Where are the melody, harmony, rhythm and dynamics?

     Ever since Johnny Carson retired, so did Doc Everson and his Big Band sound. During the past 25 years the airwaves have been a cacophony of loud, annoying and forgettable "music." I put this last word in quotes because the "music" is not music. It's just plain noise!
     During my high school days in the 40's we didn't have TV, computers or cell phones. Nor did we have Viagra for those horrible four hour erections. Instead, we macho guys put a coke bottle in our pants pocket, a condom in the wallet and danced cheek to cheek, hoping we might get lucky on prom night.
     Then, after taking my date home before midnight (curfew), I would drive down Main Street in Coshocton, OH, park anywhere (no meters in those days), walk over to our favorite hangout, MacCluggage's Malt Shop, and watch the cars go by, honking their horns. They were the lucky ones who had a girl friend in the passenger seat and permission to stay out until 1:00 am.
     Bully Jack Brown usually mooned the honkers, much to the horror of the young ladies who ducked down in embarrassment. Brown was a football player, a linebacker with huge legs, and he always tormented us skinny guys with sucker punches to the stomach or a hard kick in the ass. I avoided him like the plague.
     Bill Benner was two years older than I and he also played football. In one pickup game after school, the 7th grade, Benner tackled me and twisted my ankle until it broke. I ended up in bed with a cast for six weeks, just listening to "The Farm and Home Hour" on radio everyday. The show had a concert band and played mostly Sousa marches. That's when I learned to play the drums.
     A dozen years later I was driving from Columbus,OH to Coshocton and I heard the siren behind me. It was an Ohio State Patrol car. I pulled over, the officer got out and it was Bill Benner in uniform. I had no idea he became a police officer. Bill then apologized profusely for breaking my leg and said it was a long time chip on his shoulder. I shook hands and told him to forget it, as I had.
     But now I digress. Back to the subject. Lousy music. I have to quote Frank Sinatra: "Rock musicians only know three chords, and two of them are wrong." It's now four days after Christmas and I'm hearing "White Christmas" on my TV music channel. Beautiful song! Think of it. Written by a Jew! Will Irwin was Irving Berlin's music librarian in his spacious townhouse on Beekman Place in New York City. Will told me Berlin turned into a cranky old man with all kinds of medical ills, and he still retched over the memory of his daughter marrying a goy.
     During the final days of his life, Berlin ordered all his house lights to be turned off when a choral group appeared outside on December 25th to sing "White Christmas." But they still sang in the dark.
And I remembered that the super of my apartment building on West End Avenue gave his runaway daughter and husband a safe haven, as private detectives were searching for them.
     It's time for lunch. I'll do another blog next week about the subject I started out to complain about.

WANT TO FREEZE YOUR ASS OFF?

      Just book a flight to Yellow Knife, NWT, temperature 30 degress BELOW ZERO!  I spent three days and nights there at the Capital Suites several years ago. My purpose was to hold a Q. and A. session following a screening of “Abel Raises Cain,” the award-winning documentary by Jen and Jeff Hockett.

     The Yellow Knife Film Club paid my expenses for air transportation, hotel, meals and a $500 honorarium. Not a bad deal, right? Wrong.  I was never so cold in my life, except inside my hotel room. Outside my window I could see a Horton’s Fast Food. 

     I took one step outside the hotel and couldn’t breathe. Ice everywhere, nobody on the sidewalks, just traffic. I returned to the front desk and was advised to use the enclosed passage to the hospital next door. They had a cafeteria. That’s where I had my breakfast and other meals.

     The night of the screening, several members drove me to the Wildcat Café for dinner. This was a small wooden shack that tilted badly. It was constructed of old timbers, an elderly lady in her 70’s greeted us at the door and asked, “Will you have shark or filet of sole?” I chose the latter.

     I glanced around inside as this woman showed us to our reserved table, only one of three tables and all occupied.

Then she went behind the counter and threw our fish orders on the grill. Whoever was the inferior decorator did an interesting job. There were a hundred or more business cards tacked on one wall and dozens of photos on another. That was our entertainment, I suppose.

     I learned that Madame Zonga was born into a royal family in Turkey, turned over to a relative who was moving to Canada and she grew up in Yellow Knife. Her passion was food and she did everything from buying the food to cooking, serving and cleaning. Just she alone, and she loved the responsibility.

Hmmmmm.

     It was a baby shark, but I still couldn’t look at its head, cut in half,  on the plates of my friends. Quite frankly, my filet of sole was quite delicious, along with baby carrots and a large tomato for me to slice.

     There was very hushed conversation from other patrons, Madame Zonga was busy cooking, serving and cleaning away dishes. We had hot tea and rum cake for dessert. Then on to our screening.

     There were about 50 people in a small classroom in this downtown building. The DVD played well and the audience laughed in all the right places. They were delighted to see me afterwards and I received a standing ovation.

     Griswold Thatcher, my host, offered to pick me up in the morning and tour the town (population 20,000). I declined, blowing my nose as though I had a cold. So he said he would drive me to the airport at noon, departing at l pm for Toronto, making a connection back to New York’s JFK.

     All went well on the six hour return flight, I slept most of the way, with a bad dream being eaten by a shark. At the Toronto Airport, entrepreneur Gary Topp met me with two delicious corned beef sandwiches. We ate and talked. When he asked me how I felt about the trip to Yellow Knife. I had only two words:”Never again!”

    

    

Oi Vey! The VA!

     Yes, I'm complaining about the VA. This second largest government employer is awash in paperwork, delays and treadmills to oblivion. A few million veterans are victims of a vicious SNAFU and the former CEO of Proctor & Gamble, Robert McDonald ("call me Secretary Bob") is now in charge of the VA. He will be the fox in the chicken pen.
     Ask any person on the street what they think about the vets on a hospital list to nowhere, and they will just shrug and say, "I don't know and I don't care."  That response is typical of the average VA employee:  IGNORANCE AND APATHY.  Working for the VA is a featherbed, because you don't have to do anything. You don't even have to show up for work! Just pay someone to sign in for you.
     So Secretary Bob has his arms full. He will have to clean house with massive layoffs, early retirement and outright firings with loss of pensions and perks. Then, I suggest he enter the Federal Witness Program because his life won't be worth much. A few million former VAers will go hunting for him.
     My own personal complaint against the VA is the time it takes to get a response. I was in the service, honorably discharged and earned a service-connected injury. It took me over a year to obtain increased compensation. It wasn't enough and the VA paid no attention to my having a wife to support, although I filed the necessary forms three times and wrote a letter to the First Lady to complain. No response.
     So I appealed to the VA and they promptly sent me 55 pages to read and fill out. That was overwhelming! What colossal nerve. Months went by and I'm still waiting for a response. I do have assistance from Senator Richard Blumenthal's office. His associate, Heather Chandler, has been monitoring my appeal and she seems to be a compassionate and dedicated person.
     Ironically, when I was in the service I was with a special unit that raised millions of dollars for Army Emergency Relief. That money was paid out to indigent families requiring non-recourse loans; i.e. they did not have to pay back the money that saved them from bankruptcy and eviction from homes. Now, I'm seeking some relief that I am entitled to (having a wife, for example), and my request seems to be on one more VA treadmill to oblivion.
     I hope Secretary Bob starts cracking his whip and begins to unload the dead wood earning salaries, bonuses and PX discounts. There are a few million college graduates without jobs willing to work passionately at the VA and perform honestly. Hmmmmmmmm.  The line forms to the right.

Try our new Xnanapoop for your skin.......

     All the new products to save our skins, bones and internal organs are flooding the internet. First you have to guess the CATCHA code of numbers and letters that are interwined and really impossible to distinguish one symbol from another. So I keep trying and failing, trying and failing. Each time a new set of numbers and letters puzzle me. I finally give up.
     Then, when I try to leave the page, a drop-down box appears with an offer to send me free samples of the pills. While I mull over the offer, their ROBOT has darkened my screen, except for the box that appears next with the message: PLEASE DON'T LEAVE THIS PAGE. I'm waiting for another message like, WE LOVE YOU! No chance. I'm out of there, even after a final deceitful message from the ROBOT: YOU MIGHT LOSE ALL YOUR EMAILS!  STAY WITH US. WE'LL DOUBLE YOUR FREE PILL ORDER.
     These sucker traps manage to defeat all the walls and other safety methods devised by the companies that are spreading their disingenuous wares on an unsuspecting public. There should be a course in all high schools and colleges: HOW TO AVOID THE SUCKER TRAPS ONLINE! And then how to defeat them. Once they get our plastic cards....only for shipping and handling...to obtain their free samples, you are automatically billed at an outrageous monthly fee for the next year.
     Although I do resent having to keep my guard up constantly for the sucker traps, I remain amazed at how wonderful it is to send emails, receive them and use the word processing equipment for writing. My old typewriters have been abandoned, although the electric IBM lasted me 30 years until I ran out of ribbons. They weren't available anywhere I went. All sold out. Then I called The CEO of IBM in Armonk,NY, claiming to be "Dr. Rogers with his X-rays."  The secretary put me right through, I explained my ploy and two days later a dozen ribbons arrived in the mail.
     At this time, late at night, I've run out of ideas. I'm still miffed over the intellectual property usurping of my copyrighted "horse pants" by the Jimmy Kimmel Show and Shark Tank too. That subject will be dealt with in my next blog in a few days. So stay tuned.

Call your doctor immediately!

