DODGE BALL: A METAPHOR FOR THIS CRAZY LIFE

Don't regret the past, always move forward and make the best with what you have. The 1990 two-star movie, "MR. DESTINY," is a poor regurgitation of, "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE." JAMES BELUSHI'S PERFORMANCE IS A HOME RUN, IN THIS OTHERWISE LACKLUSTER FILM.

The plot revolves around the tendency to fantasize about changing a key moment in one's life. In the movie, a mid-level businessman has hit a series of ruts that spark a mid-life crisis. He wanders into a gin mill and receives omniscience from the bartender, (Mr. Destiny). The moment Belushi's character wants Mr. Destiny to change is when he struck out in a big high school baseball game.

Mr. Destiny shows him how his life would have been impacted by being a hero. In the typical substance over form formula, he sees the price tag of superficiality that comes with that kind of success. He soon realizes that what he has actually achieved despite being that game's goat, is too precious to fritter away.

I recently lost a chance to act as Mr. Destiny, but in reverse.

Way back when, I attended (and graduated) from the Herman Schreiber Elementary School (P.S. 279), in my native Canarsie, Brooklyn, New York.

HARD TO BELIEVE BUT TRUE, THIS IS ONLY PICTURE OF MY OLD SCHOOL ON THE INTERNET.

In June 1966, the biggest highlight of being at P.S. 279, for me, was our sixth grade dodge ball tournament. The build-up began in third grade when the "After School Center" allowed us to participate in dodge ball with the older kids.

DODGE BALL IS A PLAYER ELIMINATION GAME. THE BASIC IDEA IS TO ELIMINATE THE OPPOSITION BY HITTING THEM WITH A THROWN BALL... WITHOUT THEM CATCHING IT. THE THROWER IS ELIMINATED IF HIS TOSS IS CAUGHT ON THE FLY. A TEAM LOSES WHEN ITS LAST PLAYER IS ELIMINATED. THE MOST COMMON FORMATS ARE: BEST 2 OUT 3, 3 OF 5 OR 4 OF 7 GAMES. MY SCHOOL USED A VOLLEY BALL BUT A RED BOUNCY BALL LIKE THE ONE ABOVE SEEMS TO BE THE UNIVERSAL BALL OF CHOICE.

In fourth grade, we were indoctrinated into the year-end class versus class dodge ball tournament. The lower grades had their own lesser following. But the allure of the sixth grade tourney, specifically the finals, was stronger than the "Sock-Hops," making it the social event of the year.

My sixth grade class did not make it the finals. The perennial favorites, the "juvie" class did, (some people called them Juvenile Delinquents or JD's). A juvie class was always comprised of dopey kids, budding criminals, serial truants, promiscuous girls and other social outcasts.

The juvie class had the least students but a disproportionally high amount of star athletes. This particular squad had a "*greaser" named Don Ruff. On the rare occasion that this early pubescent in thick sideburns came to school, he wore motorcycle boots and carried a rolled-up copy of the "DAILY RACING FORM" in his back pocket, (don't laugh, at least it proved he could read...something).

ARTHUR HERBERT "THE FONZ" FONZARELLI WAS ORIGINALLY CAST AS A NE'ER DO WELL GREASER, (*IN CANARSIE THESE STREET TOUGHS WERE CALLED HITTERS). A NOVICE SOCIOPATH, DON RUFF WAS THE ESSENCE OF A HITTER AND WAS KNOWN IN OUR DODGE BALL CIRCLES AS A HEADHUNTER. Another Juvie notable was Fremont "Don't Call Me Fremont" Allen. Allen had been left back twice, so at fourteen, he was more matured and stronger than his twelve-year old peers. When motivated, he was considered the second hardest thrower in the school.

Allen's big off the field claim to fame was lighting a cigarette during recess. When others (including me) declared him the coolest kid in school for smoking a cigarette he squinted and said, "Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, this ain't no cigarette." Not a cigarette? It would be two years before I knew what he was talking about. The other team in the finals were the nerdy geniuses. This class featured a far greater number of students but only a handful of decent athletes. The majority of the team flinched a lot, considered themselves risk-takers because they collected spores and spirochetes and took great joy in using slide rulers for non-school related reasons. They nearly all wore black horn-rimmed glasses, many were clearly dis-coordinated and a few used minor physical defects to be excused from participating in Phys-Ed and mainstream sports. Minutes before this epic best-of-three clash was about to begin, it was obvious that half the Nerds threw like girls. Their underdog position was further proven by the fear in their collective body language... particularly the kid with a hare lip, the two that walked with limps and another who tried to beg-out because of his unsubstantiated asthma. It was funny to me, how these "soldiers" found it comfortable to nervously hide behind their braver teammates.

The scuttlebutt in the crowd included some optimists clinging to the concept that the Nerds had strength in numbers. But overwhelmingly, the Juvies were anointed the championship before the blood-bath started.

Mr. Kraft, the jovial school administrator in charge of the tournament was looking at the clock as he whispered to my teacher, "Are the ambulances here yet?" Seconds later, at exactly 4:00PM, he blew his whistle to signal start of the game. The Juvies' teacher interrupted. She asked for a delay because Joseph "Slick" Harvey the best athlete in the school hadn't shown up. Kraft cited that everyone knew when the game was going to start and that it was completely fair to deny her request. I still thought the Nerds had no chance even with the Juvies best out of the lineup. But the Nerds seized the opportunity and in a close game, won the opener. Shortly after the second game started, the Juvie's superstar showed up. An argument ensued concerning whether or not additional players could be injected into a started a game. Mr. Kraft cited some official P.S. 279 dodge ball rule and refused to let Harvey in until the beginning of the next game. The mere presence of their star on the sidelines infused the Juvies with tremendous vigor. Thanks mainly to Don Ruff and Fremont Allen, they took out the Nerds quickly with a precision-like bombardment that included; facials, head shots and other painful eliminations.

It seemed anti-climatic when Joseph "Slick" Harvey led his legion onto the court for the last game. The Nerds lost any iota of bravado had they gained after the first game and cowered in their ultra-unstylish black, high-top Keds sneakers.

Harvey, a tall lefty Adonis was the hardest thrower in the school by far. He opened the deciding game by taking out the Nerd's captain with a perfectly aimed sizzler off his lower shin. When the crowd's outburst simmered down, a skank from the audience yelled, "I love you Joe-Weeeee." The superstar blushed and briefly turned to acknowledge his amorous fan. Simultaneously, the next Nerd's throw caromed off Don Ruff's hip and nipped the unwitting Harvey softly on the ankle. This crucial turn of events left the whole gym in disbelief. Then they went berserk as Mr. Kraft informed both players, including the whining Joe Harvey, to get off the court. Fremont Allen was frustrated by his team's crushing misfortune. To single-handedly tip the scales back in the Juvie's favor, he picked up the ball and over zealously ran towards the center red line. His adrenalin was really pumping as drilled the Nerds second in command, right between the eyes. At the same time that the pulverized player went down, Mr. Kraft blew his whistle and declared that Allen stepped on the line. This infraction eliminated Allen and disqualified his lethal throw. The jousting match stopped for a couple of minutes until the injured player assured Mr. Kraft that he was okay. Then the game of attrition continued as both teams were further thinned out. Five minutes later, the Nerds had two players left; their resurrected second in command and Eugene Schrute, a tall, gawky, bow-legged limper that was so socially inept even the other Nerds hated him. The Juvies had only one player left, a despicable bully named Dean Cheatham. Despite being fat, this former run-away was powerful and an excellent athlete. His appearance made him look even tougher because he was permanently scarred by a deep laceration under his right eye that hadn't been properly treated. The tension of the finals faded as a long series of near misses prolonged the status quo of the festivities. Many of the spectators had already gone home as we neared the 5 o'clock, "After School Center" curfew. The Nerds number-two man was making all the throws and apparently his arm got tired. Because his next try was no missile and lacked its usual accuracy. Dean Cheatham did not play this one safe by jack-knifing out of the way. Instead he took on the brunt of this belly-shot with confidence and held on to eliminate the Nerds last hope, (on paper). An unlikely knight in shining armor, Eugene Schrute knealt to pick up the ball for the Nerds. It was the first time he had touched it in all three games. With an awkward limping gait, he sort of ran towards the red line and with two hands, pushed an arching lollipop throw. Cheatham scurried to get under this "can of corn" as his mates thundered in their anticipated victory. To show-off and put an emphatic end to game, Cheatham unnecessarily jumped. He snatched the volleyball out of the air with his right hand and slapped it into his left like a power-forward in basketball. But the ball slipped during this simple transfer and fell harmlessly to the parquet floor.

