I LOVE A MYSTERY!

We all love a good mystery. Many of us even like a bad mystery. We grew up reading, watching movies and TV series whose subjects were mysteries – unsolved or solved. For us oldsters we even listened to radio mysteries. Yes, kids, years ago radio had actual shows on not just rap music, shock jocks or conservative, rightwing blowhards.

Who can ever forget Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, Sam Spade, Joe Friday and the host of other great detectives who when faced with a mysterious crime – would gather the clues and ingeniously solve the case before you could say, “It’s elementary, my dear Watson.” If they didn’t have a “dear Watson” they did the best they could.

With the advent of all the new police crime shows on television, like: “CSI Toledo,” viewers have become amateur sleuths and experts on solving murders. Most of us certainly feel we can do a better job than the authorities in Aruba. With that in mind I couldn’t help getting excited – something at the Old Geezer’s age that is as rare as a well behaved professional athlete – reading about a baffling murder mystery that is confounding the police in Pittsburgh, Pa.

It was a dark, rainy, windy night in the Stanton Heights neighborhood when Police Lt. Kevin Kraus while investigating an argument between two motorists discovered a murder victim. In all his years in law enforcement he had never seen such a disconcerting sight. It took great self-control for him not to lose his dinner of Krispy Kreame donuts. As he climbed the steps of the rear porch he couldn’t tell if the murder victim was a male or female. He later found out the victim’s name was Pimpin’. I know what you CSI Toledo fans are saying, “Must be a pimp that was either bumped off by his Ho or by another pimp trying to cut into his territory.” Actually the victim was not a pimp…it was a boxer-pit bull mixed breed.

The murder victim was a mongrel. If that wasn’t strange enough, it was dressed in blue jeans, a T-shirt, socks, tennis shoes and a baseball cap. Yes, friends the dog was dressed in the latest fashions but didn’t have his collar on. Baffling, eh? Lt. Kraus immediately theorized that Pimpin’ probably didn’t dress himself in those clothes. That’s not to take away anything from Pimpin’ who was very smart and could heel with the best of dogs. Why would anyone dress a dog in human clothes? And why after it was killed? It was known hither and yon that Pimpin’ hated the color blue and would rather have been found dead than in blue jeans. Oh, he was.

Police were trying to interview a woman who lived in the house where the dog was found. They found her hiding under a couch nibbling on a dog biscuit – I made that up. The Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s office determined that Pimpin’ had been bludgeoned and stabbed to death days earlier. The dog’s killer could face animal cruelty and drug charges. Not to mention bad taste in clothes.

This bewildering murder mystery will go down in history along with the unanswered question of why seemingly intelligent men and women vote for the people they do.

I BELIEVE!

For thousands of years people have been fascinated with the idea of people who have the ability to forecast events and see into the future. Psychics and clairvoyants have fascinated men and women not to mention jealous gypsies. Gypsies, of course, are famous for reading tea leaves, palms of hands and pots of kasha. Why is this need to explain the unexplainable and delve into the unknown so important to humans? If I knew the answer to that I would be spokesman for the Psychic Hotline and sing like Dionne Warwick. Isn’t it interesting that if the Hotline wasn’t a scam they would have known that they’d go bankrupt quicker than Enron’s poor employees.

The list of famous dead, and still dead, clairvoyants include people like: Nostradamus – whose “readings” of the future still fascinate millions. “Nostra” as he was known by friends predicted such historical events as Napoleon’s defeat in Cleveland, Ohio and the lack of staying power of the Nehru jacket. Personally, “Nostra” always sounded like a nose spray to the Geezer. There was also Jeanne Dixon, a strange woman who insisted that the price of the 3 cents stamp would never go down – and – that Paul Anka would lose his suntan. Edgar Cayce was a very famous clairvoyant who to the day he died insisted he wouldn’t. He took out a perpetual life insurance policy with Lloyd’s of London which ended when he passed at the age of 6-months.

