Turbulence at 67 Inches: The Autobiography

By Howard Camner

Turbulence at 67 Inches is a life story and a rant in one. The book follows the life of acclaimed poet Howard Camner. The writing is at once brutally honest, very funny, at times heartbreaking, and often inspiring. The journey begins during the Bicentennial. It is America’s 200th birthday. Camner has just been awarded the title of “Most Artistic Body of 1976” in a body painting contest. But at the moment he is sitting in the shallow end of the Atlantic Ocean about to run naked through a very crowded beach. He is not doing it for fun. He is doing it because he has no choice. Seconds after his run begins, several angry men are giving chase in an attempt to kill him. So sets the stage for a life that becomes one wild problem after another. There are encounters with the most bizarre characters this planet has to offer, including a talking dog, a guy who claims that he and his invisible companion are on the lam from a police force from another planet, a woman who fries up Manhattan sewer rats for dinner, and the Devil himself; just to name some of the saner ones.
After the streaking episode, which turned into a run for
his life, the book hurls us back to the early 1960s where as a young boy the author is trying to figure out who he is. Finding himself in direct competition with the next door neighbor’s talking dog, the boy transforms himself into several memorable characters, including a werewolf, a superhero, a mad scientist, a fake musician, and a secret agent. All of these lead to disastrous moments. Still he plods along, convinced that he is destined for…something. 17 proves to be a difficult and pivotal year with the loss of his grandfather who taught him wisdom the hard way and that one should always wear socks when kissing a girl. Devastated by the loss, the author threatens to use martial arts that he doesn’t know how to use on a future homicidal drug kingpin, becomes a criminal himself, gets repeatedly attacked by a man running for public office, and loses his virginity to an outfielder’s mitt. Needing an outlet other than sex with baseball gloves, he finds that he has a knack for poetry.
In 1979 at the age of 22 he heads for New York City to
take his place in the literary world. Somehow it clicks and he finds his voice as the headliner with the West End Poetry Troupe. New York provides several narrow escapes, a taste of fame, collisions with a vast array of human oddities, and an on-stage confrontation with a waiter that left the waiter possibly dead and our hero in hiding. This led to a breakdown and a three month period of seclusion with no human contact whatsoever. Snatched from death by his father, he returns to Miami for a brief stint as a beach bum and falls for a Midwestern girl. Following her to Chicago, his life is threatened by her father, so he returns to Miami and meets another girl who makes his life a nightmare because he bought her a Nutty Buddy ice-cream cone instead of the cherry Popsicle she wanted. Narrowly escaping being murdered by a transvestite hooker, he heads for Los Angeles to be rich and famous. His screenplay “Duck, Duck, Goose” creates havoc in Hollywood causing an affair between two Hollywood producers and the break up of a prominent management team. Distraught over the mess his screenplay has caused he turns to acting, falling under the protection of Hell’s Angels on one film and ruining a $30,000 scene in another. He befriends the Mayor of Munchkinland, takes up with a psychotic bitch in Beverly Hills, and risks his life to save the lives of some hummingbirds.
Feeling confident after rescuing the hummingbirds, he
creates and hosts the worst talk show in the history of television where he interviews Death among other offbeat celebrities, and soon embarks on a mission to seek out celebrity ghosts. Avoiding fame and fortune like no one else has, Camner exits Los Angeles and returns to Florida where he almost gets murdered in a swamp. After a confrontation with a large trigger-happy c

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 10, 2009
• ISBN: 9781450069410

Howard Camner

Howard Camner has taken many paths to become who he is. From narrow escapes to stage bows, the acclaimed poet has lived a life just a little off-kilter. Camner lives and writes in Miami, Florida, with his wife Sue and his two children, Judi Rose and Elijah Kidd.

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Copyright © 2009 by Howard Camner.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 11/08/2021

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Contents

Forward

Run for Your Life

The Talking Dog

It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Matzo Man!

Matzo Man Meets His Demise (sort of)

Garage Flambé

More on the Damsel in Distress

What Love Really Is

The Day I Discovered My Penis

The Day Luckless Luis Luciana Lost His Weenie to Eternity

Ladies and Gentlemen . . . . The Junior Monkees!!!

The Day I Wished I was Jose Rodriguez (before he became a transvestite hooker)

Move Over Dr. Frankenstein, Let Me Show You How It’s Done

Secret Agent Man (or, Say U.N.C.L.E.)