     I think we all hate the overuse of ads with disclaimers, on both radio, TV and computer screens, that shout, "CALL YOUR DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY!' Followed by the following reasons and my solutions:
1. You have an erection more than four hours.    (Call three more women to come over)
2. You feel faint when standing up.  (Sit down, stupid)
3. Your nose begins to bleed. (Pinch the bridge of your nose, lean forward and wait. It will stop.)
4. Don't operate any heavy machinery. (Well, what do I tell my kids we can't ride my forklift?)
5. You feel like throwing up. (Just shut up and do it.)
6. Your temperature is sky high. (Take an aspirin and lay down with a cold rag on your forehead)
7. You have a bad case of diarrhea. (Get your ass to the bathroom and sit on the toilet)
8. You have a splitting headache and your stomach is about to explode. (Call 911)
9. Your feet are freezing and you are shaking violently. (Sit in a hot tub of water and pray)
10. You feel like a leper, taking pill after pill, and are 89 years old. (It's time to go. Say goodby and die)
     There are so many other sordid side effects from taking these drugs with fancy names that only a doctor or RN can interpret. Don't even try to understand  the terrible side effects, so that you might become paralyzed, blind or die. That's the name of the game for drug companies to profit millions and billions of dollars.
     Dr. Charles A. Crown is a retired internist from New Canaan,CT who has a marvelous avocation playing ragtime jazz piano. I played drums and we often entertained the residents of The Waveny Center for Altheimer patents in that community. He had treated many of these senior citizens and they always greeted him with a friendly hug of appreciation.
     I once asked Dr. Crown what his attitude was when a patient died. He responded quietly, "Well, it's a sad occasion of course. But then he or she will never have chills, pills, bills or other ills. They are at peace with a former painful life." Hmmmmmm. It's nice to know that, isn't it?
     Finally, don't even think about calling your doctor in an emergency situation. You'll only get a recorded message with a menu of options: "Press one if you are a physician, press two if you need a prescription filled, press three if you are a drug salesman, press four if you wish to make an appointment, press five if you want to leave a message and press six to speak with the receptionist. Otherwise, have a nice day and try not to bother us again. We're terribly busy placing patients in our twelve cubicles. Waiting time for a doctor is generally twenty minutes. Much more if he or she is late returning from the golf course."

I am sick and tired of being sick and tired!

     The computer is a wonderful instrument, particularly emails and word processing. Also research, although in the latter instance I don't want two million answers in two seconds or less. It's OVERKILL. But I compromise and in the words of New Jersey Governor Christi, I'll "sit down and shut up!"
     But here is my beef. It's all the hungry advertisers who are endulging in preditorial and dishonest tactics to advertise "we've got what it takes to take what you've got." Most recent example was a drop down ad telling me I could get a FREE CREDIT SCORE from each of the three major credit bureaus. I supplied my name and address. Then they said there would be a $1 refundable service fee. Wait. I smell a rat. A big rat. Sure enough, I would need a credit card for the dollar and then, if I didn't cancel within seven days they would bill me monthly for $29.95. I said goodby to the scammers.
     That was one isolated example of hundreds, probably thousands, of the other sleazy companies who employ the same sucker trap gimmick. DO NOT FALL FOR IT! There are no free lunches anymore. There used to be some lavish dinners given by investment firms and they practically locked the doors in the fancy restaurant until we free loaders signed up to have a meeting with one of their well dressed sharks.
     But those characters soon realized they were spending more than they were receiving, so they gave up on giving free dinners. Now, they just email people from their purchased lists of retired folks with big assets. From what I noticed at the last dinner I attended, about ten years ago, all the free loaders had big asses. You know, like those heavyweights who eat at the Buffet Restaurants. You can pig out all you want and waddle out with 5,000 calories in your bum. No thanks!
     But getting back to the "free" sucker traps. We're surrounded by them. They drop down, pop up and follow you with the stored information they acquired. Probably from Ed Snowden, may he rest in Russia, or wherever. Uncle Sam is waiting to put him in handcuffs, go on trial and make a bad poster boy photo for all the world to see. Meantime, the damage has been done. Our private lives are quite public.
     Another stink hole (pun intended) is when you're being followed after a purchase on amazon.com, such as a book or DVD. Immediately you are given a list of other books and DVDs you might like to buy. If you try to leave the page, a stern notice will advise you that you might lose all your desktop material and/or receive a virus from the Internet waiting in the bushes. Oh come on. didn't we all learn how to read and write in school? Why do we have to receive all that visual and audio bullshit.
Maybe Ed Snowden wasn't such a bad guy after all for his mission to blow the whistle.
     Finally, I'll sign off for this Blog. Stay turned for more enlightened content down the road. And thanks for reading me, mostly between the lines!

Woe there Apple iMac; you printed gobbledygook instead of definitive words!

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Cialis, Viagra and Levitra

When I was in high school back in Coshocton, Ohio, we men would stand in front of McCluggage's Malt Shop and watch the girls go by. Mostly it was during summertime, we wore shorts and always carried a condom in our shirt pocket. That was a badge of courage. Also, in case one of us got lucky. In those days, the 40's, we didn't have the penis enhancing drugs that advertise on TV 24/7. There were two "loose" girls in our senior class. Maisie Lemon always traveled with the band on our bus for out-of-town football games. She worked the aisle giving blow or hand jobs. I always pretended to sleep. I can still see Maisie walking down Main Street, pregnant, with a huge belly that looked like she would going to give birth to a Great Dane. No word who the father was. We didn't have DNA then. But everytime a baby was born in Coshocton, somebody left town. That's also why the population remained the same for half-a-century. The other loose lady was Anita Coen. She had watermelon breasts and a loose bra. Every step swung a melon and one time at Lake Park....our swimming venue...one of the guys had drilled two holes in the wall of the boys' locker room so we could peek into the girls' locker room. We took turns and bully Dave Brown clocked each of us for five minutes at the holes. When I had my turn one July afternoon, I lucked into seeing Anita Coen's breasts. Wow! Humdinger! Well kiss my ass! Her knockers were beyond HUGE. They were bombastic! Out of sight! Unbelievable! I wanted to break through that flimsy wall and drill her with my medium sized pecker. It was hard as a rock. Oh, those were the days. Fond memories. Getting back to Cialis, Viagra and Levitra. Their commercials warn us limpers not to be erect more than 4 hours. Then, if so, call our doctor immediately. Because he would know what to do. But he's on the golf course or on the phone with his stockbroker.I know what to do. I'm going to call three more girls and have a ball. That's what I'm going to do! While I'm waiting for the three pussies to arrive, the TV commercial warns me not to operate any heavy machinery or drive a car. Don't want to get stuck in the steering wheel. And there are a lot of other things I shouldn't do while erect that I've forgotten. So, onward and upward.And good luck to all the studs out there.

Don't you hate CAPTCHA?

I think CAPTCHA should be changed to GOTCHA. I once tried to complete a survey and I couldn't enter the "random contest to win $5,000" until I entered the CAPTCHA letters, nmbers and other gibberish that defied imagination. Because I had to prove I wasn't a ROBOT! Well, readers, I kept failing to read what Edward Snowden must have created for the company. Yes, I tried hard. Although, being a C+ student in high school and college didn't help a bit. There were letters with a common horizontal bar, numbers that melted away, sufficiently so you could only guess. Really. After 32 tries with that many different CAPTCHA displays. And to add insult to injury, I was asked to TRY AGAIN. Well, I did. Again, again and again, etc. No prize money for me. And probably everybody else! This CAPTCHA beast has got to go. We're not morons. We're dedicated and impatient. Here's another bummer with the computer. When I buy a book or CD from amazon.com or eBay. Their ROBOTS follow me home. Yes, their preditors are on my page within seconds after I've made my purchase and checked out. They flash a bunch of books and CDs I might want to buy also. I don't want to buy anything else. So I delete their "seduction pitch" and forget them immediately. But wait. They didn't forget me! Even when I'm seeking information via GOOGLE an ad will pop down or up showing my recent book and CD purchases, along with the same books and CDs they pitched a week earlier! How brash and reprehensible. I urge all sensitive people to boycott the ads' products that continue to stalk you and make pitches for things you are not interested in. That includes hundreds of thousands of companies now employing "dirty tricks." My final rant for today concerns all the bids I receive to leave my TV service, telephone and computer bundle. COMCAST offers an attractive price for their bundle; so does TIME-WARNER, and even COX TV. But there is one great big problem: THEY DO NOT PROVIDE SERVICE IN OUR LOCATION! So, we're stuck with CHARTER COMMUNICATIONS and have been for the past 4 years. Their bundle price starts out around $90 a month and then gradually creeps up to double that in about a year. That's what we're paying now. Did I hear someone call them creeps? -

BLACK-ISH VS JEW-ISH............NEW TV SHOWS IN 2014

Racism is still an ugly word. Nevertheless, "muck is money" and that's where the "Suits'" minds run rampant. The BLACK-ISH series is being billboarded by its TV host, NBC, as another "Cosby type show."Venerable Bill" probably doesn't think kindly of having his valuable reruns pissed on by a newcomer without credentials. And he'll be crying all the way to the bank. The new entry, JEW-ISH, is only in submission, that is, on paper to be developed into a pilot. The series is based on a former best-selling book by Mrs. Yetta Bronstein, "The President I Almost Was," an autobiography by a Jewish mother from the Bronx who ran for President in 1964, against Barry Goldwater and Lyndon Johnson. She lost the election by a landslide, but captured more write-in votes than Johnny Carson, Betty Boop and Porky the Pig. Yetta's book was a best-seller in England and the British book critic, Cassandra, said 'it's the best American satire on politics since Sinclair Lewis' "Babbitt." In the USA Mrs. Bronstein's book, first published in hardcover by HAWTHORN BOOKS, was sold to AVON BOOKS for a paperback edition at the highest price ever paid back in 1965. She also recorded "I Want To Hold Your Hand"that was selected by Sir Paul McCartney as "best cover song" for a Beatles album of their greatest hits. Not bad for a former Presidential loser. "JEW-ISH," the TV series has a story line that features her husband Morris, teen-age son Marvin and her older sister Sadie (think Bea Arthur) who live in the same Bronx apartment and are constantly at odds with one another. Morris drives a taxi on the all-night shift; Marvin plays the drums loudly; and Sadie still smokes her uncle's pipe. He, Uncle Milton, was in ladies underwear (both senses of the word) and committed suicide after going bankrupt during the great 1929 depression. The first time he tried to die, the car in his garage, with the hose attached to the tailpipe, ran out of gas. The second time, the #104 bus stopped just in time as he lay in the street. The third time was successful after he suffocated between the breasts of a former female employee. She measured 26-42-38. Mrs. Bronstein is the titular head of this dysfunctional family (think The Friedmans), but has a contagious, sometimes wicked, sense of humor. She also offends everyone. For example, her first words entering the butcher shop are: "Take your fucking foot off the goddam scale!" And she always answers the phone, "I am the lady of the house. Why are you bothering me?" (Think "Keeping Up Appearances"). The angst in this family of four is a rampage of rhetoric out of control. It's hilarious, sad and sometimes admirable. Viewers will be mesmerized from week to week. So far, the only mild interest in sponsorship has come from Pfizer's Viagra division. So, don't hold your breathe, but stay tuned anyhow.

