DAMN THOSE TICKS!

     I recently felt my left arm swelling near the wrist. Sure enough, a tick was buried into my flesh, feasting on my blood and threatening to derail my immune system. The tell-tell clue of a few hair follicles raised the red flag.

     My wife, an unregistered nurse, offered to get her tweezers,

dip it in alcohol and send the culprit down our toilet, properly flushed without ceremony. That would serve him or her right!

     I disagreed. Rather, I insisted we go to URGENT CARE, and let a professional digger do the job. She argued that the cost might be prohibitive, paying the doctor, the RN, front desk secretary, a portion of malpractice insurance, dry cleaning, laundry, recovery medicine and some of the building’s overhead.

     But my quest for quality, regardless of cost, prevailed. Jeanne, my other half, and I have been married for half-a-century without a major argument. We always manage to compromise. For example, when she wanted to spend a vacation in Paris, we couldn’t afford it. The settlement was a French kiss.

     As my arm continued to swell and become painful, we drove from our home to URGENT CARE in Southbury, CT. Jeanne decided to time this event. The trip there took only two minutes and seven seconds. Inside the waiting room, I had to fill out a form asking my prior and present medical conditions, before the doctor would see me. I checked off everything from lockjaw to yellow fever, with only one allergy: heavy metal music.

     That office quiz took ten minutes and twenty-two seconds. The doctor needed only a glance to shout, “You’ve got a tick!” Then, faster than David Blaine sawing a woman in half, he used his sterile tweezer to grab the little rascal by the hairs, and throw him or her forcibly into a bin marked BIO HAZARD PAIL.

     Doc’s procedure took three minutes and thirteen seconds. I was ushered into the reception area and handed the bill. Maybe one minute. The trip home, just under two minutes.

     Now what is all this balderdash leading up to? It’s the excruciating pain we both suffered in our living room, as my wife screamed out loud.  The bill from URGENT CARE was $574.83!!! 

     My insurance company offered to pay only half.  That is being appealed. And we drive very carefully when going past URGENT CARE.

     

LIES, LIES AND MORE LIES

          I'm sure that everyone agrees with me when watching TV commercials, that the side effects are worse than the cure for an advertised pill. Especially while having dinner...."dizzyness, dry mouth, incontinenance, diahrrea, vomiting, constipation, kidney failure, heart attack, ulcers, sore throat, high fever and you could die."  Then, while feeling any of these disorders, you're supposed to call your doctor. And where is he? On the golf course of course. Don't even think of calling his cell phone. A slip of the scalpel, when you're in surgery, could mean you're dead.
     Then there are the insurance liars. It's bad enough that GI insurance only pays about $300 for funeral expenses. That will just about cover the cost for embalming and burial in Potter's Field. But if you die while still in the military service, your next of kin receives $100,000 from Uncle Sam, burial in a government cemetery, with full honors that include a volley of gun shots, "Taps" on the bugle and somebody in your family gets to keep the American flag that draped your coffin. Unless one of the honor guard had very bad aim.
     Of course you can fall sucker to one of the advertised funeral "Death Insurance Policies." The maximum is $20,000 and you don't need a medical exam. You could have lost two arms and a leg, still have shrapnal in your head and a bladder bag. They won't hold that against you. The only guarantee is the twenty grand, as long as your premiums are paid on time, and nobody over the age of 85 is eligible. Boo-hoo really old, old timers; just keep playing Bingo and sob your eyes out.
     Sorry to be sounding so sarcastic. But life is unfair. The late JFK said those words when asked why people who go to church regularly, don't drink, smoke, gamble, swear or smell badly often murder someone or steal all the money. Or the wrong criminal is in jail for years before, thanks to DNA, is found innocent of his alleged crime. And the Prosccuting Attorney still thinks the evidence against the poor soul was accurate. Well, that poor soul becomes a very rich soul when the county treasurer sends him or her a check for a few million dollars.
     Advertising campaigns will always prevail using "the permissable lie." Sex means sales. That's why you'll never see a 300 pound woman with pimples pitching an ad for any product, car or exercise machine. Maybe a Volvo back hoe lifting her out of the house or garage. Yes, Volvo did manufacture heavy equipment in the good old days. And their autos would run 400,000 miles with barely a squeak for ten or more years. Now that Ford has bought the company, just remember what happened with the Pinto.
    That's enough haranguing for today. I'm just going to sit, sulk and wait for the Sweet Sixteen Basketball teams to play a few good games. Watching those Dinosaurs with a round ball swishing through the net is great fun. Especially when the guy sitting on the bench for nearly four years is now in the game because the favorite players have fouled out. And the nearly forgotten senior from the bench scores a winning basket with two seconds on the clock. Eat your heart out, Michael Jordan!