The reason for this exploration of the hereafter comes about because of a very interesting pay-television séance on In Demand which conducted a pay-television séance to contact John Lennon. The séance was organized by the producers of a failed 2003 attempt to channel the late Princess Diana’s spirit, a show the earned scathing reviews but grossed close to 8 million. They never did ‘contact’ Diana; it seems she was out for a drive in Paris. I guess that experience proves that a sucker is born every minute which was the theme of the TV series, “Vomiting with the Stars.”

These hucksters decided to continue their scam and came up with the idiotic idea of trying to contact John Lennon. If you don’t think people actually spent dollars and euros on this scam, you are the kind of yahoo who believes that Barry Bonds doesn’t take steroids. People paid $9.95 to watch the pay-for-view Lennon special and saw audio crew members, a psychic and an expert in paranormal activity claim that the late Beatle’s spirit contact them through what is described as an Electronic Voice Phenomenon (EVP). The EVP was discovered during a taping of a séance at La Fortuna restaurant in New York, which Lennon frequented.

La Fortuna had an autographed picture of Lennon prominently displayed next to a signed photo of Norm Crosby and Mookie Wilson. The show’s organizers said psychic Joe Power’s voice feed went dead for a few seconds and the message was found on it when the tape of the voice feed was played back. EVP is based on a belief that spirit voices communicate through radio and TV broadcast signals. On the television show, filming at La Fortuna suddenly stopped and the narrator said something odd has happened. Power had turned his back to the audience, then turned back and placed a Ringo Starr doll seated on his lap. Without trying to move his lips too much a mysterious voice can be heard on Power’s voice feed seemingly coming from the Ringo doll. The producers called an “EVP specialist” to examine the voice and she proclaimed it Lennon’s. In that she happened to be the daughter of the show’s producer caused some skeptics to cry “fowl!”

When they examined the voice which believer's insisted said, "Peace...the message is Peace," but doubters insisted said, "Peaches...I can't find a good, juicy peach here." They also said the voice sounded very much like Senor Wences’. Some critics called the entire exercise “tacky and exploitative.” However, they announced their own production to try and contact Jimmy Hoffa in Bosnia or Camp David. It’ll be $9.95 well spent.

I LOVE BEING ALWAYS RIGHT!

The Geezer dedicates this to people who abuse their authority and power convinced that they, and only they, know best.

“I am not wrong! I am never wrong! I can’t be wrong! When I make a decision is has to be right and not questioned. I am a leader therefore nothing I say
can be disputed. I don’t care what experts or able and erudite people say and what proof emerges to contradict me or my opinions, they are wrong and I am right. That’s what having power is all about.

It doesn’t matter what information, wisdom and truth illustrates my stupidity and stubbornness I must never, ever admit that I made a mistake. And I must never be embarrassed when people no longer believe me. When someone disagrees with me I must destroy them: Claim that they are part of a vast conspiracy formed by my enemies, that they are disloyal and un-American.

I know I must be right because all my “yes” men and sycophants tell me so. If I can’t believe them who can I believe? Critics claim that I live in a bubble and am out of touch. To those ignorant dunderheads I declare, “Nanananana!” It’s vital I stick to my guns even though my position is hopeless. Only a weak loser would acknowledge a blunder or failure. What’s the point of being in charge is you have to concede being human and having frailties? If mistakes are made its other people’s fault not mine. I’m always right, I always am – my mother told me so.

To those doubters and malcontents I can honestly say, “apish-posh.” Are you going to believe your eyes and common sense or are you going trust me? Forget truth and fairness the only thing that matters is my macho shallowness, ignorance…and what my paid advisors tell me I want to hear. They wouldn’t lie.”

I HAVE A DREAM....

All over the world kids worth their salt…and pepper…are asked the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” The answers they give vary and often are reflective of the regions they live in. Boys from the Middle East often will say suicide bombers or hip-hop rabbis. Girls’ answers run the gamut from “less hairy” to “yentas”.