Red Channels is alive and kicking (a/k/a Blacklisting)

Yes, there are closed doors at the networks. During the 50's Senator Joe McCarthy was the primary "tool" seeking Communists within the entertainment industry and his polished paw on a name would prevent him or her from working. So, writers, directors, authors, composers (including Leonard Bernstein) were on the list of 150 outlawed by the networks and studios. Many individuals sued, to no avail. However, the Supreme Court finally got involved and struck down any further discrimination. But that took 10 years. My friend Martin Ritt ("Hud") was denied movie work because he once wrote an article in an alleged Communist influenced newspaper. Marty was sacked immediately but eventually came back to life with his close friend Paul Newman and others. Martin Ritt optioned my book, "The Great American Hoax," recounting my 4 years promoting a fictitious campaign to clothe all naked animals for the sake of decency, called SINA. Paramount was to finance the movie, Ira Wallach("Absence of a Cello?) wrote the script, Carl Reiner wss to direct and Jack Lemmon would be the star. But it all fell apart, unfortunately, as do many Hollywood projects, because the principal people have other films they committed to make. Mike Wallace wanted to interview me on his CBS show and called to request four copies of "The Great American Hoax." I was happy to comply and made the delivery myself. However, when Wallace read that his pal Walter Cronkite had been duped by SINA and featured its President, G. Clifford Prout (a/k/a Buck Henry), he immediately cancelled my interview. I then asked for the books back; he secretary said he had donated them to the Old Home for Seamen's Library. I check with them; the director had no record of my books being donated to the library. CBS received a bill from me for $25 to pay for the books. They sent a check and put me on their blacklist. Boo hoo. Ditto for NBC when I orchestrated a fainting spell for audience members during the first Phil Donahue Show broadcast from New York City, after 18 years in Chicago. The fainters were my "Merry Pranksters" and they dropped everytime Donahue held out the mike for a question. The subject was "gay senior citizens," eight people in their 80's who came out of the closet and agreed to go public. This historic fainting scenario made headlines in the news when Donahue dismissed the 400 people in his audience and he was obviously out of control on the news shows that evening. When he found out about the hoax he kicked the furniture in his office, that is until his ratings zoomed upward. Then I received a kind of "thank you" note from him. Hmmmmmmmmm. But four NBC lawyers held a two-hour interrogation session with me and finally gave up. They suspected something sinister behind my mission, other than just one more in a long list of media provocation I had performed over the years. So I remain on the NBC blacklist. HBO has me on their blacklist after I duped them in 2000 as a participant on "Private Dicks...Men Exposed." They bought my tale about having the smallest penis in the Guinness Book of Records. I claimed to be only 1 inch tall when erect. I didn't fool the WASHINGTON POST. Their television writer syndicated a column about my charade that made that hour special on men's genitalia a sensation. It was programmed over fifty times on all eight HBO channels. And one night, when I entered the OLIVE GARDEN with my late friend, Detective John Perry (he lost his life on 9/11 while saving a few hundred people), I received a standing ovation from complete strangers who had seen the HBO show that very evening. The next day I saw a copy of the PHILADELPHIA NEWS with my photo on the full front page and a huge caption: GET SHORTY! There were two pages of copy describing my episode and prior hoaxes. But HBO is not very forgiving. They keep me on the blacklist. In the meantime, I've completed my autobiography that names people and places. And I'm planning to produce another movie, "Organza," that skewers everything sacred in our society. Soon to be at a theater near you! But don't hold your breathe, please.

Please leave me alone!

I don't want to buy anything from the girl with the goofy rotating eyes. She makes me dizzy. Nor do I want a reverse mortgage or to refinance my loans. I am not interested in meeting women with large breasts, medium sized, little or no breasts. Jehovah's Witnesses, please stay away from my house. I'm just not interested in religion anymore. Nor can I be persuaded to join anything. I've done it all over the years. I'm content to sit in a chair and sulk. Just leave me alone. Thanks.

I'm not trying to be a sour puss. Maybe a scrouge. I don't really need anything now. Oh, maybe, if you insist, some tooth paste and toilet paper. Just leave a few tubes and rolls on the front porch. I'll pay you later. Maybe not. You are earning money. I"m not. Pity the poor.

So what is this rant really about?  I just hate to be treated like a consumer. The ploys to suck me in to buying something won't stop trying to entice me. The company offers free shipping. Ha ha. There are no more free lunches or dinners. Those seminars to lasso in the suckers faced a stiff law of diminishing returns. The freeloaders ate their food and drank the booze. But no sales today!

I am still outraged about the flood of mail and phone pitches to lower my auto and house insurance. It's the biggest hoax ever! The insurance companies all employ the same scame: sign up the "mark" for a ridiculously low cost the first few months. Then begin to raise the monthly cost by 15%, surreptitiously. It took me four months to notice that I was paying Liberty Mutual an additional $12 every month more. When I protested, the agent said it was standard procedure. Hmmmmmm.

My cereal box actually tasted better than the corn flakes inside. Yes, I cut out a square of cardboard and ate with milk. Yum yum. The cereal inside was stale and tasted like dry leaves. (I've eaten those too!).  Ditto for the Atkins Diet meal. I tried one. Yuck! A McDonald's Hamburger is much better. Oh, stop with the calories' warning. We're all going to die someday and I'm not going to live my life worrying about getting too fat.

I don't have any more complaints for today. And don't forget: please leave me alone.

What I hate about my computer!

Well, for starters, when it freezes. I call tech support in Shanghai, 17 hours away by air, and someone named "Mary" with a Chinese accent tries to help. She wants me to unplug everything. I explain that I've already done that and it won't correct my problem. She brings up my screen from her end (no jokes about that comment, please) and fiddles with her controls locked into mine. I still remain frozen.

Mary finally gives up after an hour and says I probably need a new modem. Mine is blinking badly. I mention it's already new, only a few months old. She replies that they die quickly. I now wonder how I can find a new modem at 3 am. I can't. Frustrated and angry I slap my modem. All the lights flash at me and settle down. My computer unfreezes!  I shut down and go to bed.

I don't like all the pop-up and drop-down ads. They are so annoying. Then when I delete an ad, a reminder asks me if I really want to leave the page. Does the robot inside my iMac think I am an idiot? Obviously so. I click on the "yes" icon to leave the page. Not yet, says the robot in another comment that locks their page from leaving me. "Are you sure?" is the message. I want to break the screen or smear it with mustard and ketchup. But that's not nice. I need to work with a clean slate, so I go along with their tirade of comments to make a sale.

Another complaint I have is proving that I am not a robot. In order for my comment, or whatever, is to be accepted, I have to file the correct code at the bottom of the last page. It's a scrambled series of numbers and letters all jumbled over one another, some lower case, some upper case and all connected by a common spine that says, "Ha ha ha, dumbo, you better be a graduate in computer science to solve this puzzle. Otherwise, you ain't going nowhere from this moment on."

I have spent as much as an hour and clicked on as many as 27 different codes, as I failed to get any correct ones, and the robot conveniently provides another more complex one to drive me crazy. They win. I lose. I've become crazy and once again, want to find the robot and rip him apart.

There are lots of other complaints I could bring up about the computer, but I'll end here. I do realize that no-cost emails have been driving the US Post Office down the toilet, while saving people millions of dollars in free mailing on the machine. I like that because I average replying to several hundred emails a week. I also send about a dozen snail mail letters out to friends who still like to open paper letters.

Finally, word processing is so much better handled via computer than on an electric typewriter; corrections can be made in seconds and the font looks like it is right off a printing press, which it is. So no more complaints for now. And if your computer freezes, try a little corporal punishment on your modem. It worked for me.

Why "Dancing With the Stars" is slipping in ratings......

When this TV show first appeared a few years ago it was an immediate sensation. Why? Because the world could view ballroom dancing again, long locked out of sight and sound by the young "suits" who manage the media. The music of yesterday had a beat, melody, harmony, key changes, big band of musicians (reeds,brass and rhythm....think Doc Severinsen from the TONIGHT Show), and conductor-arranger Harold Wheeler resurrected those early-day elements with "Dancing With the Stars."

This was a win-win situation with first class sponsors, a hefty budget and millions called in to vote for their favorite dancers. The producers earned many thousands from the voting telephone calls charges. And the losing dancers were regularly featured on Jimmy Kimmel's nightly show. No doubt there was a sweetheart deal because both shows were on the ABC-TV network.

Now there is the law of diminishing returns as "Dancing With the Stars" begins to fade away. The Harold Wheeler orchestra was fired because musicians are always first to be blamed when the on-stage folks are threatened. In this instance "Voices" has bumped dancing for singing. The judges on this boring show compete to coach the wannabe singers vying for fame and fortune, (Carson Daley does keep things moving as the roving MC.