Cheatham walked off in shame and Schrute was given the rock star treatment. Twenty years later, I moved from Las Vegas to the Atlantic City area. I wound up meeting Schrute's older brother. I found out that he and Eugene were both casino workers. I got along with the brother pretty well except his wife was highly annoying. She was so hard to be around that it was worth it to avoid him if it meant not being exposed to her. The only loss was, I wanted to ask Eugene through his brother if he remembered being the sixth grade dodge ball hero and whether that ten minutes of fame had a positive influence on his life. Many years went by. Then I had another chance to ask Eugene when I found out that he worked in the same casino as a close friend of mine. I told my buddy my idea. He said that Eugene, "Had some screws loose." He then explained that Schrute was a jerk to the customers. Management was afraid to give him the ax because they didn't want to risk a potential law suit by firing someone with legitimate psychological problems. So they sabotaged his schedule and gave him the simplest job every day, in the hope that he would quit out of boredom. Eugene's wackiness made him so antagonistic that during breaks, the only time the staff didn't ignore him was when they sang the 60's novelty song, "THEY'RE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY." Schrute became a hermit and nobody...including my friend wanted to talk to him under ANY circumstance. So my big question was never asked. This failed opportunity to interview Schrute festered in me for all these years...until this past December. That's when I found out, he committed suicide! Chances are, Eugene's untimely death had nothing to do with with dodge ball...but perhaps in some small way it did, causing him to spend the rest of his future in futility, trying to recapture that spirit?

EDELBLUM MYSTERY THEATER: ROXY'S TWENTY-MINUTE FREAK-OUTS.

Earlier this week, we mourned the death of lovable Bertl, a loyal MGTP reader's, eleven-year old, 140-pound, rottweiler. I still call the behemoth lovable even after he slobbered on me several times...and let's not forgot when he played statue...while standing on my family jewels. Talk about your immovable objects. The two lessons I learned about being around Bertl; keep plenty of paper towels close by and avoid sitting on the floor.

It's hard to be glib when talking about pet health issues, especially death. But in the case of most dogs, it's more difficult because they instinctively become family members. Obviously, I hope my dog Roxy lives forever because my bond with her is strong...and even stronger with the rest of my family.

Before Roxy matured, I thought all a dog was, was an insane, barking and crapping machine. To her credit, she mellowed to the point of now being a slightly less insane, barking and crapping machine. And somewhere along the way, she stopped being a mere animal and became our child.

DECEMBER 2005 WHEN PUPPY ROXY WAS JUST OUR DOG. THAT'S BEFORE SHE EARNED THE NICKNAMES, MUTTZILLA AND WEASELINA...AND EARNED HER CURRENT HONORARIUM; DAUGHTER.

My little Muttzilla is now six. She and I are on the same wave length and through a series of bark, yips and yelps...she speaks to me as clearly as if she spoke English. I remember when she told me that Timmy fell down old lady Campbell's well. In a panic I said, "I better call 9-1-1, Timmy Johnson is in trouble." Then my dog barked, "NO! Not Timmy Johnson, Timmy Jackson!" And I of course said, "Oh, tough break," and went back to my Sudoku puzzle.

You don't have to be Einstein to interpret the difference between Roxy's bark for a hated dog passing our house or Maddie, her BFF corgi from up the street. I can tell from her reaction when she doesn't recognize a car parking in front of the house or when my wife Sue is pulling up. I also know the difference between her maniacal, ballistic bark when Ned, the creepy mailman approaches the house as compared to a Fed-Ex or UPS deliveryman, (she dislikes Ned so bad that she hardly reacts to his substitutes).

REGARDLESS OF THE SEASON, THE WILDS OF OUR BACKYARD IS ROXY'S FAVORITE DOMAIN.

It took a long time for our pup to outgrow chasing small woodland creatures and toothless neighbors. So when she's out back patrolling winter's frozen tundra or our springtime lush greenery, I can still tell whether she's chasing bushy tailed rodents or if something more bizarre is back there. Like her piercing siren yelp that signaled she was about to catch a poor gopher.

HEY I'M NOT PERFECT, ASIDE FROM THE CREEPY MAILMAN, I THOUGHT ROXY'S BIGGEST PROBLEM WAS WITH THE LOW-CLASS LOUTS ON OUR STREET. THAT'S WHY I WAS SHOCKED AFTER SHE FLUNKED OBEDIENCE SCHOOL, THAT SHE LEARNED TO READ ON HER OWN. THAT'S WHEN I FOUND THIS BOOK UNDER HER BED AND REALIZED SHE DOESN'T HATE LOW-LIFES, SHE LOVES 'EM.

In the fall, we had a kitchen cabinet refacing estimate done. When the representative arrived, our watchdog identified the newcomer with her generic intruder bark. Usually she calms down a few seconds after the guest is welcomed in. Not this time. There was something about this foreigner she did not like. While he stroked her head and patted her side, she uncharacteristically growled and snapped at him. He said some odd things that included nailing her exact weight as well as guessing that our mutt was part beagle. I swear on a stack of bibles at the exact time I said, "Yes, she's part beagle." He licked his lips and dreamily said, "Beagles are sweet." Roxy was still trying to take a nip out him as I gave him the bum's rush, out!

This past December, Roxy caught my attention with a unique, continuous bark. We don't have a doggie-door, so when she has to do her business, she lets out a single, medium-level bark. Like "Old Faithful" these barks come a minute apart until someone opens the door for her. On this occasion, she made a machine-like, bark per second. The tone lacked ferociousness and even had a suggestion of fear in it. I was certain she wasn't being the intimidator...she was scared. Like any dutiful father, I dropped what I was doing. It was about twenty degrees that afternoon so my vantage point from inside our Florida room allowed me to see the whole yard.

I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The backyard was as still and peaceful as this Currier and Ives print.

CURRIER & IVES PRODUCED PRINTS OF FAMOUS PAINTINGS FROM 1834-1907. I ALWAYS PREFERRED THEIR PASTORAL SCENES.

In front of our shed about a hundred-fifty feet away, Roxy was pacing and running in little circles...a nervous wreck. Her hackles were up, she couldn't be still and never varied from her steady cadence barking. Nonetheless, I saw no reason for her terror. I slid open the door, called her in and called her a knucklehead. She didn't respond. I even did my secret whistle that brings her 95% of the time. This would be one of those 5% moments. To no avail, I even stooped to offering her a treat.

I was about to conclude that my dog was hallucinating or under a Svengali-like trance from our tooth deprived, anti-Christ neighbor "Boob the Bowman" when she finally looked up!

Behind our fence, in our around-the-corner neighbor's yard was a barren oak tree. Halfway up was a huge unorganized clump of straw and branches. An elementary deduction, it was a bird's nest. Then the most threatening red hawk arose from it and flapped its wings.

I'M NOT AN ALARMIST BUT I IMAGINED THIS KILLER CARRYING OFF MY FIFTY POUND PUPPY IN ITS TALONS.

My shouts were frantic but my furry canine genius stayed in harm's way. Then the bird swooped out of the tree and made a bee-line right at me. The majesty of this beast commanded my awe...and I was safe inside. The looming predator remained focused on me until it flew over the house and looped back to its perch.

The situation got weirder, a few seconds later. From out of nowhere, a gazillion crows blackened the sky. They circled overhead, while caw, caw cawing a deafening and menacing din. Then as if guided by a GPS, they strafed the nest. When the dive-bombing was over, this Hitchcockian scene got eerier as the birds landed on branches and surrounded the hawk. While the crows postured in an attempt to regain their lost territory, Roxy seized the opportunity. With her tail hanging low, my Weaselina ambled back into the house.

In appreciation of my warning, she made me this Christmas present.

ROXY'S GIFT TO ME, HANGS IN OUR YARD NOW AND SARCASTICALLY ADDRESSES MY CHILDHOOD FEAR OF THE, "WIZARD OF OZ."

It's great that I have the ability to communicate so well with my dog. But what troubles me is her inability to express her a rare condition that messes her up. I can only characterize it as: a panic attack. Over the last three year, maybe ten times, Roxy has experienced twenty-minute seizure-like fits. The logical cause would be a sudden loud noise. But she is not unsettled by thunder, a dropped dinner plate or random smoke alarms. Even when we take her to the groomer for a manicure and a bath, she cries the whole way there. She then thrashes around, jaws-a-snappin' while the staff retrains her. But that drama vanishes as soon as she's done.

