPLAINS THE REBELLION TO THE DOG. ROXY BEING APOLITICAL, POLITELY PRETENDS TO BE INTERESTED. LATER, SHE CORRECTLY "RATTED" OUT THE WEASEL

Nevertheless we'll always remember the good times with Picasso and his loud chirp that when translated meant, "Even though your lettuce has been picked by my exploited illegal immigrant cousins, give me more. Because I don't know what you infidels put in it...but I crave it nightly."

*

Let me get my glasses so I can proof read this bef@re I send it out.

FAT BURGER

"FAT BURGER" has come to Atlantic City.

While this statement might have little impact on the vegetarian segment of my readership, everyone else will likely flock over to the Borgata Casino's food court, to over-pay for America's next hamburger franchise giant.

A smash throughout California, FAT BURGER was founded in Los Angeles by Ms. Lovie Yancey in 1952. Buoyed by the slogan, "The last great hamburger stand," their gimmick is fast-food...cooked to order. After you make your selections, Fat Burger gives you a number. When your food is ready, an employee delivers it to your table.

Their ambiance also includes a free jukebox at every location...however you can pay for YOUR song to be played ahead of all the freebies. I also learned from Wikipedia that references to Fat Burger on TV, movies and song lyrics are plentiful. Apparently it was a common destination for Lamont Sanford on "Sanford and Son."

Fat Burger's popularity helped them expand and by the early 1990's, it spread throughout the west and into Canada. New Jersey now boasts three Fat Burger locations and 82 more national franchises are already in the works.

Later this week, I will be returning to Fat Burger for the first time in 27 years. My first visit was with a friend from Las Vegas, Jeff, who was featured in my short story, "LOOKING DOWN AT LAS VEGAS."

While in LA, Jeff and I looked up Len, the brother of one of my college buddies. Len, I later learned was unemployed in the truest sense of the word and had no car...but he was kind enough to show us around LA in Jeff's car and let us treat him to lunch.

Later, he had us drive him to Beverly Hills to see a Mohammad Ali boxing match on cable. In 1980, cable TV was not widespread and seemed reserved for only the most affluent of affluent people. As we pulled up to a mansion, Paul Newman's joint was pointed out up the street. Len then added, George C. Scott's property touches this one out back. At the door, we were unceremoniously greeted and let in.

The long, wide bluish foyer featured giant tube-like fish tanks inlaid into the wall. Like a small version of the Baltimore Aquarium, these tubes snaked over doorway and seemed to go into all the other rooms. (I once mentioned these fish tanks to one of my readers, Mikeinmacao, he's a tropical fish enthusiast...and he assured me that you'd have to be filthy rich just to keep the tanks clean).

The room with the TV (it was probably 19-inch...affluence in terms of TV screen size certainly has skyrocketed since 1980), also had the fish tanks. The fight was already in progress and the room was clouded with various kinds of smoke and littered with stoned bodies.

The only reason why we wound up at this "party" was Len acted as a middle man in cocaine deals...getting a commission from both ends. You may recall that I used this concept in my novel, "IF IT AIN'T NAILED DOWN," as a way for the main character (Dennis LaRue) to accumulate cash resources to fund his goal in life.

Before Len left us, he pointed out a young adult curled in a corner who was seemingly hallucinating on something.
He said, "Do you recognize him?"
Jeff and I said, "No."
Len said, "He was one of the twin little boys from the old TV show, "Please Don't Eat the Daisies."
Through the dark blueness, upon closer examination, he was right.

There were too many people standing in front of the TV so Jeff and I were stuck chit-chatting by ourselves, looking at the fish or watching the kid from TV convulse.
When Len returned, he said, "Let's go."

In the car, he bragged about his "cut" and explained the nature of his business. He then fanned-out a fist full of money and said, "I'm taking us out to eat."

Considering we took him for Japanese food for lunch, we expected something substantial.

Jeff and I were LA illiterate and had no way of knowing we were being taken to the "hood." But that was where Fat Burger was. Surrounded by luxury sports cars, we parked and stood on line at an outside window with the "beautiful people." I remembering thinking Len was so cool because he seemed to know everyone. But after we got our food...he had us run back to the car. Despite eating in the car...I remember it being an especially good burger.