Nevertheless, "Dancing With the Stars" continues to create yawns and channel surfing. Oh for a rerun such as "Black Adder" or "Faulty Towers." "Dancing" has pretty much run out of football linesmen, Tucker Carson types and Drew Carey's permanent smile. So the show digs deeper into the archives and comes up with "has beens."  No names please. Why embarrass the lepers who still wear spats?

My tastes in music have turned to Germany. Helene Fischer headlines an hour every week in prime time on German TV, called DIE HELENE FISCHER SHOW. There are 5,000, rabid fans in the audience, 50 musicians in the orchestra and five million viewers. She herself sings magnificently. Helene is a stunning blonde with a sexy figure, striking gowns and only in her early 30's. Occasionally she sings duets with the likes of Andrea Bocelli, Michael Bolton and other top recording artists. Check the show out on YouTube.

Our grandson, Jalen, is only two years old and enjoys listening to classical music. Hardly any rock or rap ear breakers are tuned through the speakers in his room. He loves jazz and always begins to dance when I pound on the drums. Jalen too has learned to beat the drum and often trade fours (ask any hip musician).

Just for fun, I taught Jalen to answer a question in his high pitched little boy voice: "Is there hope?" and he shouts out, "Oh noooooo!" Recently, with his parents, Jenny and Jeff, they were all on vacation in Bethel, Maine and visited a local restaurant during "happy hour" with Jalen for dinner. The bar was filled with drinking age men and women and they responded "hi" in unison everytime Jalen greeted a new bar arrival with his "hi." It was all right out of "Cheers" or "Friends." So imagine the hilarity when he made his response to the question, "Is there hope?"

Sorry, for the last ramble. No I'm not. It was funny, wasn't it?

How Not To Save On Insurance Premiums For Life, Car and House.

I first got scammed by GEICO. They promised to lower my car insurance. I took the bait, filled in the blanks with all the information, such as age of auto, any accidents (none), mileage driven on average, VIN number. Then I waited while GEICO's robot (I'm going to step on that little green monster and crush out his miserable life. Because he tells nothing but lies). Anyhow, the report came back that I could save a few hundred dollars a month with GEICO. I entered a credit card for the first month's premium. Then, to my amazement, the cost of insurance would be thriee times what I was presently paying with Nationwide. Wow. What a scam. Say goodbye, and I did.

Then I see all the drop down ads for life insurance. (Why don't they realistically call it DEATH INSURANCE?) The ads are enticing, offering modest payments if you are in your 30's, or for your wife who is always younger than you are. But, what they don't tell you is that the initial bait to buy a policy is only good for five years; then the cost will double or triple. If you don't mind and can afford it, the cost for ten, twenty, or thirty years later will be astronomical. Again, walk away.

Obviously, all this "bait and switch" advertising is sweeping the internet. When you think you are getting something for free, and you only pay for handling and shipping, there are two scams at work: 1. the H and S cost is high enough to pay for the cost of the "free" item 2. the company has your credit or debit card and will bill you monthly for a two-figure amount until you cry "uncle" at the Attorney General's office for a refund.

So what's the moral to this rant? If it's too good to be true, it probably isn't true. And they've got what it takes to take what you've got. My final advise is to wise up and keep your money in your pocket, not theirs!!!

Why oh why did I ever leave Ohio?

National Geographic TV Channel has chosen ALAN ABEL, an author, composer, jazz drummer, lecturer, producer, media provocateur and actor. He will accept this honor in “The Numbers Game,” a new TV show produced by Travis Schoen.

During the 1950’s, after graduating from The Ohio State University, Abel began his acting career in New York City playing opposite Grace Kelly and Leslie Nielsen in the Armstrong Circle Theater Show, “Lover’s Leap,” on NBC-TV.

Then, as a media provocateur in 1960, he created a faux campaign to clothe all naked animals for the sake of decency. “The Great American Hoax” was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and launched a billion-dollar industry for pet accessories.

During the 70’s, Abel produced the comedy movie, “Is There Sex After Death,” starring with Buck Henry (“The Graduate”) that received rave reviews. THE NEW YORK TIMES’ Vincent Canby said, “It’s funnier than any of the Woody Allen films.”

In the 80’s, he wrote a best-selling book, “Don’t Get Mad…Get Even” (W.W. Norton), and made news when he placed a fake official in the Super Bowl game between the Washington Redskins and the Miami Dolphins in 1983.

Abel’s television credits include TODAY, TONIGHT, GOOD MORNING AMERICA, SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, 48 HOURS and 20/20. Also, his debate against boxing champion Sonny Liston, on “Kup’s TV Show” in Chicago, was a classic program, as was his interview with erudite Sir Stanley Unwin on the BBC-TV.

Presently, a leading Japanese rapper, Masaya Matsuura, is recording Alan Abel’s composition, “Tom Tom Foolery,” that he wrote for Kyoto Drummers. The award-winning documentary on his life, “Abel Raises Cain,” sold out a screening at the Goethe Institute in Amsterdam April 16, 2014.

Why Not Let Children Fight Wars?

Since most people agree that wars are childish, why not let children do the fighting? In time of war between two nations, we should send only ten, eleven and twelve year olds against the enemy's kids. By using toy tanks and guns firing streams of water, casualties would be kept low.

Youngsters love to fight. Allowing them to do the job adults detest would be a perfect solution to all future wars. Furthermore, it would cost a government very little to feed, clothe and arm these little warriors. They could fight for a whole day on nothing but hot dogs and peanut butter sandwiches. Their tiny uniforms would use half the material needed for men; and battery-operated weapons are available from China and Japan at dirt cheap prices.

First, we would have to establish a Junior Geneva Convention and introduce new Articles of War, excluding grownups from going into battle except as advisors or historians. As for the rules for fighting, any young soldier from either side who showed the whites of his eyes and heard "bang, bang you're dead" would be considered out of action and must return to school. Naturally the side with the most soldiers left wins the war and dictates surrender terms.

The well known TV Muppets would surely be willing to entertain the kids at the front, and I would also encourage the Girl Scouts to send their cuter members to play nurse and pass out free cookies. Those parents who conscientiously objected to having their boys fight could ask to have them assigned behind the battle lines with a Girl Scout troop. There, these wimps would wash dishes, pans and laundry.

After a war has been declared, I think the conflict should last at least thirteen weeks. This will make the sale of television rights to the battles more attractive to sponsors. And these profits would be split sixty per cent to the winning side, thirty per cent to the losers and ten per cent to the agents responsible for starting the war.

Now suppose for instance, American kids lost a war against the kids of India. In surrendering, they might have to give up several states such as Montana and Wyoming. But so what? There are plenty of people who would just as soon return to the forty-eight star flag. And besides, the United States will someday belong to our current crop of juveniles. So they might as well learn to be losers while they're young!

In addition to fighting global wars, children could turn their attention to internal problems that are too complex for adults to handle. Say the kids of the Daughters of the American Revolution had to take on the youngsters from the Ku Klux Klan, or the entire Civil War might be fought over again just to be sure about the outcome once and for all.

The United Nations would still police each country's regular kiddie army to make sure that no government secretly beefed up their fighting strength by drafting midgets. Then, using satellites and drones to keep an eye on the entire world, anything suspicious could be reported directly to the United Nations, and dealt with accordingly.

Once we let kids handle all wars, adults would never have to serve in the armed forces and the only problems left for world leaders would be racism, inflation, air and water pollution, overpopulation and weapons of mass destruction.

"Bad Birdie"

When I was subbing on drums at Radio City Music Hall during the late 50's, playing four shows a day, the orchestra members would hang out in the cafeteria downstairs back stage, along with the Rockettes, singers and ballet dancers. Concert Master Glenn was a buddy and he dated Marie, an attractive Rockette.

One afternoon, between shows on a Monday, Marie, Glenn and I shared a table. She was laughing so hard tears flowed. Why? Because over the weekend on Saturday Marie and eleven of her Rockette friends had been hired to entertain a wealthy recluse who lived in a Westchester mansion in Bronxville, New York. Here is what transpired.

A 12 passenger van picked up the ladies, drove to the mansion and they had lunch with the recluse, a man in his 40's, only five feet tall and a very large nose. He introduced himself as "Waldo," obviously a fake name, and made small talk about the weather, the Hudson River and his desire to lead a happy life. Hmmmmm. They all smelled a rat on the latter comment.

After the lunch, a delicious shrimp salad, the ladies were told to enter the large bedroom on the first floor where they would find their bird costumes. They would have 30 minutes to change, dress and do their makeup. Then they would all go into the basement family room and dance around Waldo, chirping as birds, singing "Ring Around the Posie."

They dressed in the costumes, put on their makeup (to look like birds), practice singing for a few minutes, and then take the elevator downstars for their performance. No talking or laughing. On cue, Waldo would end this scenario, they would change into their own clothes, each receive a hundred dollar bill and exit to the van for travel back to New York City. That all sounded simple enough.

When the Rockettes, pretending to be birds, entered the downstairs family room, they all gasped at first. Waldo was laying in an open coffin naked with an erection. They started to dance and sing around the casket as Waldo masturbated. Round and round they went for perhaps ten minutes until he ejaculated a stream of sperm that splattered most of them.

It was hilarious to all of them, also somewhat depressing that this rich jerk would subject Rockettes to such a depraved ritual. But they all performed as instructed, except Andrea. She just couldn't contain herself, laughing between chirping as a bird. After they returned to the dressing room and changed clothes, Waldo met them at the door, handing each a hundred dollar bill. When Andrea received hers, Waldo said loudly, "Bad birdie!"

So this was the true tale from Marie that convulsed her in the cafeteria, along with Glenn and I. Both he and I expressed some doubt at first, but she didn't have to make it up. It really happened that way. Would she do it again? "No way" Marie said. "Maybe for a thousand dollars," she added.