We limit Muttzilla's intake of table goodies. When she is rewarded that way, we are certain to avoid sickening and potentially lethal foods like chocolate and onions. She's even smart enough to self-regulate drinking sources by recognizing bad batches of toilet water. And for you male chauvinists in the audience, her irritability has nothing to do with periodic discomfort or doggie PMS, she's been spayed!

When these sieges occur, I try every trick in the book to distract her like; putting her on my lap and soothing her, giving her a favorite snack or a walk in the neighborhood. Nothing works. It's sad to watch this odd behavior. While she shivers, sits, stands, walks in circles, hides in odd places like under the computer desk or in the bath tub, a parent can only watch in fear that she might hyperventilate, vomit, become incontinent...or worse.

It's easy to forget these episodes because within a short time, the symptoms vanish for several months. This past May, I made a point to bring her malady up during her yearly well-visit to the veterinarian.

I like our vet. I look forward to our meetings because he is such a cool guy that I wish we were friends. Plus his love and commitment to animals and appreciation for their owners, makes for a tremendous bedside manner.

I have complete confidence in his doctoring abilities but you might notice, I don't use his name. The reason is, he professionally listed more ailment possibilities but we discounted them all. Then he, (let's call him Dr. Bombay), said, "Roxy doesn't have the classic symptoms of epilepsy but if you like I could run some tests...but I think they'd be fruitless." He was done speculating but it seemed he was holding off one last idea. I said, "Is there something else?" "Well," he said, "most folks don't like hearing this..." My wife Sue and I simultaneously said, "What?" "We all know about people like Michael Vick," he started. We nodded. "And judging from Roxy's chart, we don't know if she was raised in a puppy mill...?" I said, "So." "Well there's no indication that she is suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome from surviving anything like that..." Sue said, "Then what are you saying?" Dr. Bombay said, "Do you believe in the supernatural?" I couldn't believe my ears. I tried not to laugh and said, "Heh?" And with a straight face he said, "Maybe your dog is possessed!"

Roxy had one of these incidents again last night. It happened when the house was quiet. I wish my girl could really talk and tell me what's disturbing her because I'd love to have a solution for her tortured soul. Think about it, she wasn't under any duress, she had been fed and enjoyed a lengthy walk an hour before. Nothing overtly negative was going on. So I turn it over to my sophisticated readership to solve this riddle...I look forward to your astute comments and we'll see which one of you tops Dr. Bombay's diabolical diagnosis.

I'LL SHOOT YOU RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES IF YOU DON'T LIKE KFC.

Through the miracle of the Internet, I recently tracked down a former best friend. Our cyberspace revival meeting took a disappointing turn when he made it clear that he wasn't interested in reminiscing or communicating in any way. Afterwards, I remembered that he had some personal problems in the mid-70's, so I didn't pry. That means, we'll have to stroll down Memory Lane without STEVENC.

According to his screen name, he now prefers to be called Duke. But to me, he'll always be "STEVENC," or for a short time as, "CAP'N CRUNCH." He'll be STEVENC because in elementary school, teachers differentiated us by adding our last initial to our first name. When we got older and played hockey, his nickname sarcastically changed to Cap'n Crunch because he was a husky, six foot-three...pussy-cat.

THE INSPIRATION FOR STEVENC 'S NICKNAME CAME FROM GILLES "CAP'N CRUNCH" MAROTTE. IN THE TWILIGHT OF HIS CAREER, MAROTTE PLAYED THREE MEDIOCRE SEASONS WITH THE NHL's NEW YORK RANGERS. BY THAT TIME, THE ELEMENT OF HIS GAME THAT HAD REALLY DETERIORATED WAS HIS TOUGHNESS.DOUG "DUNG" JARRETT ALSO PLAYED WITH THE RANGERS. IN HIS BRIEF STAY IN NEW YORK, HE PLAYED MISERABLY. I PREFERRED CALLING STEVENC, "DUNG" AFTER JARRETT BUT THE "CRUNCH" MONIKER STUCK BECAUSE IT FLOWED BETTER WITH THIS LAST NAME.

Beginning in fourth grade, I went to STEVENC's house after school on most Fridays. It was the only weekday that I didn't have Hebrew school so I became a once a week fixture. Most of the time, we'd play sports games like, "STRAT-O-MATIC," or "CHALLENGE THE YANKEES." But our go-to activity was the hockey game that used metal rods to move the skaters.

AFTER 45 YEARS OF TWEAKING, THESE GAMES ARE BASICALLY THE SAME .

In STEVENC's foyer, before we went upstairs, I'd set my binder on the bookcase next to the steps and drape my coat over the banister. One time his behemoth dad came home and read MY report card...and thought it was STEVENC's. It said things like, "Steven talks too much and distracts other students," "Steven needs work on fractions," "Steven's assignments are frequently incomplete," and I saved best for last, "I'm not Steven's grandmother, I don't have to listen to his bad jokes!"

*Mr. C's cannonading baritone voice rattled the foundation and sent a cascade of plaster showers down from the rafters as he summoned his son. In no time, STEVENC was getting the crap kicked out of him until he finally squeaked, "That's STEVEN 'E's' report card.!"

*PLEASE NOTE - When MY parents read that same report card, they were thrilled by my improvement.

In the Cap'n Crunch-era, STEVENC took on many odd jobs. One morning he answered a cryptic newspaper ad and was hired over the phone to be "an assistant private investigator." Without any private-eye training or meeting a company representative or knowing the business's location, he was immediately given his first assignment. The case involved driving to East Flatbush and staking-out the home of a shapely blond. Nothing happened all afternoon and into the early evening. In that time, he logged hourly reports and was prepared to phone-in any movements.

Just after dark, she finally came out. He was entranced by the bounce in her ponytail as he followed her on foot to the corner grocery. She bought a pack of Virginia Slims and an Almond Joy candy bar, before returning home. At midnight, a Marathon cab pulled-up and honked.  She came out wearing a short red skirt and a low cut purple cardigan. She got in. The rookie detective followed the taxi to the other side of Brooklyn. At a dilapidated apartment house in Red Hook, she got out.

STEVENC found a pay phone on the opposite corner and called in. Then he waited. Three hours later, a local car service stopped in front. A man appeared from a darkened alley and approached the taxi. He gave the driver some money. When the cab drove away, the man leaned against the building, hidden in a shadowy alcove. Seconds later, the object of the investigation came out the door. Her skirt was creased and her hair was a disorderly frazzle. She was fastening a button on her sweater when the man came up from behind and accosted her. He knocked her down, beat her and left the poor girl in a pool of blood.

My friend hustled to the phone and dialed up this boss. There was no answer. He panicked when people came out to help the victim, so he left. STEVENC tried calling several more times that night but there was no answer. The next day, there was no answer again. On the following day, a phone company message came on saying that the number was disconnected.

Throughout college, STEVENC hooked me up with several jobs too. The three biggest ones were; delivering for a liquor store, valet parking at a catering hall and a food server in a bingo hall.

The bingo hall, (Crescent Bingo), was located near the Queens border, in the City Line section of Brooklyn. On a Sunday morning when my car was in the shop, my dad drove me there for my first day. When we passed Franklin K. Lane High School, I knew we were lost.

LANE HAD THE REPUTATION FOR BEING THE TOUGHEST SCHOOL IN THE CITY. TO ADD TO ITS NEGATIVE MYSTIQUE, IT WAS PERCHED ON A HILL AND LOOKED LIKE A PRISON. PLUS, AROUND BACK, IT WAS ADJACENT TO A CEMETERY. I GOOGLED THEIR FAMOUS ATTENDEES AND THE ONLY ONE I EVER HEARD OF WAS JOHN "THE TEFLON DON" GOTTI...AND HE WAS A DROP-OUT.

We found our way through the rough neighborhood and arrived on time. Against my better judgement, dad came in with me. In the cheerful public area, we were greeted by the perky manager/chef. This obese giant named Ambrose was bald and a little older than me. After a brief discussion about my job description, he assured my dad that his nineteen year-old would be safe and vowed to drive me home. When dad left, I was led into the storage room behind the concession stand.

I saw why they required newbies to work Sundays as my jaw dropped. Safe? I was surrounded by death...I never saw anything so disgusting...it was like being beamed-down into Nagasaki after the atomic blast. To my dismay, management "drops" a bug-bomb there every Saturday night. In the aftermath, every surface seemed spray painted with dead cockroaches.  I was low-man on the Crescent Bingo totem pole so I cursed STEVENC in my mind as Ambrose handed a broom and a snow shovel and was told to clean them up.