My return visit to Fat Burger at the Borgata Casino will coincide with my attendance at their employee talent show. Somehow I don't think I'll be relating how great the show was...and hopefully, I won't be blogging it either because it was awful. Nevertheless, I'll let you know if there's a vegetarian menu and if FAT BURGER employees really scream, "FAT TIP!" each time someone gives them a gratuity.

METS JEKYLL & METS HYDE

Robert Louis Stevenson must have been a Mets fan. As this season of earned and expected greatness dwindles away...so it seems are the Mets hopes to even get into the playoff.

Although I try to steer away from sports in my columns, today's edition is...in a twisted way, both related to football and my beloved New York Mets. So, submitted for your approval, is the strange circumstances of a roller coaster Jekyll and Hyde night I had a few years back.

In March of 2005, my friend, crime author extraordinaire Charlie Stella had a book signing party in a bar across the street from the Empire State Building. I had visited my mom during the afternoon and timed my party arrival to be fashionably late. My excitement grew steadily as drove against the bulk of the lower Manhattan traffic...until I was about twenty blocks from the target area. The next 45 minutes of inching along dampened my mood and I was completely pissed when I found out that parking was going to cost a fortune, ($32.00 for almost 4 hours).

But as soon as I walked into the bar, (I think it was called McHottigan's or Moe's Tavern or something like that) I knew...I had stepped into; aspiring author heaven.

Charlie is what people in the bar trade call a happy drunk. In fact; amongst other happy drunks, Charlie shines above them all. In his happy way, he introduced me as an up-and-coming author to his inner circle of author friends. The ones I spoke to (and there were many) warmly accepted me as a member of their "club."

Charlie and I went to High School together and were teammates on the Canarsie Chiefs football team (1970-1972). He said he invited a couple of other players and one showed up as I was chatting with the "Queen of Noir," Vicki Hendricks. She wrote "MIAMI PURITY" a book I enthusiastically recommended in "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND" shortly thereafter.

Unfortunately for me, the ex-teammate who showed-up and I didn't get along in High School. He was so self-absorbed in his off the field exploits, that he never acknowledged the fact that he almost never stepped ON the field. Nevertheless, I approached Mr. Cool and I was happily surprised that despite being a wealthy computer executive living in Bangkok, Thailand, he was earthy and fun to reminisce with. All things were going so well when he dropped a bomb on me that made me want to hug him.

In our junior year I dated a girl from another high school and she surprised me by attending the Erasmus game. We slaughtered them and when the game was over, the spectators rushed onto the field to congratulate us. In the height of my glory, she surprised me by emerging from out of the crowd to hug me on the field. That moment has ALWAYS been one of the highlights of my life!

Well as I'm strolling down Memory Lane with Mr. Cool, he brings up that game and says, "When your girlfriend ran on the field and hugged you, I was so jealous." You could have knocked me over with a feather. My great moment, 33 years later, was made better by the most unlikely source.

Later, while basking in the euphoria of talking shop with authors and having my on-field hug remembered; Charlie calls me over. He's with a group that includes other successful writers such as; Jason Starr, his author girlfriend (I forgot her name) and an author/illustrator with an Irish brogue named Pat . We are all exchanging funny stories when someone brings up spring training and the New York Mets.

KURUDAVE once told be a joke about the Mets and I had retold it with great success, several times. So I was confident that these drunks would appreciate it. Well the joke bombed! I told it right...they all listened with big smiles and when I got to the punchline, their collective jaws dropped and they looked at me like I was a depraved lunatic.

In just a matter of seconds I went from first to worst on the self-esteem meter. In the car, it was a long self-deprecating drive home. When I called Charlie a few days later, he didn't remember my joke and said his friends liked me.

Oh, you want to hear the joke, eh!

Its the custody phase of a divorce trial and judge asks the nine-year old boy, "Do you want to live with your mother?"
"NO!"
"Why?" asks the judge.
The kid says, "Because she beats me!"
"Oh," says the judge. "So you want to live with your father."
"NO!"
"Why don't you want to live with your father?"
"Because he beats me!"
The judge ponders the situation and says, "They both beat you?"
"Yes."
"Well," the judge says, "if you don't want to live with your mother or father...who do you want to live with?"
"Judge, I want to live with the New York Mets!"
"I'm sorry son, I don't understand...why the Mets?"
The boy shrugs and says, "The Mets don't beat anybody."