How I Spent My Summer Vacation (Little Auschwitz Blues)

Prelude to a Breakdown

The Passover Plotz

Lessons Learned

The Monster Kept Kosher

Mayhem and the Monkey

The Lake

The Breakdown

The War Within

Shambles and Such

Up, Up, and Away

My Brilliant Football Career

Crime Time

Mama’s Boy

Ambush on Kumquat Avenue

Maniac part 1 (Go Down Swinging)

Maniac Goes to Hell (the sequel)

Take Me Out to the Ball Game (But don’t leave me alone with an outfielder’s mitt)

Representing the Camner Name

Go Down Moses

I’ll Find My Thrill When I Kill Robin Hill (Karate Man)

A Glass of Wind

College (and other lessons in mental cruelty)

The Graveyard Shift

The Summer of Love (or, Cupid Makes My Shit List)

The Betrayal (Romeo’s Psychotic Adventure)

The Groupie (If it smells like a rock star . . .)

Top of the Heap

Start Spreading the News (New York Times)

Hi Ho! Hi Ho! It’s Off to Hell We Go!

New York’s Last Rhyming Poet

15 Minutes

The Riverside Park Adventure

Attempted Murder on the Minnesota Strip

The West End for Real

The Man with the Wings in his Hat

Katie the Limping Waitress

Opportunity Knocks (and I pretend I’m not home)

Down on Miss X

Saint John at 3:00 A.M.

Mama’s Fried Rats

The List

The Bodyguard

Snow White’s Place (I Dodge the Draft)

The Electric Brain

The Con Job of the Century

Biting the Lemon

Seclusion (cracks in the ceiling)

Chicago Story

Back in the Brier-Patch

The Infamous Nutty Buddy Incident

Rough Times with Mr. Smooth

Just Plain Trouble

The Phone Call (Pat the Drunk)

Real Life, Again

The Return of the Ragged Prince

Taking the Queen

The End, Again

Go West, Young Man

Hollywood’s Haunted Hotel

Duck, Duck, Goose

Split Decisions

The Underachievers

When it Rains

The Mayor of Munchkinland

Just Plain Funk

The Beverly Hills Bitch

Kinky Stuff

Steve, Steve, Steve

The Drama Club & The Hummingbird Story

Sputtering Out

Life is a 4 Letter Word

Fatal Beauty

In Search of Errol Flynn’s Ghost

Getting My Kicks Nowhere Near Route 66

Fade to Black

Back in the Brier-Patch, Again

A Many Splendored Thing

Hell is a Place Called Love

Ruthie from the Bronx

Within the Law (Godzilla Lives!)

Slow Train to a Fast Frolic (or, the time I almost got murdered in a swamp)

Sara Faith

I Don’t Get it! (again)

The Night Officer Friendly Almost Blew My Brains Out

The Maestro (part 1)

Maestro (part 2)

Maestro (part 3)

Maestro (part 4)

The Hispanic Talent Show (suicide right on the stage)

Surprise, Surprise

Mitzy (Don’t Stand So Close To Me)

Nab

The Mad Sexual Beast of Miami Senior Adult and Community Education Center and Other Places (or, how to get fucked without getting laid)

Home on the Range (or, Set That Boy on Boil)

Camner’s Inferno (or, I have seen the future. Start packing.)

Night Beat: Granny Grump Tells It Like It Is

The ABC’s of a Screw Job

221-B Baker Street

A Very Warm Reception (what’s that smell?!)

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

Banned Savior

The Day I Met the Devil (I swear to God)

Pandamonium

Signs in the Fog (turbulence at 67 inches)

The Wall

The Voice

Death Takes a (working) Holiday (mistaking me for a Motel 6)

Detour to Dogtown

Welcome to Poodleville

The Beginning of the End

Busy Signals

The Queen of Highway 69

Panda in Pieces

The Kalamazoo Kid

Once a Schmuck . . . Twice Bitten

Muggy/Unfinished Business

I Come Undone (7307 San Jose Boulevard)

The Book of Ruth (part 2)

The Dark Side

London Bridge is Falling Down and I Know the Feeling

Scared Stiff

Zundala’s Lament (Dirge for Dad)

Author’s Tea (one lump or two?)

Poetry’s Ragged Prince Takes On the Soviet Union

Hymen Shows Up (Sue me)

Good News

Bad News

911

Death Speaks Broken English (Let’s Meet Nestor!)