In a perfect storm that combined a rush of bile and an intense wave of nausea, I barely avoided losing my breakfast. I guess its human nature to mature quickly when there is a paycheck involved because I didn't get sick even when I noticed food cartons gnawed through by mice, various sized rodent droppings and rat traps that were big enough to snap my forearm.

Ambrose turned out to be a great ally. He once confided in me...in tears..."I'm number five." I said, "Heh?" When he stopped sobbing he whimpered, "My Aggie, (his hyper-skinny wife), loves me fifth best." I said, "No..." He interrupted and cried, "She loves her mother, father, our daughter Jilly and Arbuckle better than me." It was comical to watch this mountain man be so emotional. I did a good job to mask a snicker before making the mistake of asking, "Who's Arbuckle?" "Arbuckle is her parent's dog...now I ask you, what kind of friggin' name is that for a Chihuahua?"

STEVENC had warned me about a fellow waiter named Curtis. He was Crescent Bingo's resident nemesis. Curtis...who hated being called Curtis...was the owner's cocky, nerdy nephew. I was never a fighter but if I could have figured out how to deck this four-eyed weasel without losing my job, (about $25.00 clear, for four hours, twice a week), I would have. To make matters worse, I decided to not repair my car. So until I bought a new one, Curtis was my ride.

Being a waiter in a bingo hall meant, I walked up and down the aisles during the games and solicited refreshments. We were paid a meager wage and relied on tips. One of the biggest tippers, was a regular named Hortie. This beauty was thirty-ish, sloppy fat and had a goiter. Her unique look was accented by wearing the same hot-pink, "Get out of my way...I'm going to bingo," tee-shirt during every session. And to complete the picture through a chipped tooth smile, she flirted with Ambrose every chance she got.

A GOITER IS AN ENLARGEMENT OF THE THYROID GLAND THAT RESULTS IN A SWOLLEN NECK. IT IS GENERALLY CAUSED BY AN IODINE DEFICIENCY.

Hortie's favorite snack at Crescent Bingo was a sliced knish with a cut-up hot dog inside, topped with melted cheese. She wanted Ambrose to come up with a catchy name for this concoction and list it as "Hortie's Favorite," on the menu placard.

When Ambrose was on the outs with Aggie, he decided to pursue Hortie. He took this adulterous opportunity seriously but lacked the imagination or the cleverness to pull it off without looking like he was hard-up. He envisioned an after-hours rendezvous with Hortie.  He thought he could lure her into the storage room by confidentially telling her the name he came up with for Hortie's Favorite.  The situation became more complicated because he wanted a clear conscious and needed her to make the first move.  In the mean time, he presented his problem to Curtis and I.  While filling our orders, he asked us to come up with a cool name for her favorite dish.

I was passing a squeezable, plastic mustard container between my hands while I waited for a hot dog. While I struggled for a solution suddenly Curtis spouted, "CHEESE-NISH-DOG!" I said, "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard." That's when I got the idea to call it, "a KFC," (Knish, Frankfurter and Cheese).
IN 1930, KFC WAS FOUNDED BY HARLAN "COLONEL" SANDERS IN NORTH CORBIN KENTUCKY. THE FIRST FRANCHISE WAS OPENED IN SOUTH SALT LAKE CITY UTAH, IN 1952.

Curtis had a geeky, milquetoast personality outside work. But inside, he wasn't used to being challenged. His aunt owned the place so he strutted around like an unaccountable, invincible rooster. He didn't like my response to his suggestion and like a true moron he loudly whined, "No! Your idea is stupid because people will think we sell fried chicken." His volume distracted some of the closer bingo players. So I whispered, "Curtis, you're a dick." I'm not sure what got him so pissed-off...being called Curtis or a dick! But he displayed his anger by taking my customer's hot dog out of the bun. He held it by the end, wagged it in my face and yelled, "This is YOUR dick!"

I was skeeved that he touched my customer's food. I grabbed the mustard squeezer, aimed it at his face and demanded, "Drop it Curtis! Or else." Instead of dropping it, he dropped the F-Bomb. I fired my weapon. Like the mark of Zorro, the downward, yellow, zig-zag streak started at his forehead, ran across his glasses and down to his chin. He wiped his face and tried to smear it on me. When I backed away, Ambrose came around and pushed him to the wash room.

Curtis had a jaundiced look on his face during the quiet ride home.

The next day, I told STEVENC what happened and he said, "When you call for your next schedule, don't mention anything. Don't worry, they know he's a schmuck." I never called...and they never called me.

I would have loved to rehash these old stories with STEVENC and see how the last 35 years have treated him. But alas, he wasn't interested. Maybe he's still sore after all these years about being called, "Dung." It could have been worse, I could have likened his hockey abilities after another crappy Ranger, Carol Vadnais.
THE NAME CAROL WOULD HAVE FIT NICELY WITH STEVENC's LAST NAME. BUT MR. VADNAIS PLAYED WELL ENOUGH IN NEW YORK TO BE VOTED #52 ON THE RANGERS ALL-TIME TOP 100 PLAYERS POLL...EVEN IF IN 1973, HE WAS DETAINED BY POLICE FOR RESEMBLING A BANK ROBBERY SUSPECT.

The bottom line is, I'm still curious about the origin of STEVENC's current screen name, "Duke." I may not understand it but I respect his privacy.

I can only wonder what changed him back in the 70's and why we went separate ways, three years before I moved to Vegas. If I had to guess, I'd say author, Dr. Wayne Dyer.STEVENC WAS HEAVILY INFLUENCED BY DYER'S SELF-HELP BOOK, "PULLING YOUR OWN STRINGS."

I never read it but it seemed that STEVENC's interpretation was; as an adult, you are responsible for your actions so you can do whatever you want. The result was, the Cap'n took that advice to the extreme and got crunched by some bad decisions. He stubbornly clung to them...even when the normalcy of his life was slipping away...and he probably never recovered.

STEVEN KNIEVEL

Yes, I've had my share of brushes with death. Just three weeks ago, I discussed ten of my legitimate, near-death experiences in my blog called, "TRENT DILFER SAVED MY LIFE." Then I fed-off my readership's doubting feedback with, "WHAT WOULD LARRY DAVID DO?" In that column, I wrote how I imperiled someone else's life.

Your doubt in the frequency of my near-lethal escapades probably stems from my previous addiction to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

IN 1974, I SATISFIED A DATE'S DARE BY RIDING DISNEYWORLD'S ULTRA-JUVENILE, "MR. TOAD'S WILD RIDE," FIVE STRAIGHT TIMES. THE RIDE DESPITE BEING IN THE DARK, WAS SO DULL, IT WAS REMOVED FROM THE PARK, IN 1997.

The other variable that might have you doubting my inner dare-devil, is my current appearance. It's true that I'm a bald, pudgy, family man with a pronounced conservative nature, but I assure you that while none of those close calls were especially recent, they are nonetheless true. I even left out another doozy because it really wasn't non-life threatening. But I guarantee you, it certainly would have permanently crippled me.

It happened when I was sixteen. Through my connection with chef Patrick Clark, DRJ and I got hired as a kitchen-utility workers at a summer camp in 1971. This $65.00/week, plus room and board job was in a tiny Connecticut town. More importantly, it would be my first taste of being away from home.

My parents volunteered to drive Patrick, DRJ and I up. Their motives were a combination of generosity, hospitality and covert nosiness. They got mixed signals because in describing my job interview in the West 80's overlooking Central Park, I sent up a red flag by mentioning that my meeting was conducted by an elderly couple with German accents. Somehow my folks were uncomfortable with the interviewers proximity to Manhattan's Yorkville section. Mom and dad's paranoia wasn't helped because the Charles Manson case was in the news on a regular basis too. So they weren't going to let me go up to the camp until they saw with their own eyes that the German American Bund wasn't making a comeback and that there weren't any hippie brain-washing cultists running the show.

At home, tensions ran high as the my departure date neared. My family's over protectiveness sparked a high frequency of petty arguments. These bouts intensified right up to the morning of my big get-away.

Before packing the station wagon, I recall dad projecting how to fit mom, three large boys and an undetermined amount of luggage in. That's when I threw a monkey-wrench into the mix and pissed my folks off...by wheeling out my bicycle. MY BIKE WAS LIKE THIS ONE BUT IT WAS GOLD WITH A BLACK SEAT. RIGHT UP TO THE DAY BEFORE I GOT MY DRIVER LICENSE, IT WAS MY NUMBER-ONE MODE OF TRANSPORTATION. I EVEN RODE IT REGULARLY THROUGH HEAVY BROOKLYN TRAFFIC, TO SEE A GIRLFRIEND 90 BLOCKS AWAY.