In America the usual answers are fireman, NBA super-star – which could be a problem for a boy midget, lawyer, doctor, astronaut, scientist, and for southern teens: beer guzzling, big bellied bigots. Girls, on the other hand, often answer – lawyer, doctor, scientist, teacher and with females who’s mother was on crack during the pregnancy….an NBA super-star. The point is hopes, dreams and imaginations deviate as much as the price of gas at the pump. A huge reason for the changes in children’s attitudes toward possible occupations is the times in which they live. Young Visigoths probably would have answered that they wanted to be proficient in rape, pillaging and gimcrack. Young television watchers today would probably answer they’d like to be “the Donald” and fire their parent’s asses.

The Old Geezer had many ambitions as a young Geezer. Some that come to mind were: being the plenipotentiary to a lap dancer’s school; never to allow myself to buy a diamond from a gypsy; and to avoid having bill collectors hammering on my front door with golf clubs. It’s obvious I didn’t have much ambition and aspirations as a youth which has continued now that I’m in the last ten seconds of the fourth quarter and dribbling the ball with catcher’s mitts.

That’s why I was so impressed and moved by a 76-year old Miami man who was recently in the news. This spunky and imaginative chap claiming to be a doctor decided to go door-to-door in a Miami neighborhood offering free breast exams. I must confess that he’s my hero. What daring, vision, brilliance not to mention chutzpah to come up with that scam. I take my top hat and tails off to the gentleman.

The white-haired Academy Award winning wannabe carried a black bag and claimed to be visiting on behalf of a local hospital. One woman became suspicious after he asked her to remove all her clothes before the breast examination could begin and started conducting a purported genital exam without donning rubber gloves. She might have also gotten a clue that something wasn’t kosher when he began giggling uncontrollably and jumping up and down. She phoned the Broward County Sheriff’s office and he fled. He was arrested at another woman’s apartment in the same neighborhood. At least two other women, both in their 30s, let him into their homes and he fondled and sexually assaulted them.

It turns out that he was not really a doctor. No shit! He worked as a shuttle driver for an auto dealership but decided that fondling breasts was more fun.

Why seemingly normal, intelligent women would submit to and allow such a ridiculous thing to happen doesn’t bode well for this country and Jebb Bush’s leadership. When I grow up I want to go around claiming to be an amateur gyn. It’s nice to finally have a dream.

HAPPY DIVORCE

This time the Old Geezer is sure to win the Nobel Prize. I’ve come close a few times but politics; jealousy and good taste forced them to ignore me. That was then, now is now and then is not now and now is not then. This gibberish was once uttered by an idiot wearing an aluminum hat and carrying on a romance with a department store mannequin.

The point is marriage is nothing but trouble for the men and women who attempt it. I will bet my thumbs that most couples considering marriage will divorce before the ink is dry on their pre-nup. Divorce is the only escape from a hopeless marriage if you rule out homicide. Even though over 50% of the marriages in the U.S of A. end with loathsome lawyers making enough money to bail their druggie children out of the pokey while their clients wind up psychotic…people still believe that they “can make it work.” You’d have a better chance making that damned blinking yellow light on your VCR stop.

Even with “no-fault” divorces available in many States the process is a difficult one. The emotional ignominy of knowing you’ve failed is tough to take. The effect of the spit on children, family, co-workers is emotionally draining. Just the thought of trying to split up the hundreds of Buck Owens’s CDs or expensive collection of Clown paintings can keep a miserable couple together.

The trick would be to devise a system – fair to both husband and wife – to end the marriage simply and quickly. A way to avoid angry recriminations; name calling; ugly accusations and the occasional use of rat poison. It would be worthy of some sort of monetary award and acknowledgement from the Government of service beyond the call of duty. Perhaps a simple 24-carat gold medal covered in simple white diamonds would suffice. Or, having the right to attend the Academy Awards wearing only a turban and a jockstrap with just a hint of lipstick would be fulfillment enough.

Even though I feel like the fellow that blew on the wings of the Wright Brother’s plane and claimed that he was the “Father of Flight” I must in good conscience claim much credit for bringing to your attention a possible cure for ugly divorces. Since the Geezer has nothing to do but read obscure periodicals and news wires – that is besides writing a book about the incredible language skills of George W. Bush – I insist on taking a bow for bringing this news’ flash to you.