Aftershock

The Search for Tomm

The Return of the Animal Avenger

The Night I killed Elmo

Turnin’ Twix

Our Tryst with Yogi (or, I Slept with the Beatles)

Eli’s Comin’ (hide your heart girl)

Trouble Down Below (a little too much information)

Howard Camner: Famed Poet/Iranian Spy

Serves Me Right

Raising Lazarus

Life on the Run (That’s all folks)

Postscript

Acknowledgments

For my father and mother who gave me life; for my children

Judi and Eli who gave it purpose; and for Sue who got the end

result of all this. God help her.

For my grandparents Rose and Archie Puldy who are with

me every moment; for those who cannot be seen who have

snatched me out of harm’s way countless times; and for my

children’s children, and theirs, and theirs.

Forward

To begin with, the life story that you hold in your hands is not in chronological order. For some reason that didn’t work for me; I just couldn’t get it to flow. Not that it flows now, but it flows enough to get where it’s going. For example, something that happened in 1994 will appear before something that happened years earlier. Or I’ll be 10 years old in one story and 5 years old in the one right after it. So don’t fret over the age inconsistencies. Also, I use specific dates sparingly and only for events that hold some kind of earthshaking significance for me. So the timeline of my life on these pages is as chaotic as you’ll learn to expect from me. That said, large sections of the book are in the order that they happened. Some are, some aren’t. Just thought you should know.

In writing about real people and events, there is an inside rule among writers and libel lawyers called the small penis rule. The way it works is this, (and I’m paraphrasing from author Leon Friedman) if you use fake names and describe a male character as having a small penis, the real guy your character is based on is not going to take you to court and claim that the character with the small penis is him. I thought about using fake names in this book to cover myself, but it occurred to me that several of the people mentioned here are women and do not have penises, big or small (aside from those they may borrow from time to time). Therefore, all the names, people, and events in this masterpiece are real. I expect to be sued night and day. But we move on.

When I was 35 years old, my father and I were in his car stuck on a railroad track. We weren’t stuck as in trapped. We were between cars waiting for the light to change. We just happened to be the car sitting on the railroad track. My father turned to me and gave me a piece of advice that I will never forget as long as I live. He said, Son, if you’re ever in a car stuck on a railroad track, and a train’s coming, get the hell out of the car. What can you say to that? The man was brilliant. I’ve applied that little pearl of wisdom to every situation I’ve ever been in. Here are most of them . . .

Run for Your Life

I was in trouble deep, which was ironic because I was sitting in only six inches of water; ocean water, to be specific, Miami Beach, to be exact. It was the Fourth of July, 1976. I had just won some ridiculous contest at a local shopping mall which was held to celebrate The Bicentennial, America’s 200th birthday. My new royal title: Most Artistic Body of 1976. Not that I have a great body. I’ve seen myself in the shower a few times and believe me, I wouldn’t go to bed with me if I didn’t have to. My body would certainly never win any awards, except that one.

That contest was a major event in Miami at the time. It was much more exciting than the drug wars and usual exchange of gunfire that goes on today. All the contestants, male and female, were in bathing suits having their bodies painted as a very large and bewildered audience of mall shoppers looked on. My sister Cathy, an artist, did the honors. The paint was ice-cold and I spent a lot of time cringing, screaming, and laughing in total agony. It was excruciating. But it was quality time with my sister. When she was through, I looked like a carnival had exploded all over me. My body was covered with wide wacky swirls of patriotic red, white, and blue. There was gold glitter on my lips, the tip of my nose, and sprinkled throughout my hair, which was very wild, very long, and very curly. I didn’t exactly look normal.

A reporter from the Miami Herald sat down next to me on the floor and did some prying. She was cute so I was willing to talk. I usually don’t talk to the press when I’m being an idiot, but I made an exception. The resulting article began thusly:

Howard Camner, 19, lay flat on his back, muscles taut, teeth clenched, eyes staring wide into the air. He had stripped to a pair of shorts . . . . It sounded like I was getting blown to bits, or straddled, or something good and nasty. But no such luck. There were too many shoppers staring at me, and no volunteers. No help around when you need it. Speaking of which, let’s go back to the beach. There I was, owner and curator of the Most Artistic Body of 1976 sitting in six inches of ocean water (it shrivels) and scanning a very crowded beach for some kind of help. I couldn’t see very well without my glasses, having inherited my lousy eyesight from my mother who was probably knee-deep in one of her famous pseudo-socialite mah-jongg games, while her only begotten son was about to make the news again.