DON’T EVER PROCRASTINATE AGAIN

Lee Miles, the President of Bridgeport University, had invited several dozen people to his home on campus for dinner. I was included because I had lectured at the college several times.

Due to heavy traffic from Westport to Bridgeport I was a half-hour late, as was an elderly lady in her 80’s, Clara Mertens. She and I were ushered to a table for two and proceeded to have a lively conversation.

I learned that Clara, a widow, had financed several buildings at the college, thanks to a few million dollars from her late husband’s real estate investments. I suddenly realized Merten’s Auditorium was the venue where I had lectured.

Clara said she was going to Europe for the summer and would return to her estate in Easton around September. She also had an apartment in New York City where she stayed when seeing a Broadway show. But she wanted to know if I had a major project she could finance.

Of course I had a dream to someday establish a museum for unknown creative people who failed to gain proper recognition for their talent. I would be the curator for one year and then depart for oher activities. My museum could be funded for one million dollars.

After our dinner we mingled with the other guests, I said goodby to Clara Mertens, she told me to call her in three months and we would arrange to meet with her attorney to draw up the agreement for my one million dollars to finance the museum.

I could hardly believe this chance encounter that would certainly change my life. Clara had written both of her unlisted phone numbers on my business card and a note to “call before the end of September.” My bucket list of creative people I knew who could profit from a grant began to take shape.

That summer flew by, I had signed to begin a series of lectures in October and was working on my material. Suddenly I realized it was October 1st and I hadn’t called Clara in September. I made the call. Both her phone numbers were disconnected.

My heart skipped a beat. Perhaps she had died. I called the President’s office at Bridgeport University. Yes, Clara had passed away on September 28. Then a call to her attorney. He said he knew about her plan to finance my museum, and had been waiting for me to contact her. I waited too long and she was gone.

Clara Mertens left 16 million dollars to the University of Bridgeport with no strings attached. She had outlived all family member at 89 and so there were no challenges to her will.

But I failed to call her in September and lost my benefactor. Boo hoo.

My High School Classmates

It has been three months since I UNSUBSCRIBED from Classmates' newsletters. But they keep coming to me on a regular basis, albeit I delete them under SPAM. But wait. Not so fast. The latest news says my mates from the class of 1942 at Coshocton, OH High school (GO REDSKINS!) No, I'm not a racist. They want to greet me again! How tender and compassionate.

The last time I saw Class President Ronald McCormick, he was sitting in McCluggage's Malt Shop at a table seating eight, all upper class rich kids. There was one empty chair. When I approached it to sit down, McCormick said, "No, Abel, we're saving this chair for one of our friends." So I sat at the counter and ordered my usual vanilla milk shake with taffy ice cream and a grilled cheese sandwich, pouting of course.

After graduation, McCormick was honored in the CHS Year Book that predicted he would be President of the USA someday. Forty years  later, having retired from selling aluminum siding, he was living in a Florida trailer and unable to afford attending the class reunion. But not Stanley Cox, who always sat directly behind me in classes and was called on to recite after me. Stan was quiet, an introvert, predicted in the year book to own his own gas station. Instead, he became Senior Vice-President of the enormous Sheraton Hotel chain.

Classmates newsletter offered me a new low price for three months, six months and two months, with unlimited access to their archives, for only $1.98, $2.98 and $24.50 respectively. Otherwise I would have to look at blurred photos of my classmates from 1942. I just don't go for this kind of "legal extortion."

When I recently asked Buck Henry how his friends were doing, he said, "I visit them every week in the cemetery, and they are doing just fine."  Hmmmmmm. That's what I get for asking a personal question.

As an act of kindness, class reunions ended about fourteen years ago. I can remember the last one, peering at name tags to see whom I was talking to. Very embarrassing. I still call Norm Beatty in Jackson Heights, NY and Howard Shaw in San Rafael, CA. Also, Frank Grandle in Hillsborough, CA who has Parkinson's Disease. I urged Frank to seek help from the Ohio State University Medical Research School; they have found a possible cure for his affliction.

Another classmate, Dick Hook, remains in Coshocton. He's still alive and kicks ass! So, Norm, Howard, Frank, and Stan, we ain't dead yet!!! And Classmates News Letter, you can take your blurred photos and sucker trap offers and shove them you know where!!!

Don't ya'll love that song, "I Will Survive?"

Tennis Anyone?

     Here's why I gave up tennis several decades ago, after spending many hours on the court throughout high school, college and thereafter. But one day, early 80's, I was on a court in Santa Monica, California, waiting for my partner to join me in a game. He was stuck in traffic downtown Los Angeles and I would just have to wait.
     The tennis court was right near my hotel and had a beautiful green clay surface. Nobody else was around. Then, suddenly, this elderly lady appeared with a 1920 style racquet. You know, wooden frame and gut strings. I suspect she was in her 70's. She was dressed in an outfit that suggested the MGM Chorus in 1934.
     The woman kind of mumbled her introduction to me and asked if we could hit a few balls. I explained that I was waiting for my partner to arrive. Actually, I was worried she might have a heart attack and I would end up giving her CPR until the ambulance arrived. Nevertheless, I said we could volley until my friend, Roger, arrived and she agreed.
     Back and forth we hit the ball. I was careful to return only soft lobs close to her. She did the same to me. Then this feisty lady said we should play one set of tennis because it was getting close to her nap time. Secretly, I was wondering when in the world Roger would show up. No sign at all of his car arriving in the nearby parking lot.
     I served first. Again, a soft lob across the net into her square. She deftly sent it back with a lot of spin out of my reach. Wow. Nice shot, I yelled to her. She smiled and crouched for my next serve with the score Love 15. I lost the first game at Love 45.
     The lady served the second game and had a side spin on the ball that landed in my square and then ran away from my racquet before I could hit it. Hmmmmmm. This woman has tricks. I better rise up to her level and present some competition to her style, whatever it was. So I tried to play my best.
     Back and forth we went. I was now down by four games. I hadn't won a single point! I couldn't beat her! She was twice my age and I began to feel rotten, beaten by a grandmother who had a tennis racquet probably used by Bill Tilden in the 30's.
     Finally, I was exhausted, losing 6 Love, and Roger had arrived, quietly watching my last game of the set as I was being run ragged back and forth from one side of the court to the other. My opponent had turned into a killer player who beat the crap out of me.
     Roger came over, introduced himself to her, Helen Wills Moody, who was Wimbolden champion nine times way back when. I was humbled, full of apologies and sweating profusely. Roger agreed to forget our tennis game and he offered to pay for lunch.
     We said goodbye to Helen and walked to a nearby restaurant. By the way, the tennis court was hers, not the hotel. I had both feet in my mouth. That's why I quit tennis.

The Cadillac Ranch

In the summer of 1974 I was invited to visit my pen pal, Stanley Marsh III, in Amarillo,TX. He would pay all my expenses and I could stay in the motel on his farm. Yes, Stanley was an original. He earned millions at 36 by leasing 10,000 acres of his land, containing natural gas, to the State of Texas. That money allowed him to buy radio and TV stations, erect a 12 story building downtown Amarillo, the tallest in the city, purchase a 16 room motel and transport it to his lavish farm and, finally, bury eight Cadillacs, circa Elvis Presley era, with the fins up in his back yard.

When I flew from Connecticut to Texas and we were preparing to land in Amarillo, the pilot cheerfully announced, "if you look down you can see the famous Cadillac Ranch owned by Stanley Marsh III. It's available to be viewed by tourists if you make a reservation ahead of time."

I landed around 11 am,  collected by suitcase and found a note at the airline desk with two keys in an envelope. The message from Stanley directed me to find the blue Plymouth outside and drive to his ranch three miles away; the second key was for my room number seven in his motel. After resting up I was invited to drive back to Amarillo, locate his building and we would have lunch at l:30 in his restaurant.

Stanley's building was a very visible landmark. His office was on the 11th floor. When the elevator opened I walked underneath a larger-than-life model of Jacqueline Kennedy with legs spread, facing a secretary at her desk. She was expecting me and I was pointed to Stanley's office door, painted in Zebra stripes. I knocked and a voice said to come in. When I entered I realized the entire office and furniture were all painted in Zebra stripes. As was Stanley's suit he was wearing.

The smirk on his face told me I was at last face to face with my friend who was nuttier than I. The only real difference: he was very, very rich. And he had a deep sense of humor besides. That's why we were friends and corresponded for several years prior to this meeting.

I sat in a Zebra chair and we chatted for a few minutes. Stanley was hungry, as was I, and we took the elevator one floor up to his private restaurant. Only he and his staff of twelve could eat there, along with any guests. No others were allowed. The menu was simple and the food delicious, prepared by a chef and delivered by a charming waitress. No money changed hands. No tipping either.

For the remainder of the week Stanley and I sat in his home office every night and just talked about our respective lives and various plans we each had for future development. He made it clear that he never invests in projects, other than his own, no movies, no Broadway shows, no partnerships of any kind. Hmmmmm. So why was he so eager for me to visit him? Well, just for fun. And to meet in person after all the correspondence. Fair enough.

On the last night before my departure, Stanley held a party in my  honor at a small park in downtown Amarillo. There were about a hundred people, including a dozen attractive ladies serving champagne. No food. It was close to 7 pm and I could sense that everyone was wondering about dinner that had been promised in the invitations. Oh well, we'll all just get drunk on champagne, I thought.

Suddenly, two large gasoline trucks drove up on either side of the park. Two guys in bell hop uniforms jumped out of each truck, pulled down the sides and revealed a buffet setup with all the trimmings. I'm talking filet mignon, baked potatoes, salads and chocolate cake with coffee. We all lined up and ate like wolves. What a surprise to a wonderful evening of drinks and glorious food.