Any unhappy and gloomy married couple now has hope. The answer is a simple one – move to a village in West Bengal, India. It seems a Muslim man was ordered by village elders to leave his wife after he accidentally divorced her in his sleep. Yes, friends, in his sleep! This turban head uttered the Urdu word for divorce. “talaq” three times in his sleep. Under Islamic law, a husband need only say “I divorce you” three times to secure a permanent end to his marriage.

Even though the 30-year old husband claims he had no intention of leaving his wife of 11-years an Islamic law is the law. And, you wonder why we went into Iraq to save these schmucks? The husband claims he meant to say “tie-me-up-bitch,” and not “talaq.” Religious leaders in the town, besides beheading journalists, took the man’s pleas under advisement and said the couple before remarrying must be apart for at least 100 days and that his wife would also have to spend a night with another man and then be divorced by him. Religion is a wonderful thing. They also suggested that the husband stop speaking in his sleep.

So, if you are unhappily wed repeat after me – “talaq”, “talaq”, talaq.” Go with God. Mahalo!

ONE TOUGH PUSSY....

Have you ever been terrorized by a bully? Many of us were as kids in school or in our neighborhood as bullies used us as punching bags. The Geezer was always a non-violent person and consequently I was often beaten up by a gang of tough Quakers.

There have been many stories about entire towns terrorized for years by a muscle-bound brutish, depraved hoodlum until they banded together to get rid of her. The term “taking justice in our own hands” applies to those situations. Too often law enforcement is either helpless or uninterested to take the needed action to protect the community and frontier justice is called for. I predict that this type of revolution will take place on “Desperate Housewives.”

Fairfield, Conn. is going through its own terror caused by an uncontrollable swine. One neighborhood has been intimidated for months by their own brand of Hell’s Angels – in the form of a crazy cat named Lewis. Yes, a pussy cat has caused residents to lock their doors and not venture out in the street without armed protection. Things have gotten so bad, Lewis, has been issued a restraining order by the town’s animal control officer.

“He looks like Felix the Cat and has six toes on each foot, each with a long claw,” said one fearful neighbor. “They are fearful weapons.” Now as everyone knows, anything that has six toes is to be avoided at all cost. There is a direct correlation between six toes and vicious, grotesque insanity. My mother-in-law had six toes and six fingers. “Nough said!

The neighbors said that Lewis’ lengthy claws, along with catlike stealth, have allowed him to attack at least a half dozen people and even ambush the Avon lady as she was getting out of her car. Anything that would attack an Avon lady deserves prompt a swift punishment. Lewis terrorized people by stalking them and like some al Qaeda cutthroat pouncing on them in the dark of night or day. Some of those who were bitten and scratched ended up seeking treatment at area hospitals. When asked for comment, Police officials stubbornly claimed they “don’t do cats.” Scaredy-cats!

Animals Control Officer Solveira placed a restraining order on Lewis. It was the first time such an action was taken against a cat in the U.S. of A. The ACLU is thinking about taking Lewis’s case all the way to the Supreme Court. It’s a well-known fact that Justice Clarence Thomas loves cats and pornographic videos.

In effect, the cat is under house arrest, forbidden to leave his home. Lewis’s owner was also arrested charged with failing to comply with restraining orders for reckless endangerment. The ACLU refused to take her as a client when they found out she also has six toes.

MOVE IT, BABY....

You know I’ve had it up to here – no, up to here – with old people complaining about everything under the sun, the moon…and on rare occasions Pluto. What gives them the right to expect better treatment than the rest of us? Just because without them we wouldn’t be alive doesn’t give them a pass on life’s realities. Old age stinks but so does most fast food. Do you hear a greasy, fat-filled hamburger complain about arthritis?

Come on, grandma and grandpa, suck it up! Okay, I’ll give you that your body breaks down, your kids don’t appreciate you, people ignore your opinions, that government deficits has made your social security check about as useful as a goiter and that if you’re a gent you suddenly have an urge to wear silly baseball caps and if you were once a “hot momma” you insist on wearing loud polyester pant-suits. What the hell do you expect if you smell like an overripe cheese, appreciation and respect? Fogetaboutit!