There was a little girl a few yards away on my left, which made me extremely uncomfortable. Directly in front of her, about four yards up on the sand, was her father; a huge muscle-bound ape keeping close watch on his daughter. He just stood there in his little black brief bathing suit, massive arms folded across his massive chest, watching her like a massive hawk. He made me beyond uncomfortable. Even though my eyes were pretty much useless, I could still make out shapes and sizes well enough in the bright sunlight. In fact, there were a few familiar shapes and sizes missing from my view, which had me just about livid. I had come to the beach that glorious day with my cousin Skip, one-eyed Dave, (so called because he only had one eye), and a few other pillars of society I was hanging around with at the time, and not one of them was in position. They were supposed to be in position just in case I ran into trouble. There are times when you realize the only one you can depend on is yourself. This should not have been one of those times.

We had been performing a brilliant ballet of stupidity we called whales. It had nothing to do with whales. I don’t know why we called it whales. Basically you lower your bathing suit and dive over oncoming waves with your uncovered fanny exposed to the lucky people on the beach, essentially mooning zillions of people at the same time. This was supposed to shock them or something. I forget the real purpose of it. As I said, this was the Fourth of July, a beautiful bright sunny day, and it seemed like there were at least 100 million people on that beach. In reality it was certainly in the thousands. It was damned crowded, I know that much. We all did the whale thing, and it was great fun and exciting for about thirty seconds and then it got old. I wanted to add a little thrill to the festivities and prove myself a majestic moron, so I completely removed my bathing suit and did a few more whales solo, displaying my award-winning ass to an audience who didn’t seem to care much. I guess I figured people would at least look at my Bicentennial butt. But we were some distance from shore when we were having this great fun and may not have been seen at all. I’ll never know.

What I do know is that what happened next was totally uncalled for. One moment I had my bathing suit in my hand, and then it was gone. My dear cousin Skip had snatched it away from me and tossed it around with one-eyed Dave and the other pillars of society playing keep-away. I found this to be a very childish and immature thing to do, especially since it was happening to me. I wasn’t in the mood to play games. I made a few lame attempts at intercepting my bathing suit in midair, but failed miserably. The last time I saw my beloved bathing suit, Skip had it in his hand. He called my name to make sure I was looking his way, and then he threw it as far as he could into the shark-infested ocean. I couldn’t believe my pretty much useless eyes. Cousin Skip, one-eyed Dave, and the pillars laughed hysterically. I didn’t laugh at all because it was my bathing suit and I started feeling very naked without it.

We had come in one-eyed Dave’s car and he very calmly announced that he had things to do and it was time to go home. I watched in horror as my comrades headed for shore. I followed them as far as I could go without really drawing attention to myself, and watched in horror again as they all walked up on the beach leaving me to squat there, sans bathing suit. I yelled for them to give me a towel and one-eyed Dave calmly pointed out that we didn’t bring any towels. He added that towels were for wimps and sissies. Allow me to add that they’re also for smart people. I then strongly suggested to them that they steal me a towel. Some of us had been known to commit a little larceny once in a while, so swiping a towel from some unfortunate soul should not have been a big deal. They flat out refused. I started to get the feeling that I was being set up. I was now sitting in about a foot of cold water and starting to sweat. Cousin Skip looked down at me and very calmly said (and this is a direct quote), You’re gonna have to streak.

For those of you not up on your cultural history, streaking was a phenomenon in the mid-1970s in which a person of little intellect runs through a crowded public place completely naked, making some sort of profound statement. I suppose. But I didn’t want to make a statement. I just wanted to go home. I squatted there in my 12 inches of ocean, arguing with Skip. But it was no use. There was nothing I could do. He had me by the balls (so to speak). I looked around. There were people everywhere. My only alternative was to stay there sitting in that water until nightfall and then try to find a fig leaf or a newspaper or something to cover myself and walk into a restaurant with the comics around my weenie and ask to use the phone to call a cab but I wouldn’t have money to pay the cab driver who probably wouldn’t let me in his cab anyway considering my outfit so what could I do? There was no choice. I had to streak.

One-eyed Dave, Cousin Skip, and the Einstein committee gathered on the sand in front of me, and with a small stick drew a diagram of the path I would run and the street I was hoping to get to. The plan was elaborate and well thought-out. Here’s how it would happen (according to plan anyway): one-eyed Dave would go get the car and calmly wait for me on Ocean Drive (the major street in front of the beach and a good hundred yards away from where I was). Skip would be on the sidewalk adjacent to Ocean Drive to make sure one-eyed Dave was there with the car. When the car pulled up, Skip would signal to Einstein #1 who would be on the actual beach where Einstein #2 could see him. When Einstein #2 got the signal from Einstein #1, he would come over to me and run a few feet directly in front of me, just in case there was any unexpected problem. It was a lot like a very complicated football play except there was no football, just one naked moron. They all headed for their positions. I inched up closer to shore, to my six inch spot. Again I looked around at all the people on the beach. There were too many people. It was packed. There was no room to run. I would wait till nightfall and take my chances then.