In conclusion, Stanley's health deteriorated over the years and he passed away in June 2014 at the age of 76. He left behind his wife Wendy, a flock of children...and many exotic animals...along with the Cadillac Ranch, the latter run down and moved to another part of the farm. His reputation in Amarillo was also stained by charges he had made sexual contacts with young boys. Those allegations were all settled out of court, financially, and we'll never know the real truth.

What I Dislike About Staples

Staples is an excellent store to buy business supplies, albeit their prices are too high for print cartridges that don't last long enough, they have stopped carrying dark chocolate covered raisins and you have to wait weeks for a rebate check to arrive in the mail that looks like junk advertising.

Finally, folks, their disclaimer when dispensing a cash award reads like a Congressional Bill that will never pass the Senate. Here is only one portion of it for your displeasure:

Staples Rewards® cannot be redeemed for or applied against cash, taxes, credit remittance, shipping charges, custom printing orders placed online, promotional products, any purchases made on print.staples.com, staplescopycenter.com, staplespromotionalproducts.com, staplescustomprint.btobsource.com, appcenter.staples.com, gift cards, prepaid phone cards, postage stamps, prior purchases, Staples Industrial(sm) purchases, purchases made on staplesmobile.com, or purchases on third-party Web sites. Purchases eligible for rewards is the amount paid at checkout after application of all promotions, coupons and rewards redemptions. Purchases made pursuant to a contract with Staples Contract & Commercial, Inc., are not eligible for the Staples Rewards program. The sale, barter or transfer of rewards, except by Staples, is expressly prohibited. Abuse of the Staples Rewards program, including violation of program policies, or other improper conduct as determined by Staples, may result in legal action, cancellation of member account, exclusion from the program, forfeiture of all rewards accrued, and liability for past rewards redeemed. If reward is not redeemed in full on in-store purchase, a one-time-only coupon with the expiration date of the original reward will be printed for any remaining balances of $1.00 or more. No balance coupon will be given on online or phone orders. Balance coupon may be used for future store, online or phone orders. Expired rewards cannot be reissued. Staples reserves the right to change the rewards program at any time without notice.

Otherwise, their bathroom in Southbury, CT will never compare for cleanliness with the one in nearby Starbucks. I know. I've tried them both!

Drop Down, Post Up, Pay the Piper, Get Out!

According to a recent Neilsen Report there are 900 Reality Shows presently on television channels. And there are hundreds of thousands of ad to interrupt your pleasure of watching TV. But don't despair folks. I have a plan to charge advertisers for entering our homes via television and computer screens. Please follow this scenario closely, then email your Congressman and Congresswoman to introduce a bill that would make it all happen. Here goes:

Beginning in 2015 advertising agencies must pay a modest fee for each client they represent to every home in America. For a licensing cost of $5000 a year,  to each tax payer of record, everyone will then feel comfortable about seeing ads on their TV and computer screens. Kind of like having a relay tower on your property for cell phone companies. They pay tons of money for that arrangement and more each year. Ditto for NASCAR racers with all their labels on uniforms and cars. Athletes too generate more money than winning at sports.

Times have changed. As a kid in Ohio I can remember going to Oberlin College with my music teacher, a tennis buff, to watch matches played by Bill Tilden and Bobby Riggs. Or a basketball game in Akron when Bob Cousey was king on the court. No touching, pushing or stepping on toes then. And no money. They all played for the sport. Winning a trophy was the Holy Grail. More remunerative was grabbing the brass ring when riding a merry-go-round.

Today, money is everything. Consider Nadal's two million dollar check for winning the French open in tennis. Even the loser receives a hefty amount, although not as much as a Christmas bonus for a Citi Bank executive. Money, money, money. That's the name of the game.

If I had to live my life over again, I would be a tennis pro. That was my passion at the age of 12 and we had two tennis courts in Coshocton, Ohio, a town of 12,000. When the Mayor was asked why the population never changed, he replied "because everytime a baby is born, somebody leaves town."

He himself had to run away after he impregnated a high school senior. I can still see Maisy lumbering down Main Street carrying her 40 pound load. They left town together. So the population did change.

I played tennis with all the older guys and I was getting better all the time. When I reached college, I played more tennis with my buddy, Mac Schaeffer, and almost made the tennis team. But I had another avocation, jazz drumming. All the musicians around Columbus would meet every week for an afternoon jam session. We packed University Hall with 1,500 students and there was dancing in the aisles.

But I am getting away from the subject. Now where were we? I do remember and will get back to it some other time. Now the door bell is ringing. Probably more Jehovah's Witnesses. Oh well, this will give me an opportunity to try out my can of Mace. We just don't allow any religion in our house. There is a little church practically next door. That's close enough!

The Screaming Mimi or Nebelwerfer

During World War II the Germans had developed mortor shells in different lengths and widths, often loaded with shrapnel and/or poison gas. Hitler was bent upon destroying mankind anyway he could, regardless of earlier treaties for Germany not to manufacture war materials. He duped the free world into believing that one maniac with only one testicle could do much harm. Especially the USA, so far away from his invasions of Poland, Russia and France.

Hitler's Screaming Mimi, or Nebelwerfer, had another feature that scared his enemies into surrendering. That was the screaming of the thinly constructed mortor projectile as it sailed through the air. It was much louder than a rock band in the present day spectrum known as "music." And this leads me to my beef.

How much louder and higher can singers today sing? The "Voice" or "America's Got Talent" display young people with leather lungs that almost reach the height whereby only dogs can hear them. But not quite. So we humans have to endure the raw audible vocal cords designed to deafen a person, regardless of age. Accordingly, we are all doomed to die with dead ears!

Anthropologists dig up mummies with all their teeth after 5,000 years. But no ears. What happened? Were those earless souls frightened by a dinosaur? Or, like the Indians taking scalps for souvenirs, did early tribes of Neanderthal men and women treasure ear trophies after a battle with sticks and stones? We may never know until the conspiracy mavens tackle that possibility.

Meantime, we the people, must endure the ongoing plight of voices singing too loud and too high in pitch. Forget music lessons learned at Juilliard, Curtis and Eastman. Most singing graduates are stuck with a job at Wendy's and instrumentalists are selling shoes to earn a living. That is, unless one of these unfortunate music graduates has a relative who has donated many thousands of dollars to a symphony orchestra or an opera company. Their donations become viable connections for obtaining a job after four years of college training.

One of my college friends majored in music at The Ohio State University and graduated with his cello and a degree. His first job was with the Birmingham Symphony and a salary that only paid his monthly apartment rent. In order to eat, pay utilities and buy a used car, Chris had to sell shoes on Saturday and wait tables on Sunday. He lasted for about a year and then departed, after he found a lovely Southern Belle who "was loaded with large breasts and money" he told me in a letter. They married and lived happily ever after.

Our twenty-month old son is beating on a street drum I gave him. Jalen also dances when I play some jazzy rhythm. But when I asked him if there was any hope for his future in music, he answered immediately with a resounding "No!!!" It is certainly reassuring to hear such an intelligent response from someone so young. Thank heavens there will be no "Screaming Mimi" in our family!

My Experience With "Commando" Kelly, MEDAL OF HONOR WWII

I happened to share a train seat with Medal of Honor winner Commando Kelly, from Pittsburgh, PA. He was a gentle chap, ordinary looking, mid twenties, wearing his army uniform with a dozen colorful ribbons. We talked and soon became "a band of brothers."

Kelly had been in the bar car and downed too many drinks paid for by well-wishers. I could smell that! But he would tolerate my curiosity about his sudden fame on the battlefield. First he had to laugh when he recited what transpired in the bar at the Astor Hotel in New York City. He was wearing his raincoat and drinking at the bar, crowded with men too old to serve their country, and a few women. One female oldster looked at him with contempt and shouted above the music and talk, "Hey soldier, why aren't you overseas fighting the war? Are you 4-F or something?"  Kelly answered, "Because I have syphilis!"  As the crowd gasped and quieted down, he took off his raincoat, exposing the Medal of Honor medallion and all his ribbons. Everyone broke into applause and cheers, booing the antagonistic woman out of the bar.

I had to laugh at the incident and asked him to please tell me what happened to deserve that highest honor, and also to receive a battlefield commission. Here is what Commando Kelly told me:

"Well, Alan, I was with my platoon on a hill in France. About 39 GI's defending a medical unit on the other side of this steep hill. There were a lot of badly wounded Americans getting treated before being evacuation to a field hospital. The Krauts, about 200, were on the other side of the hill, getting ready to come up, wipe us out, and then overun the medical unit. The way was for them to come up, engage us, then go down the hill and massacre patients, doctors and nurses. Up on top, our guys were in an old woodshed we fortified with machine guns, mortars, grenades, rifles, pistols and loads of ammunition. I was just walking around this large cabin, listening to the noise of German troops below. They were going to attack in daylight and knew they outnumbered us five to one. I saw this closet door and looked inside. There were a dozen bottles of wine! I passed them all out to my buddies except two. I stayed in the closet and drank a bottle in less than five minutes. Then the second bottle was soon empty and I fell asleep. When I woke an hour later I was stone drunk with a massive headache. I didn't hear a sound outside my closet door. Where were my buddies? They had split. Gone. Left all their guns and ammo behind. Where were the Germans? Oh, they were coming, slowly but surely. I looked through the periscope and saw row after row of Nazi soldiers crawling up the hill, not more than a hundred yards away. Well, Alan, what would you do in that circumstance? You say you would run? How far would you get? Remember, that's desertion and you'd get court martialed. Or get killed. The Germans had orders to take no prisoners. So I decided to stay and fight. First I unloaded a belt of 50 caliber machine gun bullets and it was like like a strike in the bowling alley. The whole front row of 40 Krauts went flying. Dead as doornails. Then I picked up a bazooka and sent a shell into the center of the enemy advance. The wounded ones were screaming in pain. I fired a clip from an M-16 and was lucky again. Ten dead. Time to throw a few grenades. About 8, one after the other. More dead and wounded. Guess what, Alan? Those horses asses thought my whole platoon was in position and firing at them. But it was just me. All me alone! The cowards turned around and started sliding down the hill. I picked up the flame thrower, ran outside and torched several dozen wounded. Remember, take no prisoners. I had a Tommy Gun strapped on my shoulder, so I emptied that into the last wave of unholy rollers down that hill. End of story. I went back in the cabin, exhausted, the battle lasted about 30 minutes, and I fell asleep."