The Sucker Trap

     The Internet is now a marketplace for everyone to pitch their wares. Actually a global Flea Market. Four decades ago you could hold a garage or tag sale on the sidewalk in front of your home or apartment building. Neighbors could gobble up your "treasures" for peanuts and you got rid of your junk. Plus money to spend on lottery tickets and fulfill a dream of making millions. Just thinking of all that money can drive anyone to heavy drinking, and then months in rehab to become sober.
     So number one in the Sucker Trap are Powerball and MegaMillions. Some 41 states sell the tickets. And we're all suckers for a dollar or two, hoping to win the jackpot. But, you can't win. When the numbers reach a high six figure sum, the national frenzy is unbelievable. Lines around the block at convenience stores and gas stations. The seller of a winning jackpot ticket collects a hefty five figure reward and a big sign for his or her window: WE SOLD THE WINNING JACKPOT TICKET HERE!
     You don't have to be a mathematician or rocket scientist to know that the odds of winning (175 million to l) are phenomenal and leave you with zilch. YOU CANNOT WIN. Say that l00 times before you shell out any of your hard earned money to win a lottery jackpot.
     So who wins the big jackpot? Some bloke who is filling up his tank with gas, walks into the store and buys a ticket at ten minutes to 8 before the lottery closes. His one lone ticket, generated by the machine, produces winning numbers programmed by the lottery commission. They can contol the fall of the balls and land on the numbers that this bloke received. That is the way the lottery works its magic. Any questions?
     Now for the next big sucker track. When the ad on your TV or computer screen offers a free sample of anything, plus only shipping and handling, from $4 to $8 dollars. And you punch in your credit card for the latter. No checks or money orders allowed. Why? Because once the company has your credit card they will deduct a monthly charge for additional supplies you don't want. That's all in the small print, designed for people with 20-20 vision and a magnifying glass.
     Similar pitches for your money via credit or debit cards will arrive on the phone. Consider this exchange when my telephone rang recently:

SHE: Mr. Abel, you have won three free dancing lessons at Arthur Murray's School for Dancing.
ME:  Oh my God. How did I get so lucky?
SHE: Well, we pick people at random and you seem to be an excellent prospect from the sound of your voice.
ME: I only have one leg....
SHE: Oh, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I just didn't know....
ME: How about pole dancing instead?
SHE: (DIAL TONE)

     Another time, I received a call from a telemarketer offering me very low rates for a subscription to TIME MAGAZINE. That conversation, recorded of course, went like this:

HE: Can I sign you up, sir?
ME: Certainly. Start my subscription immediately and send the first week's issue to me care of THE HOLIDAY INN in Columbus, OH; the next issue care of the Ramada Inn in Dayton, OH; the third issue care of Motel 6 in Toledo,OH......
HE: Wait a minute, wait a minute, why all these motels...
ME: Because I'm a traveling salesman and you'll have to follow me around the country.
HE: (DIAL TONE)

     There are other sucker traps, folks, too numerous to mention. Just keep your guard up and be clever. You'll feel better and have the last laugh.

I Left My Wallet In San Francisco

     In 1994 I was presenting lectures for THE LEARNING ANNEX in New York and other cities. My subject was "Using Your Wits To Win" and the three-hour session generally attracted fifty or sixty people. Everyone had some sort of problem to solve, and I always had ways to retaliate....without doing anything criminal or physical.
     On one trip from New York City to Sacramento, I had to change planes in San Francisco. That particular day the weather on the east coast was all snow and ice. So flights were cancelled one after another. I was lucky. Mine took off with a full load of passengers and six hours later we landed at San Francisco's airport. But my flight to Sacramento was overbooked, due to all the prior cancellations, so I was told I could catch a flight the next day and United Airlines would put me up in a nearby motel.
     I couldn't risk staying over because my lecture in Sacramento was scheduled for 7 pm the next day. My solution would be to rent a car and drive. So I headed through the mobs of people waiting for a flight, several thousand by my estimate, and finally reached a line at the Hertz Car Rental desk. They had plenty of cars. Mine would be a Chevy,
     I reached into my jacket for the large wallet I always carried on trips. It contained credit cards, a Daily Reminder pad and pen, a pocket for cash and visible sections for photos and my driver's license. I remember handing the agent an American Express card and my driver's license. Then I rested the wallet on the desk top as he wrote down all the necessary information, handed me back my credit card and license, and asked me to sign and initial a few pages.
   But wait! Where was my wallet? It was gone, out of sight and I was out of my mind! As I foamed at the mouth and shouted, "My wallet, my wallet! Who took my wallet?" The crowd around me was just standing their ground. Nobody seemed to care about my problem. They had their own called "frustration."
     Yes, I filed a report with a policeman in the crowd and went outside the terminal to the Hertz parking lot where my rental car was waiting. I only had my credit card and driver's license. No cash. But as I drove away and headed for Sacramenta, I realized I had all I needed to survive this trip and then return safely home.
     I decided not to get stressed. Granted, I did lose about $60 in cash and all the photos and several other credit cards. They were quickly cancelled of course. But some dirty rotten asshole was in  possession of my personal property and hard earned money. Perhaps he would be nice enough to mail me my wallet and personal stuff.
     When I returned to New York City I kept in touch with the San Francisco Police Dept. They never received anything with my name on it. And I didn't get anything in the mail. So I left my wallet in San Francisco, Tony Bennett. Why don't you sing a song about that?