Dad didn't care about the bike. His only concern was fitting in everyone else's stuff. Mom saw my bike as a pain in the ass. She tried to come off as practical by asserting that there would be no place to ride the damned thing. When I didn't back down, she countered with a volley of sarcasm and threats. I remained calm but her sarcasm morphed into a guilt-trip and her threats were upgraded to ultimatums. I fought back and bellowed, "It'd be like separating a cowboy from his horse." I must have been quite adamant because my rare victory earned me the privilege, during the ninety-minute ride, of having a suitcase jammed between my cramped legs and the knowledge that my selfishness left the bike blocking dad's rear view vision.

Our travels took us through the tiny hamlet of New Milford. From town we connected to a winding two-lane road on an upgrade.

IN A SHORT TIME, WE FOUND A SIGN WITH THE CAMP'S NAME WITH AN ARROW POINTING UP AND TO THE RIGHT.

Our journey would be over in a mile and a half. IN THE HEART OF LITCHFIELD COUNTY, LOVER'S LEAP STATE PARK, ALONG ROUTE 67, IN BEAUTIFUL NEW MILFORD.

The unpaved cut-off was up a steep incline. Into the forest, we bumped and bounced on this rut-filled country lane. The first thing I noticed was an isolated rural mailbox with the name E. H. Johnson on it. Next, camouflaged by the trees, I could barely make-out Johnson's log cabin. It disappeared quickly because it was built on a different, downward slope as we continued to rise. Beyond Johnson's place, a shear cliff, "protected" by three parallel strands of rusty barbed wire ran along the left side. On the right, a jagged mountain wall hugged the narrow byway. Soon we approached a sharp curve and were surprised by the sudden appearance of another car going down. My dad was cursing under his breath as he and the other driver maneuvered to safely squeeze past each other.

When we reached our destination, mom and dad found no Nazis or devil worshippers and were satisfied that their baby wasn't in peril. They helped me settle in and lingered until I gave them the stink-eye.

My first two weeks of camp went well but mom turned out to be right, I didn't need the bike. Well, not until I missed a car ride to town on my day off. That's when I got the genius idea to ride my bike into New Milford...it was all downhill. Once in town, I projected that I would find my friends and they would give me and the bike a lift back up.

My ride through the property was on a mostly flat surface. But beyond the front gate, the road slanted down. That's where I blasted off from. In a short time, I had enough momentum that I didn't need to peddle. I was involuntarily gathering speed and was digging the rush. At the same time, the solid earthen road gave way to a series of small pock-marks and some serious pot-holes. Then the dirt on the ground was replaced by a continuous supply of rocks and slippery gravel...all the way to the sharp turn that had annoyed my father.

I had to apply a lot of weight on the brake in order to make the one tough turn. When I succeeded, the next stretch of trail remained straight for a long time. I could feel my hair in my eyes as I sped along the mountain wall. On a couple of occasions, I went into a slight skid. One time, I swerved towards the barbed wire and shear drop beyond it. So to right myself, I put all my weight on the brake. My idea worked but I sensed that the bike's frame was bending under me. Even though I righted my ship, I was going so fast that I was afraid to let up on the brake.

The road began to twist at the same time steepness became less acute. When I saw Johnson's cabin in the distance, I slowed down enough to let up on the brake. When I regained complete control, I spiraled through the woods until I came to another straight, steep section that led to the paved highway.

When I came to a stop, I was so exhilarated that kismet led me back up to camp for a re-ride. ON THE LONG WALK BACK UP, I RECALLED HOW AFTER EACH ROLLER-COASTER RIDE, THE CONEY ISLAND CYCLONE HANDLERS WOULD WHISPER A CUT-RATE FOR A RE-RIDE. THEIR AIM WAS TO SAVE YOU MONEY BY SCREWING THE BOSS AND POCKETING THE MONEY. YOU MIGHT THINK THAT SUCH PETTY 1971 HIJINX DOESN'T HAPPEN ANYMORE BUT IN 2003, (THE LAST TIME I WAS THERE), THEY WERE STILL DOING IT.

1971 was in the pre-Evel Knievel-era...nobody wore bicycle helmets. So when I turned the bike around at the summit, my only protection were shorts, a tee-shirt and sneakers. I took a deep breath and like a schmuck, decided to enhance my rush by NOT crushing down on the brake so much. After all, I didn't want to risk breaking my bike.

WITH YOUTH COMES A FALSE SENSE OF INVINCIBILITY. I KNOW THAT'S TRUE BECAUSE I REALLY CHOSE TO AVOID DAMAGING THE BIKE AND NEVER CONSIDERED THE POSSIBILITY OF INJURING MYSELF.

When I blasted off the second time, I was more relaxed. It even crossed my mind to skip going to town and ride the mountain all day. I decided to peddle a little longer and in no time I was speeding. I delayed using the brake and when I did, I didn't use the same pressure. When the smooth dirt was replaced by pebbles and depressions, I saw the one sharp turn up ahead. Before I could slam on the brake, I hit the edge of a large stone. Just before the blind turn, my back tire began to fishtail. I was drifting towards the barbed wire. I knew I had lost control when I couldn't avoid a deep crater. BAM! I flew over the handlebars and splattered to the ground, face first.

I was okay but in a lot of pain. I assessed my abrasions, bruises and scrapes before staggering to my feet. In a daze, I dropped back down to one knee when I realized that my nose was bleeding. It was at that precise second that a red Ford Econoline Van stormed around the sharp bend, slammed on his brakes and screeched to a stop...with his grill just a few feet from my face.YEAH, YEAH, THE INTERNET DOESN'T HAVE EVERYTHING. SO DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME TELLING ME THAT THIS IS A 1976 ECONOLINE...AND I ALSO REALIZE IT AIN'T RED EITHER! I JUST WANTED TO GIVE YOU AN IDEA OF WHAT I WAS UP AGAINST...OR IN MY CASE...NEARLY UP AGAINST.

I limped over to the administration office. The octogenarian camp owner with the German accent recognized that I was suffering from a low degree of shock and accompanied me to the infirmary. The nurse determined that I was to be transported to a doctor in town. Ironically, while I spaced-out waiting to be taken, my parents showed up for a surprise visit. Spooky how moms always know. I survived my cuts, a broken nose and tons of embarrassment but I never heard the end of mom's, "I told you so," scorn.

Obviously if Disney's Mr. Toad ever went on MY ride, he'd see why his should never have been called wild. And who knows, back in '71, this chubby, hair challenged, non-risk taker might have inspired the Snake River Canyon jump or the very concept of Extreme Sports.

HAPPY HARRY'S...THE BEST PLACE I EVER ATE IN, IN PHILLY'S CHINATOWN

I have only eaten in Philadelphia's Chinatown once...sort of.

Maybe I'm just being partisan but I never developed an interest in Philly's Chinatown. I guess it doesn't compare to New York's because I have a history with our Chinatown that dates back to my late teens. That's when C-Town was one of my clique's high-priority road trip destinations.

When you're a punk kid the way I was, investigating the implied danger of Chinatown's dark alleys and back rooms was cool. This coming of age process included the cultural shock of dealing with weird vermin (both human and animal), in the streets. In the end, the Wo Hop restaurant (17 Mott Street, downstairs), became our singular "go-to" spot.

I ONCE OVERHEARD A FELLOW WO HOP CUSTOMER BRAG WHILE SIPPING A YOO-HOO, "THE FOOD HERE IS MORE AUTHENTIC THAN ANYTHING YOU CAN GET IN CHINA."

Wo Hop's continuing allure was proven to me by the quality and quantity of comments made in my previous Chinatown blogs. That means that, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," readers, despite drifting to every corner of our country and beyond, still hold the humble eatery close to their hearts. That bond is so strong that some out-of-towners, such as myself, make a point to make a pilgrimage back to the Mecca of Chinese food, every few years.I SHOT THIS WO HOP "WON TON" FACTORY PICTURE IN 1977. ONE OF THESE DAYS, I'LL MAKE A HARD COPY AND GIVE IT TO MANAGEMENT. EVEN IF THESE WAITERS AREN'T STILL WORKING THERE, I'M SURE SOMEONE REMEMBERS THESE GENTS. WHO KNOWS, MAYBE THEY'LL HANG IT ON THE WALL...AND "COMP" ME A BOWL OF 50c SOUP NOODLES.

Philadelphia's Chinatown does not have a definitive go-to restaurant. I have now lived an hour from the action, (in South Jersey), for twenty-seven years. The overwhelming majority of my friends, neighbors, co-workers and clientele here are from the greater Philly area. So, I find it interesting that none of them ritually go there.