I asked Kelly how he got his Medal of Honor. He explained that after he fell asleep he was shaken awake by a Captain and his dozen or so grunts. They had been sent to return Kelly's body! Instead, they counted over a hundred dead Germans and one American soldier sleeping! But when he had dinner at the White House with President Truman, he left out the incident with the wine in the closet. Hmmmmmm.

I JUST LOVE STARBUCKS!

June 2, 2014

Mr. Howard Schultz, Chairman
STARBUCKS COFFEE COMPANY
2401 Utah Avenue, South
Seattle, WA 98134-1436

Dear Mr. Schultz,

I just love Starbucks. Especially how you went from nothing to everything when fulfilling your dream. Besides the enjoyable food, coffee and ambience of all your cafes I have visited in a dozen cities.

Best of all, your Starbucks have great toilets. They’re clean, well stocked with soap, hot water, soft toilet paper and absorbent towels.

In the latter instance, when I ran for Congress against Christopher Shays, as Representative from Connecticut in 1988, my campaign workers and I cleaned up Metro North commuter trains’ toilets.

We scrubbed the johns with Lysol in express trains before they departed from Grand Central Station, leaving behind a large bar of soap, a roll of heavy duty toilet paper, a stack of absorbent towels, a box of tissues, a spray can of deodorant, a plunger, the Wall Street Journal and a small glass vase with a fresh flower.

Did all this scrubbing and cost of supplies generate votes for the READY, WILLING AND ABEL party? Unfortunately not, Mr. Schultz. Even though I journeyed to Washington, DC, and measured the office for redecorating, if I were to win. But I lost by a landslide.

However, the joy of seeing smiling passengers depart from train toilets was thrilling. One man ran up and down the aisle shouting, “You’ve got to see the toilet! Look inside! You won’t believe it!” Other passengers thought he was nuts. Then a few brave souls peeked, came out raving and there were lines waiting to use the johns.

But, to continue this tribute to your Starbucks’ toilets, Mr. Schultz, they are all superb and I want to personally thank you for helping America raise the level of good health awareness with clean bathrooms, especially in Southbury, Connecticut.

I AM NOT A TWITTISH TWITTER!

I really don't have the desire or time to twit. Nor do I plan to follow anyone and I don't think it is practical for anyone to follow me. Many years ago, when I campaigned publicly to clothe all naked animals for the sake of decency ("A nude horse is a rude horse?), reporters Pete Hamill and Susan Brownmiller followed me around New York City to learn what was behind my movement called SINA (Society for Indecency to Naked Animals). They finally gave up the surveillance in despair.

However, nowadays everyone is hooked on twittering. Kind of like smoking. One drag on the weed, it gets into your bloodstream, and you're hooked! In order defeat that transformation, I will tweet in this column for the first, and probably the last time. Just to prove how trivial I can be. Here goes. Follow me.

   The telephone just rang off the hook
   I answered the telephone
   It was a wrong number
   The phone rang again
   I answered again with "Hello"
   It was the same wrong numberer
   I told him to stop bugging me
   He said I should shove it
   I told him to take a long walk on a short pier
   He told me to eat some worms
   I hung up on him
   There was a knock on the door
   I first sneaked a peek through the peep hole
   It was a female Holy Roller
   She wanted to come inside and talk
   I told her I didn't want religion
   She said we could talk about the weather
   I asked whether or not she could leave
   She said I was rude and didn't want to talk
   I said that was fine with me
   She left with her middle finger in the air
   Now the phone is ringing again
   It was Charter Television
   A foreign voice said I had to pay bill
   I said I already paid the monthly bill
   He said his records show I had not
   I gave him my confirmation number
   He looked it up and said I was O.K.
   Charter bookkeeping is out of control
   Suddenly it began to rain cats and dogs
   I closed all the windows
   Now I forgot what I planned to do next
   Oh yes, I remembered and went upstairs
   Into the bedroom and take off my shoes
   I lay on the bed and fell asleep
   No more tweets from me
   And don't even think of tweeting me!

Rebate or Masturbate?

Nowadays we're all being offered rebates as a bonus for buying. BEWARE! It's one more sucker trap to separate consumers from their money. For example, Staples sells a lot of products with bold print trumpeting prices that are lower than their competition. The Staples small print advises a larger price, with the explanation you'll receive a rebate after the purchase.

It all sounds too good to be true. Well, it's true. Sort of. To claim your rebate you have to mail in the receipt and wait weeks. When the "check" arrives it looks like a postcard with perforations and you're about to toss this ad in the refuse. Another look and you realize you were going to throw away the rebate. Many customers do. I almost did, but don't anymore. Why? Because I don't like and I don't want rebates from Staples or any other company.

Quite frankly it is much easier and more enjoyable to masturbate than fill out a form for a rebate. In the former instance, one hazard is a paper cut, especially while going over a PLAYBOY Magazine. A rebate form has serial numbers to fill in. One number I was requested to file, to obtain a $4 rebate from Staples, had 27 digits on the faded receipt. I tried to obtain the numbers with a magnifying glass; no luck. No rebate. No more of my business with Staples!

One more complaint about Staples and all the stores that sell print cartridges for computers. THEY ARE ALL TOO EXPENSIVE. I've tried to fill a used one with ink, to save money on purchasing a new one for my iMac. The result was spilled ink, a stained sweat shirt that cost $5 to have cleaned and I am angry of course.

Finally, computers are wonderful when they work. CHARTER brags how much faster they are. Not so. Mine is slower with CHARTER. Also, when I called Charter tech to find out why my iMac froze and I couldn't get on the Internet, "Mary" in the Philippines, led me through an hour of tutoring that involved unplugging all my connections, waiting for five minutes, and then plugging everything back in. I followed "Mary's" instructions to no avail. And said goodbye to "Mary." BTW my reason for the quotes is that "Mary" is about as American as the Philippine golf pro Amigo Rodrigues.

After thanking "Mary" for her assistance, I looked at my modem that wasn't blinking anymore and I slapped it. VOILA! All my computer lights went on and I was back in action. That's what I've done for years, i.e. when the lawn mower's motor stopped and wouldn't start, I kicked it. The motor began to perk again and lasted for another two years before quitting permanently. Ditto for the kitchen blender. It stopped whirring. I slammed it on the counter and it started up again.

The message here is to use your anger and level it at the offending appliance. Corporal punishment is in once again!

My Encounter With George Plimpton, Editor of The Paris Review

During the early 70's I was appearing on talk shows in Toronto, mainly with Pierre Berton, produced by Elsa Franklin. She had some sort of disagreement with George Plimpton and hired me to prank him with a grand hoax, nothing criminal or physical. And I was to secretly record it on audio tape for verification.

I knew a lot about Plimpton and his amusing escapades....playing quarterback for the Detroit Lions, performing on the triangle with the New York Philharmonic and boxing with Archie Moore, among many others. At the time, his magazine, The Paris Review, was in serious financial difficulty and he was seeking funds to keep it alive.

My plan was to call him, posing as a rich fan and offering to help with a nice sum of money. I used the name Harrison T. Rogers, he answered my phone call and I was invited to have lunch with him at his apartment, on the east side of New York City, the next day. So far so good. I had a tape recorder hidden in my briefcase and an hour for recording this session.

I arrived promptly at 1 pm and George was waiting, with his wife Freddy. They were both quite excited over the sudden, unexpected opportunity to raise some funding from a complete stranger. They never challenged me, we engaged in small talk, lunch was a plate of tasty sandwiches and iced tea. My banter consisted of talking about how I had sold liquid fertilizer (yes, I did that for a few weeks years earlier), made a fortune and sold my formula to Monsanto.

After lunch, we got down to business. George wanted to know how much I could invest and what I wanted in return. I offered to invest $25,000 in exchange for a 25% interest in his magazine forever. He winced at the last condition. George counter offered that percentage for $100,000. I hesitated and said I would have to think it over. Meantime, my watch indicated I only had five minutes before the tape recorder would click and stop recording.

It was time to say goodbye, quickly, which I did. They ushered me to the front door with a hand shake and Freddy planted a kiss on my cheek. I thanked them for their hospitality and took off, with a sigh of relief. As they shut the front door, a loud click came from my briefcase. Wow. close call. Also, I had claimed to have the $25,000 in cash in my brief case. That was foolish. What if George decided to accept my initial offer?

When I reached home, I played the tape for my wife, Jeanne, and we both found ourselves laughing throughout. It was all bold face comedy!  Here I am improvising about liquid fertilizer while George is bragging about The Paris Review and its plans for furure publications with my funds.

After making a copy of the tape cassette, I sent the original to Elsa Franklin in Toronto. She, Pierre Berton and their staff at the CBC station in Toronto found it hilarious. To my knowledge, George Plimpton never learned of the hoax. That's just as well. I felt a bit sheepish about pulling the wool over this sheep's eyes. He was a very talented guy and deserves to rest in peace.

I did write him a note with thanks for lunch and a decision not to invest after all.

To Be Or Not To Be TV

For some reason or other I have been on the low end of the totem pole when pitching a new TV concept to the network moguls. In the early 50's I made a pilot for an hour of music with a small orchestra, jazz pianist Dwike Mitchell and pop singers. It was shown on WPIX-TV in New York City and received excellent reviews in BILLBOARD and VARIETY trade magazines.