The reason for this diatribe is some old dame in Los Angeles made a federal case about getting a $114 ticket for taking too long to cross a street. She began shuffling with her cane across a street when the light was green, but was unable to make it to the other side before it turned red. The motorcycle cop who ticketed her said she was obstructing traffic. Damn right! Did she really expect pollution spreading, gas guzzling cars to wait until she made it to the other side? No way – the Old Geezer would have leaned on my horn and tapped the old bitch with my bumper if I was there. Drivers have places to go and people to see.

This subversive, lame 78-year old kvetched loud and long, “I think it’s completely outrageous,” she said, “He treated me like a six-year-old, like I don’t know what I’m doing.” If the woman, who claims she’s a Cherokee medicine woman, really was one she’d rub some magic mud on her game leg and be able to hucklebuck across the street doing the rain dance before the light turned yellow.

The police defend the ticket by claiming that they’re cracking down on people who improperly cross streets too slowly. “We’d rather have angry pedestrians than pissed off drivers.” “I can go halfway, then the light changes,” she explained. My answer to that is let her stand in the middle of the street, grab a red cape and act like a matador as the cars swipe by her. If it’s that important that she get to the other side of the street there are lots of ways to do it. She could roller-blade across? Use an electric scooter? Sit on a leaf blower and zoom there? And, and, did she ever think of calling a taxi? Probably wouldn’t cost her much – a few hundred bucks especially if the diaper-head driving took her the scenic route.

I have no sympathy for this senior citizen. It’s time we stopped pandering and feeling sorry for them. “Wait! I’ve got a cramp in my leg can you help me up? Oy, slowly, I’m old.”

YOU ARE NEVER TOO OLD.

Wouldn’t you like to be all you can be? Better and more competent at your job, avocation or just as a human being? Imagine if you could be all you can be as a golfer, parent, employer or employee, juggler or hit man? The answer should be a resounding, “Yes”. I’d give anything to be the best yodeler around.

The U.S. military as co-opted that catchy phrase in their recruitment campaigns. What learning how to use a flame thrower has to do with being all you can be – unless you hope to be a professional torch is beyond moi? I can understand the military’s need for enlisted people especially after the unnecessary wars that messers Bush, Chaney and Rumsfeld have gotten us into. Before you think I’m one of those bleeding-heart, unpatriotic liberals that Bill O’Reilly rants against allow me to explain. The Old Geezer is as patriotic as any one including John Wayne – who, by the way, never served a day in the armed forces. I guess it was easy for old Duke to be brave at Republic studios.

I come from a long line of warriors. My still dead uncle Yitzhak was a famous soldier in Pinsk who caught a strange disease while fighting the Hun which caused him to blow up like a swollen sheep. After 9-11 I made it my duty to grab my wooden rifle, put on my little tin helmet, my puttees and patrolled my neighborhood every night looking for evildoers. Guess they must have heard about me because I never found any terrorists but did find a dime on the sidewalk and a half full can of Red Bull.

But the truth is that after Iraq our military has gone into over-drive trying to get enlistments up. They are offering inducements including nights with Hooter girls and pairs of new shoelaces to get people to sign up. A woman in Saugus, California was flattered by the nice recruiting letter asking her to consider becoming one of “the few and the proud.” Sonia Goldstein was very tempted but thinks she might be a tad too old to enlist in the U.S. Marine Corps. She’s 78-years old. “I couldn’t believe it,” she said. “My grandchildren were sitting there and we were in hysterics, we laughed so hard.”

The recruiting letter told her that the corps could use her unique language skills – obviously the Marines need leathernecks fluent in Yiddish, who play mahjong – but also warned that life as a Marine would test her physical and mental abilities “beyond anything you’ve ever known.” She would have been really challenged since she needs a walker to maneuver from here to there. When informed by Sonia the Marines reluctantly admitted that maybe the letter must have been a mistake. Don Rumsfeld’s only comment was, “no comment.”

The 78-year old grandmother admits that had the Marines offered her some new shoelaces she might have changed her mind and enlisted.