Their lack of enthusiasm was made clear in 1991. My wife Sue and I decided to include dinner in Chinatown during a planned visit to Philadelphia. When I scoured my connections for recommendations, I found it strange that my Philly peeps didn't have a universal a favorite.

At that time, I was only at my current job for a short time. It was shocking that with so many co-workers being former residents of the city of brotherly love, no one could help me. The one decent suggestion I got directed me to an Asian supervisor named Foo.

Foo and I were strangers because we had never worked directly together. So when I approached this quiet, anemic-looking man, I had no idea what to expect. He was about five years older than me but up close, he looked much older. I could see his unhealthy, frail body and wan complexion made him look like Dracula jonesing to take a bite out of a jugular. The situation became awkward when I noticed that his name tag was spelled P-H-U-C. When he saw me hesitating during my introduction he said, "Just call me Foo."

Through broken English, he was receptive to helping me. On the back of his business card, he scribbled a detailed map. Unfortunately, I soon realized that I inadvertently stumbled onto a code for something different from directions to a restaurant.

FOO CONCENTRATED ON RACE STREET BETWEEN 9th AND 10th STREET.

When the map was finished he looked me in the eye and said, "You want *f***y, f***y or drugs?" *(Please note, his exact quote was adding a "y" to the end of the "f" word...twice). I was in shock and said, "Neither. I want to take my wife to dinner." Angrily he said, "Food? You just want f*****g food. It no matter where you eat!" I was disturbed by this verbal exchange and lost my urge to eat there for a long time.

Three years later, my son Andrew was born. When he was four, we started a series of father-son day trips to Philadelphia. We specialized in museums, most notably; the Franklin Institute, The Academy of Natural Sciences and the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

WHEN ANDREW WAS NINE, I SHOT A CUTE VIDEO OF HIM RUNNING UP THE ART MUSEUM'S "ROCKY" STEPS AS I HUMMED THE THEME MUSIC.

In 2001, we capped our visit to the Academy of Natural Sciences, (highlighted by their live butterfly room), by visiting the Independence Mall. I figured, as long as we were in the neighborhood, I can finally eat in Chinatown after we checked-out the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. To Andrew's delight, my dream was dashed...from the comfort of a shaded park bench, by the lure of a unique dining experience...fast-food served from trucks and street vendors.

By 2003, the concept of eating in Philly's Chinatown was fading fast. We did all the museums, the zoo twice and visited South Street too. I mentioned my dilemma to KURUDAVE and he claimed that the Mutter Museum was a must.

AN UMLAUT ( A "U" WITH DOTS ON TOP) IS INCLUDED IN THE PROPER SPELLING OF MUTTER. IF ANY OF YOU ARE GERMAN GRAMMAR EXPERTS, YOU CAN HELP ME WITH THE CORRECT PRONUNCIATION.

KURUDAVE added that the Mutter might not be suitable for those with weak stomachs...especially nine-year olds. To whet my appetite, he rattled off some of the bizarre exhibits like; medical oddities, anatomical and pathological specimens, wax models and antique medical equipment.

ESTABLISHED IN 1858, THE MUTTER IS NOW PART OF THE PHILADELPHIA PHYSICIANS COLLEGE. http://www.muttermuseum.com/ IT'S LOCATED IN CENTER CITY AT 19 SOUTH 22nd STREET, NEAR THE OTHER MUSEUMS I CITED ABOVE.

I mentioned the idea of this trip to Andrew and he said, "Okay. But only if I can bring a friend." After the particulars of the outing were ironed-out with TEAROOF, his friend's mom, I had the go ahead.

Both boys were bright and mature for their age. So seeing a collection of skulls, the intestines of the "Human Balloon" and the remains of the "Soap Lady," didn't adversely affect the two youths. To my surprise they also handled seeing the malignant tumor from President Grover Cleveland's palate, tissue from John Wilkes Booth's thorax and a section of Charles J. Guiteau's brain, (President James Garfield's assassin). After ninety minutes, we were close to seeing everything. That's when we entered a long hall that featured the skeleton of Chang and Eng, the original Siamese twins. This display also included tons of present days photos of conjoined twins. It was at that point that Andrew was selected to inform me that he and his buddy had seen enough. He tip-toed around the fact that they were freaked-out by the conjoined twins and concentrated his argument on being bored and hungry. He closed his statement with this quote, "Is it okay if we go now?"

We bought a couple of Mutter souvenirs at the gift shop before leaving. On the way to my car, I had the Siamese twins' skeleton on my mind so I suggested lunch in Chinatown. Both boys agreed. The short drive was punctuated by a prolonged battle for a parking space. It was a beautiful day so the eventual ten block walk was no big deal. When we reached our journey's end, we found several restaurants on every street. We were wandering around when the boys sensed that I still didn't have a clue where to go. That when they pressed their nose against the window of a crumby cheese steak joint.

WITH THE BEN FRANKLIN BRIDGE IN THE BACKGROUND, SOMEWHERE HIDDEN IN THIS SEA OF ORIENTAL RESTAURANTS AND SPECIALTY SHOPS, IS HAPPY HARRY'S HOAGIE HOUSE, (THESE DAYS, WE KIDDINGLY REFER TO IT AS, "HAPPY HARRY'S HORIZONTAL HAMBURGER HUT."

Andrew and his friend ordered meatball subs and French fries. I was tempted to run next door for some traditional Szechuan cuisine but I settled for acutely bad pizza. So that makes Happy Harry's, the best restaurant I have ever eaten in, in Philly's Chinatown...sort of.

WHAT WOULD LARRY DAVID DO?

"SEINFELD," the number one sit-com of all-time? I think so. Yes, I loved the "HONEYMOONERS," "THE ODD COUPLE," "CHEERS," "MASH" and "ALL IN THE FAMILY" but the show about nothing, is still my favorite.THE COMMERCIAL AND CULTURAL PHENOMENA KNOWN A "SEINFELD" RAN FOR 180 EPISODES DURING ITS NINE SEASON RUN, (1989-1998).

The show featured stand-up comedian Jerry Seinfeld playing a fictional version of himself. While using his uptown Manhattan apartment as a focal point, his best friend George Costanza (Jason Alexander), ex-girl friend Elaine Benes (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) and wacky neighbor Cosmo Kramer, (Michael Richards) provided a steady flow of "welcome" interruptions to his superficial lifestyle.

Years later, the casual "Seinfeld" viewer learns that the show has a wild card. Lurking behind the scenes is Larry David. David, together with Jerry Seinfeld were the co-creators of the show. David was also the executive producer and head writer. Even more interesting than that, the George Costanza character was molded after the pre-mega successful Larry David. In addition to being an insecure loser as well as cheap, dishonest, petty and envious, Jason Alexander a short, fat, bald man with glasses was cast to complete David's negative self-image.

Larry David then parlayed the George Costanza role into another smash comedy on HBO, "CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM." In it, Larry plays a contemporary version of himself which means, he is Costanza as a success.

Like "Seinfeld" on steroids, cable TV allows "Curb's" themes, language and sexuality to be far less restricted. Even though we all know Larry is going to be a jerk, this freedom of expression gives him the latitude for the outrageous while continuously achieving higher plateaus of depraved indifference. Just like as a kid when I watched Soupy Sales...I knew Soupy was going to get hit with a pie but it was still funny when he did.

"Curb Your Enthusiasm," has many actors play themselves. So it is a recurring theme that Larry will produce a "Seinfeld" reunion show. It is especially funny when Jason Alexander insults Larry by analyzing George and calling him stupid, selfish, self-centered, etc. That's one reason why "Curb" has the potential to become my all-time favorite sit-com.

"CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM," HAS AIRED FOR SEVEN SEASONS SINCE 2000. THERE ARE 70 EPISODES AND MORE ARE BEING PRODUCED FOR 2011.

Larry was born in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn on July 2, 1947. We love watching him make an ass of himself as he battles social conventions and their expectations, other people and the mundane aspects of life. The truth is, we all have or wished we had a bit of his antics in us...I know, I do.

When I look back at the most embarrassing moment of my life, I wish I had had a, "What Would Larry David Do," bracelet.

POPULAR IN 1990's, THE "WHAT WOULD JESUS DO," INITIALS APPEARED ON VARIOUS ITEMS. IN PRACTICE, THIS MOTTO SERVED AS A REMINDER FOR INDIVIDUALS TO UPHOLD THE MORAL IMPERATIVE AND ACT IN A MANNER THAT WOULD DEMONSTRATE THEIR LOVE FOR GOD.