The Campaign To Ban Breastfeeding

     In the spring of 2000 I was having lunch with my sister Sally and her daughter-in-law, Jane, with one year old baby Cara. We were in the fashionable  Miramar Restaurant on East Broad Street in Columbus, Ohio. I got up for the bathroom, after placing an order for a shrimp salad, one of the special dishes.
     When I returned to the table Jane was breastfeeding Cara, Sally was eating her hamburger and my salad was waiting. Jane had a bowl of onion soup getting cold. I couldn't help notice that although the crowded restaurant had mostly women eating lunch, men were outnumbered ten to one. None of the ladies seemed to notice Jane's breastfeeding. Nor her lovely breast. But I did! And that's when a light bulb lit up.
     Why not launch a campaign to ban all breastfeeding and make it illegal anywhere in public? Furthermore I would declare this act of feeding a baby immoral. Instead, pump out the milk into a bottle and allow the baby to suck on the rubber nipple for nourishment.
     I could hardly contain my inner excitement over the potential of my next big campaign to BAN BREASTFEEDING. But I wasn't about to share this feeling with Sally or Jane. Neither had a sense of humor and always remained suspicious of my intentions with promoting hoax stories published as fact, rather than fiction. I believe they felt I was somehow making money under the table, or doing something illegal. So they never expressed support for any of my satirical hoaxes, only suspicion.
     For the initial launch of BAN BREASTFEEDING, my wife Jeanne, along with friend and associate Paul Hiatt, drove to Philadelphia in August of 2000 for the Republican Convention. As most of the principal politicians were in meetings or playing golf, we really stole the show with our signs and flyers. The latter explained ".......breastfeeding is a form of sexual gratification between mother and baby that must be stopped. It's a naughty nipple. Furthermore the baby become addicted to oral contact with the breast that leads to smoking, drinking and even homosexuality."
     We created a fire storm with the media and were surrounded by reporters, giving interviews and passing out flyers. After several hours we managed to escape to Atlantic City for an evening of rest and recreation, laughing all the way there. I knew we had a winner and I was right. From that day in August 2000, for the next four years, I did over 200 interviews on radio and a few on television, posing as Dr. Harrison T. Rogers, child psychologist.
     During the summer of 2004, Jeanne and I visited daughter Jennifer in Los Angeles. Paul Hiatt had sufficient mileage points for an airline ticket and several hotel nights. So he joined us that August during the Democratic Convention, to continue with the campaign to Ban Breastfeeding. Some of Jennifer's and Jeff's friends joined us for fun. We captured more publicity, including a photo on the front page of the LA WEEKLY.
     Following Los Angeles, Jeanne and I returned to Connecticut where I did a lot more phone interviews, claiming breastfeeding to be an incestuous relatioship between mother and child, with many mothers "getting off with their babies and faking orgasm with spouses." That statement would really light up a switchboard! In fact, when I was on the air with radio station CHUM in Toronto, I heard the fire engine coming when the switchboard caught on fire. Apparently, hundreds of outraged mothers were calling.
       The Ban the Breastfeeding campaign lasted about five years. It was an integral part of the documentary, "Abel Raises Cain,"  produced, directed and edited by Jen and Jeff. In 2005 they won the first grand prize at Slamdance for "Best Documentary." That honor was followed by other film festival wins in the USA, Canada, England, France, Germany and Spain. What a great tribute from our "little girl" and her hubby!
    