But the MAD MEN who controlled content for TV turned thumbs down. They felt that high class music should stay in the concert hall, not on television. Manny Sacks, a programming executive wih NBC called me to have lunch in six months and discuss my  show, "Your Musical Workshop." His secretary kept calling a month before for a later date; this happened seven times. Manny finally died.

Then I thought about entertainment on airlines, showing a movie and listening to old radio shows by Jack Benny, Red Skelton and Milton Berle. Charlie Beard, the CEO of Braniff Airlines, was willing to do a test run between New York City and Dallas. A 16 mm projector would show the Moss Hart World War II feature celebrating our Air Force, "Winged Victory," that was directed by George Cukor. An Ampex machine played back the old comedy radio shows.

Again, great reviews by the trade papers and passengers on the test Braniff run were delighted. But the airlines were dubious. As the marketing director for American Airlines told me in his office, "Travelers want to sleep, read magazines or look out the window. They don't want to be interrupted by music, jokes or read magazines." He then took me by the arm and aggressively escorted me to the elevator.

David Flexer called me with an invitation to have lunch at the "21" Restaurant. He was a young and enterprising chap interested in setting up a company called IN FLIGHT ENTERTAINMENT that would sell movies and radio shows to the airlines. Did I want to join him in business? I was not interested in having a partner in a project that I tried to sell and couldn't. So I turned him down. He forgot to put money in his wallet. I paid the check. The rest is history with IFE.

In the late 50's I made a half-hour pilot called "The Unstable Roundtable" with Buck Henry and a few other eggheads discussing "the role of the dog in society." It was an amusing show but there were no takers. Again, agency "suits" claimed it was too static, needed movement, maybe with ballet dancers or people dancing in Hoola Hoops. I abandoned the idea.

Here is one last failure. It was a half-hour program resembling a Playboy VIP Club, with a jazz band, attractive ladies and some clever banter by an M.C. This pilot would be staged on television, recorded on 35 mm film and then released to theaters, thus providing a cheap way to produce movie shorts.

It almost worked. The World Theater in Columbus, Ohio agreed to show the short subject for a week, because one of the models, Linda Lombard, was a native of Columbus and had graced the full cover of LOOK Magazine. The theater was on the edge of the campus of The Ohio State University, my alma mater where I was a BMOC. But that didn't matter much. Business was good and after all expenses were paid, including advertising, I received a check for $11.00. Say goodbye, and I did.

Finally, I'm not going to recite my crazy experience to produce an off-Broadway revue called, "Safari." You can read all about that roller coaster ride in my book, "How To Thrive On Rejection," and copies are available on the website www.abelraisescain.com

Thanks for ordering and reading.

There Ain't No More Free Lunches

I remember many earlier days when our entire family (three kids and two adults) went to the movies for a dollar. It was the Mu-Wa-Tu Theater in Coshocton, Ohio. The population of 12,000 never changed from year to year because, as Sheriff Holmes said, "Every time a baby is born someone leave town."  And a full meal for our family at the Trinway Diner in Conesville was only $1.50! As Archie Bunker often sang with Edith, "Those Were The Days," with thanks to songwriters Lee Adams and Charles Strouse.

Nowadays, especially in cyberspace, everything and I mean everything is DISINGENUOUS! For example, I just tuned in to a chap who claimed to have lost 81 pounds in a year with his "secret." He then rambled on for ten minutes, reciting the magic of his "mound" that he lost, until I fell asleep. When I woke up a few minutes later, he was still ranting and raving about what he intended to tell me. Well, I said to myself, "fuck you asshole." I lost a pound just listening to this shithead. My solution was to press the delete button. Goodbye snake oil sales pitch.

And so it goes, folks. There ain't no more free lunches. Another example. My wife and I received a dozen invitations to attend free dinners hosted by retirement villages and investment planners. We had some excellent meals and sat through an hour of pitch talk. Then we went home to some late night talk on TV from comedians and soon fell asleep. That was during 2006 and 2012.

Those invitations ended because we never fell prey to the pitches. We did appreciate the free dinners, saving a few hundred dollars in total. Now, we're satisfied to eat at home, having paid for the food and enjoying our mutual company. Mostly small talk and lots of laughs over past achievements. If you want to peek into our dinner talks, view our daughter's and son-in-law's award-winning documentary, "Abel Raises Cain." It's a magnificent embarrassment. You can order a DVD from www.abelraisescain.com

So, beware if the message on your computer or television is too good to be true. The pitchman or pitchwoman has what it takes to take what you've got: YOUR MONEY! Meantime, try to have a nice day.

A Plan To Embarrass Donald Sterling

THE KKK SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA

(SCENARIO)

This is a satire designed to spoof the present NBA bruhaha over Donald Sterling’s racist remarks that continue to reverberate around the world in the media. In addition to his harsh banishment from basketball, and the $2.5 million fine, he needs a healthy kick in the behind. With embarrassment and underlying humor.

The KKK Symphony Orchestra LP will both illuminate and then deflate Sterling’s pompous and outrageous behavior. Especially when he is publicly invited to conduct a Children’s Concert by the KKK Symphony Orchestra during the summer of 2014 in New York City’s Central Park. Complete with fireworks afterwards.

(PRODUCTION)

The orchestra consists of 25 professional musicians in a recording studio. They play a series of Negro Spirituals out of tune and out of rhythm. The conductor speaks with a German accent and is ruthless as he starts and stops the music. There are gun shots as he executes key players: “Oboe player. You made a mistake. Say goodby (GUN SHOT). Flute player. You can play the oboe music because it’s in concert key. I will not allow any transposing in the KKK SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA.”

This musical nonsense will also include a variety of percussion sounds…tambourines, wood block, cowbell, claves, timbales, chimes, bells, xylophone, marimba, gong, triangle, snare drum, bass drum, cymbals and slapstick. All in the spirit of Spike Jones (circa 1944) who entertained millions with his musical comedy hijinks.

On the LP cover, musicians are wearing KKK robes rather than tuxes. The liner notes describe “a kinder, gentler Klan with music to soothe the savage breast.” Also, faux bios on the musicians provide guffaws: “Izzy Goldstein, concertmaster, was recently fired from a major symphony when he was discovered selling cocaine out of his violin case. And George Lincoln Washington, principal bass, formerly sat on the bench of an NBA basketball team for three years before being noticed and dropped from the roster.”

(PROMOTION AND DISTRIBUTION)

Only 200 copies of the KKK SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA LP will be produced and mailed to major media organizations worldwide. However, a website will solicit orders @$19.95 plus handling and shipping. A sample trailer reveals the satire. An offer for distribution, with a substantial advance, is to be explored.

(BUDGET)

25 Musicians @ $400
$10,000

4 hrs. studio + editing
$5,000

Photos, robes, liner notes, 200 LPs, website, postage via priority mail
$7,500

Two Prods. Assistants @ $500 a wk. for 2 wks + $500 for expenses
$2,500

Contingency (20%) Legal contracts, Union fees, Licensing, etc.
$5,000

GRAND TOTAL
$30,000

How To Acquire A Charming Roommate

     My friend George was an artist with a pre-war apartment on the upper westside of New York City during the 60's. It was three rooms with 12 foot ceilings, only $200 a month, including electricity and hot water. Pets allow and George had a cat. But he really wanted an attractive young lady as a roommate and to share the rent.
     I suggested he place an ad in the VILLAGE VOICE as follows:  ROOMMATE WANTED.  Prefer young lady in her 20's without hangups, no pets and one suitcase. $100 a month to share the rent. I work days and only come home to sleep with my cat. No drugs or booze allowed. Call this number after 7 pm.
     George received several dozen calls and spent a weekend holding interviews. He narrowed the potential roommates to 4 who fit his scheme for an attractive roommate and finally chose Emily. She was vivacious, a dancer from Ohio studying ballet in New York and was financed by her parents. Perfect. She moved in the next day. Emily had been living in the Barbizon Hotel for Women and it was overcrowded with unhappy females.
     Emily like to cook and her schedule permitted her to prepare their dinners together. They became like a brother and sister. Within three months she was ready to move out. Emily fell in love with another dancer and they were both gay.
     George was devestated and wanted another roommate. But he didn't want to go through a similar advertising and audition campaign. Did I have another method in mind? Yes I did. He should pretend to be a reporter seeking a story from an attractive young lady sitting on one of the many benches in Central Park.
     He was good at this charade. Notepad in hand, George strolled around the park and located a few girls sitting alone. It took only three interviews and he found another roommate. This one was a charming blonde studying cello at the Juilliard School of Music. Marsha promised to practice only when George was away and could easily handle the rent.
     She had her own bedroom and they occasionally collided at the bathroom door. Marsha had many rehearsals and lessons, so her day ended around 10 pm at night. No chance for dinners together. But she was sexy, they were attracted to one another and there were many weekends in bed together having sex.
     Marsha soon found another lover at school. He was a trumpet major and had a fantastic triple tongue technique when going down on her. She moved in with Hector after six months. George was sad to see her go. But that's live. Back to the drawing board. More ads, more auditions and interviews in Central Park.
     George had a day job with a research company and they offered him a transfer to their London office. That was the last I heard from him. He literally dropped out of my life. I have had several dozen friends like this. For example, the last time I saw Robert Downey, Sr. was in 1981 when I was performing in my one-man show off-Broadway, "Jester At Large."  He attended with his young son, Robert Downey, Jr.
     Fast forward to 2011. Robert, Sr. called from New York City where he was living with his third wife, Rosemary. His offer to have lunch was fulfilled and we picked up the conversation from 30 years ago like it was yesterday. Bob did a lot of bragging about trials and tribulations of Bobby, Jr. that finally led to his being the highest paid actor in Hollywood. And of course Bob picked up the check.