In March 1981, I could have used the guidance of a "What Would Larry David Do," bracelet. My wife Sue's, sister-like BFF and my friend too (Sabrina), flew into Las Vegas to visit. Sue was grossing $300.00/week as a keno writer at the Maxim Casino.  Her manager thought she was so indispensable that  he refused her the night off to meet Sabrina's flight. If I had a "WWLDD" bracelet I would have told her to risk losing that shit job so she could have the added thrill of meeting her friend at the airport.

Sabrina and I had five hours to kill. Larry David would have gone out of his way to bring the girls together...to at least have them see each other for a minute while Sue worked...I didn't. Instead, I drove forty miles out of town towards Mount Charleston.
IN THE MOUNTAINS NORTH OF LAS VEGAS THERE IS A SKI AREA ON MOUNT CHARLESTON. BECAUSE SABRINA WASN'T A GAMBLER, I THOUGHT THE GOURMET RESTAURANT UP THERE WOULD BE A TREAT.

We turned off the desolate highway onto the far more remote, two-lane, Kyle Canyon Road. Within a mile we saw a giant sign: NO GAS ON MOUNTAIN. I instinctively checked my Chevy Monte Carlo's fuel level, it was scraping EMPTY.

If I had a Larry David bracelet, I would have made a U-Turn, retraced my steps for five miles and gassed-up. Instead, I noted the incline of the pavement and assured myself that the gauge was being skewed by the angle of the car.

On that the dark, winding road, we encountered almost no traffic going in the opposite direction. Fifteen minutes later, we crossed the snow line and soon ran out of gas. This was way before the cell phone-era so I was stuck on a dangerous blind curve with no help in sight. You can see why I panicked. That's when I hatched an idea that was so ridiculous that even an entire staff of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" writers would have thought it too unbelievable and idiotic. I tried to make a reverse, K-Turn with the idea of rolling down the mountain.
I backed up and as luck would have it, my car's rear tires rolled into a ditch along the shoulder. My under-carriage was scraping the asphalt and my tires couldn't get traction in the gravel. Even worse, my car was perpendicular to the roadway and its front-end was sticking out, about ten percent into the lane. I turned on my hazard lights but at the odd angle, I couldn't be sure that they could warn a speeder in time.
I had to think fast. I told Sabrina that I would push the car and that she would use the brake when we were out of the hole. That's when she said, "No! I never drove a car in my life."
After Sabrina took a light jacket from her suitcase and I put on a sweat-shirt, plan-B included us positioned to flag down passersby. The occasional car coming down from the mountain safely zoomed by in the other lane but didn't stop. After a long while, the first car at risk, stopped.
The forty-ish man was sloppy drunk and driving a two-seat, MG Midget. This jet-setter ogled Sabrina like Glen Quagmire from "FAMILY GUY," before identifying himself as Slade, a gaming supervisor at the Dunes Casino. After we failed to liberate my car by brute force, he announced that he had access to gas because he was a Mount Charleston volunteer fireman. I needed to consult a Larry David bracelet when he said, "I'll take the girl with me and come back with the gas." Nobody in their right mind would have agreed to that...but I did. It wasn't until this delicate flower disappeared around the first bend that I realized that even if I ever saw her again...that her virtue would never be the same.
DIGGITY, DIGGITY, DIGGITY. HOW MANY INDICATORS DID I NEED TO STOP THIS INSANITY. SLADE WAS WASTED, DRIVING A SEXY CAR AND HEADING TO A ROMANTIC RESORT. PLUS, I DIDN'T HAVE THE WHEREWITHAL TO WRITE DOWN HIS LICENSE PLATE NUMBER OR VERIFY HIS NAME.
For the next thirty minutes, my stomach was in knots as I imagined this man's eighty-woman conga-line of conquests dancing in, "I GOT LAID BY SLADE," tee-shirts. The whole torturous time, I was praying to see that little sports car and Sabrina again. Inexplicably during this whole ordeal, no cars stopped to help even the two that swerved to avoid hitting my Chevy.
My last embers of hope were as frosted as my body when Sabrina finally returned intact with Slade. We emptied nearly his whole gas can into my tank. But the car wouldn't start. The front end was elevated and because of gravity, the gas couldn't travel to the engine. That's when Slade said he'd put a little directly in the carburetor to get the motor going at its source. After the thimble-full dose didn't work, I watched the drunk douse the engine. Gas was all over the place when suddenly, BAM! The engine caught on fire.
I dashed out of the car. Slade and I ran to avoid the expected explosion. But Sabrina took a few steps away and returned with slushy snow in her bare hands. I told her to forget it but she kept tossing snow on the flames. She was making progress. When I joined her, I was able to smother the last of the blaze with my sweat-shirt.
We were enjoying a short-lived sigh of relief when a motorcycle gang roared to a stop. When I caught a glimpse of these six, filthy toughs, I was sure that Sabrina, Slade and I were all getting robbed, raped, murdered and raped. I mentioned rape twice because the leader was wearing a black leather vest with no jacket, coat or even a polo-shirt...and menaces like that...like rape.
MY MIND DRIFTED TO BEING HANDCUFFED TO A TREE AND THE OLD JOKE WITH THE PUNCHLINE, "THIS JUST AIN'T YOUR DAY."
I cringed when the leader combined laughing with a growl, "You stuck?" I think Larry David would have thrown the gas can at him and run away. I didn't. I'm positive the first smart thing I did during this escapade was to not insult this devil and just stammer, "R-r-ran out of gas..." His scary crew crept closer as he interrupted, "And you set your car on fire." I knew we were dead so I only nodded. He pointed to the back of my car, signaled his friends and said, "Don't worry, we'll push you out."
Seconds after they got me out of the gully, my car started right up. Larry David would have brought them back to my condo and insisted that they stay as long as they wanted. But I invited them all out to dinner. Being the true humanitarians that they were, the bikers and Slade only accepted my sincere thanks.
Sabrina and I didn't continue up the mountain. We went back to town, stopped at a roadside bar and drank our dinner. We were still reeking of gasoline by the time I re-united the girls at the Maxim.
If you tally-up the score, I think a "What Would Larry David Do," bracelet would have only proven that my poor decisions made every step of that impossible situation worse than anything Larry would have done. Because the only thing that he and I would have have agreed on was...when I told Sue...you're not going to believe the funny thing that happened to us.

TRENT DILFER SAVED MY LIFE !

I hope Trent Dilfer subscribes to "Google Alerts" because this blog is a true story and might be the best way for me to thank him. 

Trent Dilfer was mostly a back-up quarterback in the NFL. His biggest sparkling moment had to be, leading the Baltimore Ravens to a decisive 34-7 victory over the New York Giants, in Super Bowl XXXV. 

Mr. Dilfer and I have never met. To my knowledge, we've never been in the same building at the same time nor have I ever bet on a game he participated in. Yet, this man most certainly saved my life. DILFER HAD MORE DOWNS THAN UPS AS A PLAYER DURING HIS FOOTBALL CAREER, (1994-2007). TODAY, HE IS AN ARTICULATE ANALYST FOR ESPN. 

For some reason, way before Dilfer saved me, I have had several brushes with death...definitely more than the average person. What makes it so odd is, I have never been a commercial fisherman, gone skydiving or worked as a riveter on hundred-story buildings. I have never needed an emergency blood transfusion, been pulled from a wreck by the jaws of life or had a condition that baffled medical science. That means, I am not a daredevil. It's nothing to brag about but I have always taken personal conservatism to extreme heights.DESPITE TEN TRIPS TO NIAGARA FALLS, I'VE NEVER BEEN TEMPTED TO TAKE THE PLUNGE IN A BARREL. STILL, ALL MY CLOSE CALLS WITH DEATH SEEM TO BE RELATED TO MY OWN POOR JUDGEMENT. 

The key to longevity is to limit your intake of fatty foods, avoid taking a bath with your toaster and steer clear of dirty hypodermics and dirty women. I SAVED MY OWN LIFE WHEN I LIVED ON THE CORNER OF SKIDMARK AND SYRINGE. THAT'S WHEN I DODGED PTOMAINE MARY, a.k.a. NURSE RATCHET AND I MADE THE FORTUITOUS LIFE CHANGE BY SWITCHING TO "HEROIN LITE." 

The earliest threat to my longevity took place in the summer of 1959, at the Irvington Hotel, in South Fallsburg New York.
UNLESS YOUR PARENTS WERE IMMIGRANTS, IT IS FAR WORSE TO DIE FROM THE EMBARRASSMENT OF WEARING BLACK SOCKS UNDER WHITE, PLASTIC SANDALS...THAN DROWNING. 