    

That's Entertainment? (Another opening, another show)

     It was 6 pm October 24, 1971 and 600 people were inside the Playboy Theater on 57th Street in New York City. Another hundred or so were lined up outside waiting for tickets to see the next screening of the satire on sex, "Is There Sex After Death?"
     After a year of sweat, blood, tears and money, my wife, Jeanne, and I had completed our first feature film with the great Buck Henry doing his best comedy. I produced and she directed. We were sitting in balcony with our attorney, Bob Schwartz, nervously waiting for the lights to dim. It was now 6:10, we could see the 86 year-old projectionist fumbling with the 16 mmfilm, trying to open the film gate in the projector.....it was a new Hortzon, developed by a French inventor,  loaned to us and it enlarged 16 mm to 35 mm on the screen. Even critic Pauline Kael admitted later she was fooled.
     Now it was 15 after 6, the projectionist was still fumbling and feet began a rhythmic thump downstairs in the orchestra section. The three of us became even more nervous and exchanged concerned glances. What in the world was wrong? Then a sigh of relief as the lights dimmed and the projector could be heard whirring. Then grinding to a halt. On the screen was a huge red fire as the film began to burn, fueled by the 1,500 watt bulb and clogged up on sprocket teeth.
     Almost by instinct, Jeanne sprang up from her seat and ran into the projection booth. I inquired of Bob what the penalty was for 1st degree murder. Before he could answer, amid the groans of the audience, I hurried downstairs and up on the stage. Jeanne brought up the house lights and began cleaning out the burnt film so she could re-thread. After all, she was an experienced film editor with many hours at the Steenbeck and Kem machines.
     I had just appeared on radio station WBAI to promote the film's opening, so I had enough material to hold the audience's attention and stall any mass exodus. This was our only print available and I knew that critics were in the audience. So it was really and truly showtime!
     "Ladies, gentlemen and germs. My name is Alan Abel and I am the producer of this dirty, rotten, filthy film. And I never thought there were so many degenerates in this city. Just stay where you are because I'm placing everyone under house arrest. Why did you come here? No pun intended. Did you think you were going to be entertained? Perhaps meet the love of your miserable life? Well, think again. If you came here to learn about sex, you're in great trouble. Consider the dinosaurs. They had no sex lives and soon became extinct. Oh, they tried things. For example, tying a string at the base of the genitals to remember something. They remembered it was very painful. By the way, we will be giving free vasectomy operations in the lobby during intermission......."
     The lights were dimming, the crowd gave me a very large round of applause and thus began "Is There Sex After Death." The early newspaper editions that night gave rave reviews, as did both radio and television news programs. We were on a roll indeed and never looked back. Oh, the old projectionist? He retired before I could kick his ass.

Does Donald Trump Have Skid Marks?

     Actually, I don't know and I don't care. But it seemed like a good title for this blog. My beef with The Donald dates back to the summer of 1998 during the yearly New York Book Fair on Fifth Avenue. I was there with my friend Paul Hiatt, and he would help me sell my out-of-print books on the sidewalk. For that occasion, the street was closed to traffic from 42nd Street to 57th Street, and authors were permitted to sell their books. Publishers paid to have their stalls on Fifth Avenue and promote new publications.
     On this Sunday the weather was perfect for the crowds of people who attended. My location was in front of Trump Tower on the sidewalk. Sales were brisk for about twenty minutes; then The Donald's security guards approched me, saying: "Sorry. You'll have to pack up and leave this location.The order is from Donald Trump who owns this sidewalk."
     A retired police officer nearby heard their ultimatum and came closer to dispute that command.
"No way," he said. "The sidewalk belongs to the city of New York, not Donald Trump. Besides, this is Book Fair Day and authors and publishers own the right to sell their books anywhere on Fifth Avenue, from 9 am until 5 pm."
     But the security guards weren't deterred. They started putting my books into the boxes and, despite my protests, Paul and I were moved away from Trump Tower. Nor was I about to engage in combat with the beefy security guys, albeit they were ready to battle.
     Paul and I sold more books at other locations on Fifh Avenue but the place in front of Trump Tower had been the best. We packed up early and went to dinner. I told Paul my plan for the next day: Small Claims Court.
     I've been to Small Claims Court over a dozen times during the past several decades. Once when American Airlines lost my box of 500 books on the way to a convention in Dallas. The court issued a judgement for $1,500 in lost sales and they paid up. Another time a British producer stiffed me on a $400 fee promised; I collected in full, plus 15% interest. Now, the court awarded me $900 for lost sales at the Book Fair.
     I received a Default Judgment and Trump's lawyers weren't even in court to contest it. That sum is too small for them to waste their time and they knew I would have difficulty in locating the proper company, among his many, to collect my money. True. That was going to be an almost impossible task. Well, almost.
     My judgement was good for twenty years. So I went to Atlantic City, NJ and visited the Sheriff. I asked him to auction Trump's Taj Mahal Hotel, I would take the first $900 and give him the next 55 million. He called the local newspaper, they ran a story and I received a call from Mr. Diamond, one of Trump's lawyers. He offered me $1,000 to forgive and forget. An excellent idea! Stay tuned.