 

At the Irvington, I wandered away from my folks and went to the closed swimming pool. I tried to reach a seal-shaped inflatable tube in the deep end and fell in. An anonymous passerby witnessed the incident and pulled me out. Too bad he wasn't around to save me from the brow-beating I received from mom.

YOU SHOULD KNOW YOUR KID. SOMETIMES IT'S OKAY TO RISK A CHILD'S DIGNITY AND FUTURE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS WITH A KIDDIE-LEASH.

The next time I tempted fate was in 1974. While canoeing along the border of New York and Pennsylvania, (on the Delaware Water Gap near Skinner's Falls), I was indirectly hit by lightning. Today, I can still feel the surge of electrifying pain that zapped every nerve in my body.

Along the strange path of life, I've been in several car accidents...we all have. I have walked away from every one of mine but on closer examination, it's not hard to imagine how my quality of life could have suffered if not for the grace of a couple of inches. One of those collisions came outside the Las Vegas Hilton International Casino, in 1979. Almost at the same time my light turned green, I was rear-ended by a guy going fifty.  Luckily, I had taken my foot off the brake a split second before impact. My little Mazda was pushed through the intersection and I was spared a fiery death when my full gas tank ruptured and didn't explode.  

Two months earlier, at 4:30AM, I was side-swiped near the Sahara Avenue off-ramp on Interstate-15. I lost control, hit a streetlight pole on the right shoulder, did a 180 and wound up facing oncoming traffic in the middle lane. I broke my left hand but lived to a see another day...which was more than I could say about my Ford station wagon. 

On New Year's Eve 1979, Hersh Schtiermann, my seventy-year old, Jimmy Hoffa-like casino supervisor, picked a chair up over his head. This seat was so heavy that most of the staff thought it was bolted to the floor. This ancient Hercules swung it like a baseball bat and tried to hit me over the head with it. You may be familiar with this because it appeared in length, in two previous blogs as well as in my short story, "RIDEOUT, WHITE-OUT AND RIGHT OUT." 

Schtiermann quit that day. We didn't cross paths again until a year later. At first he was cordial. Then while squeezing the life out of my arm, he angrily whispered, "Kid, I cudda made your life a lot easier. Instead you gotta be a f*****g wise-guy." When I didn't respond, his ridiculous temper exploded. His wife tried to calm him down. She pulled him away from me. After a profanity laced insult fest, he screamed his parting shot, "You have no idea how close you came to the kiss of death!" 

A year later, an ignorant Vegas police officer put a gun to my head at a routine traffic stop. He wasn't being overly cautious. This shallow nimrod was just getting his jollies off at my expense while making the point...that I shouldn't have reached so quickly for my credentials in the glove compartment. Afterwards I was certain that I wasn't in real danger but at the time I needed total concentration to control my continence. 

 In 1984, I hit a patch of black ice just west of Pecos Texas and flew off the road. On the snowy shoulder, I somehow got enough traction to stop...a foot or so from a jagged mountain wall.

THIS PICTURE WAS TAKEN IN MY CHEVY MONTE CARLO, ON INTERSTATE-10, A HALF HOUR BEFORE OUR DATE WITH A MOUNTAINSIDE AND DESTINY. 

Two miles from home in 1990, me and my Chevy Corsica survived another bout with an icy road. I was doing about forty and went into a skid. My car veered directly towards a telephone pole. In panic-mode, I jammed on the brakes, turned the wheel hard to the left, closed my eyes and prepared to kiss my ass good-bye. At the last second, my car jerked to the left. It made a seemingly impossible 90 degree turn, crossed the road, drove through a hedge and came to a stop on some one's front lawn. My most narrow escape from the grim reaper occurred when we first moved to New Jersey in 1985. In a perfect storm of ignorance and stupidity as well as my first experience with a fireplace, I bought one of those romantic, ninety-nine cent, easy-light Dura-Flame logs. When the embers started fading and the mood struck us, I shut the flue before adjourning to the boudoir. Later, kismet led me to the kitchen for a snack. To my shock, when I opened the door, the living room was filled with thick black smoke...I guess you can say the lure of Entemann's saved us from being asphyxiated in our sleep. AFTER DUNKING MY CHOCOLATE DOUGHNUT IN SKIM MILK, I TOLD THE REAPER WHAT HE COULD DO WITH HIS EVIL SCYTHE AND ADDED, "I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU OR YOUR BONY BUTT FOR AT LEAST 50 YEARS." 

A far more gruesome close call came from the always reliable, drunken boating incident. In 1980, under the influence, I fell out of the back of a rented speedboat. The idiot driver, who was a moron even when he was sober, made a u-turn to rescue me. Like a beached whale, three friends hauled me back in the boat, unscathed. Later, I was still laughing when I was informed that the genius steered directly over where I fell in, BEFORE cutting the motor. TO QUOTE MY BUDDY STUW, "A BEER AT THE BEACH IS WORTH TWO IN THE HOUSE." ON WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY LAST DAY IN ONE PIECE, IT WAS 112 DEGREES ON LAKE MEADE. WE WERE DRINKING ICY GIN AND LEMONADE...IN THE BROILING SUN. IT WENT DOWN LIKE CANDY BUT PACKED A POWERFUL WALLOP. THAT'S WHEN A MENTAL MIDGET FROM NEBRASKA NAMED TIGHE, NEARLY SLICED AND DICED ME TO SHREDS. 

My last brush with death occurred on Sunday January 28, 2001, in the adjoining town of Smithville. With a little research, I could tell you the exact second I almost met my demise...or at least got permanently demobilized by brain damage. Please bear in mind, the names have been changed to protect the GUILTY! A friend and his wife invited my son Andrew and I to a lavish Super Bowl party in their custom home. This event included a birthday party downstairs for one of their kids so I would estimate that there were a hundred guests. While mingling, I counted six separate TV's as I took a self-guided tour of the cool nooks and crannies of this unique home. This game pitted the New York Giants versus the virtually unknown, Baltimore Ravens. Ninety-eight percent of the gathering had either bet on the Giants or were rooting them. That left me and some sloppy drunk, forty-something, valley-girl from Timonium Maryland as the only folks pulling for the Ravens. In a combination of getting away from the hostile, pro-Giants crowd and finding a seat, I wandered into a two-story atrium-like alcove off the dining room. It was a cozy spot highlighted by a southwestern/greenhouse theme. In front of a little TV, surrounded by plants and flowers, I plopped down on the only chair in the room. To make my Eden-like situation even better, during the early part of the game, I had private access to a banquet table full of delicacies. Even when others discovered my hide-away, they were forced to stand or sit on the spiral staircase that led to a bedroom loft area. The game was still scoreless when our tipsy hostess, inexplicably decided to water these plants. She probably would have gone unnoticed if she hadn't unearthed the couple sitting on the steps of the winding staircase. On her way up, we all lost focus on the game when she misstepped and almost fell. A few minutes later, I stood up to get a food refill as Ravens quarterback Trent Dilfer dropped back to throw. He arched a long bomb and I stopped to watch. When the receiver caught the touchdown pass, I cheered and took an instinctual step, closer to the TV. While celebrating, I felt a breeze on the back of my neck and heard a nearly simultaneous crash. In the exact spot I had vacated, a huge barrel cactus and what was left of the heavy, earthenware pot it was in, lay splattered on the terracotta, ceramic floor. AN EARLY NATIVE AMERICAN MISSILE. WHEN THIS AERIAL WEAPON IS DROPPED FROM ABOVE...WITH OR WITHOUT A STOUT BARREL CACTUS INSIDE, IT CAN BE LETHAL. Curiosity seekers flooded into the room. I looked up and saw the hostess. She had a watering can in one hand and the other was over her mouth. I was in shock and couldn't figure out if she was embarrassed or laughing. Finally she said, "I was watering...and...oops...and...are you okay?"

People were tending the mess as she came down. At ground-zero, the ceramic tile was smashed with countless spider cracks going in every direction. My friend's wife ignored me as she was surrounded by her supportive lady friends. When the valley-girl handed her a can of Heineken, the hostess never looked my way again. She was then ushered away. On her way out of the room, the hostess picked out a large pottery shard from the trash and announced to her cronies, "I bought this at the Hopi reservation in Arizona." I never got a sincere apology. The hostess was so blitzed that she probably forgot about me ten seconds after she came down from the loft. So I have to put that drunk out of my mind and concentrate on the fact that Trent Dilfer saved my life. Hopefully, my savior will validate my feelings and acknowledge my appreciation when the Google Alert leads him to reading this blog.