The second I made that decision I saw a speck on the far horizon by the main street, Ocean Drive. It was Einstein #2. He was waving for me to run. The same Einstein #2 who according to plan was supposed to be a few feet in front of me in case of trouble. I shook my head NO! No fucking way in Hell was I going to run through that crowd without protection! He continued waving me on to run. I continued shaking my head NO! He didn’t seem to be getting the message. I stood up so he could very clearly see me shaking my head NO! Heads started turning. Fingers pointed. People started screaming. And when I realized they were looking, pointing, and screaming at me, that little voice in my head that tells me what to do turned very big and yelled, RUN SCHMUCK!!! I started running. As I went by the large burly man who was watching his daughter, he cursed me in Spanish (for making him feel inadequate, I imagine), and slugged me on the left side of my head. I lost my balance and almost fell, but managed to stay on my feet. I kept running. My heart was pounding so hard I thought my chest would explode. I glanced behind me to see if he was chasing me. The good news was he was not chasing me. The bad news was five other men were. Every one of them was huge and very, very, angry. They weren’t after me to invite me to dinner. They wanted to kill me.

As I understand it, in the Latin culture it’s unacceptable for one’s wife or girlfriend to see a skinny well-hung Jewish kid naked. That didn’t occur to me until I was halfway to the street. Another thing that dawned on me was that I would definitely die if I was caught. Running in sand is no easy task and my adoring fan club was gaining on me. I was so tired I wanted to collapse. For a few moments there I didn’t care if they killed me or not. If I was dead at least I could get some rest. My favorite football player was Mercury Morris of the Miami Dolphins. He wasn’t very big for a pro football player, but he had a way of running with the ball that was amazing. I would study his moves and use them when we played neighborhood games. No one could touch me. I was unstoppable against kids who owed me ice cream money. At not far from 100 pounds holding bricks, I needed to know something. Mercury could make razor-sharp cuts and change positions on a dime throwing everyone off. Now they were right on my heels. I could hear them breathing hard. It was now literally do or die. My imagination kicked in quick with a good dose of fear and adrenalin. I was Mercury Morris and these guys were trying to tackle me. There were several differences of course, but the main one for the moment was that Mercury’s opponents usually came toward him where he could see them. Mine were on my tail, so I had to guess which way to move. I started weaving in and out between screaming sunbathers, zigzagging like crazy, and changing directions so fast even I didn’t have a clue which way I would go next. I was scared to death, but imagining I was Mercury kept me going. My heart felt like a bomb ready to explode. I took another backward glance and saw that I had thrown them off and now had a pretty good lead. They were still after me intent on murder, but I had bought myself a few moments to try to figure out how to live through this. I couldn’t think of anything. They were going to throw me on the ground and rip my weenie off, I just knew it.

Suddenly a little paradise came into view. The wall separating the sand from Ocean Drive. I jumped it and landed on the sidewalk next to the busiest street on God’s earth. I glanced around quickly and saw my darling cousin Skip. I ran over to him and put my hand on his shoulder so he would catch me when I passed out, which I was about to do. Instead of catching me he did what any concerned relative would do and started running away from me. As he’s running away he says (and I quote), Get away from me Howard, you’re naked! What a genius! I couldn’t believe my ears. Of course I was naked! Thousands of people knew I was naked! The psychos chasing me to kill me knew I was naked! He’s the reason I was naked! I caught up to him and spun him around so he could see my fan club heading for the wall. It was at that moment that he realized that in the Latin culture it’s unacceptable for one’s wife or girlfriend to see a skinny well-hung Jewish kid naked. Fun time was over and we both knew it. He had to help me. We were cousins. We were blood. And if I was killed by those goons, Skip was going to have one very pissed-off naked ghost haunting his ass for eternity (with a number two pencil; more on that later).

Ocean Drive was jammed with cars. People started cheering and screaming. I looked down the street and saw a motorcycle cop heading right toward us. In a way it was good because he could stop the goons before they tore it off. In another way it was bad because I would get arrested for indecent exposure and inciting a riot, or whatever it is I was doing. Skip started panicking himself and spotted a telephone booth in an alley across Ocean Drive between two old hotels. He told me to wait in the phone booth while he tried to find one-eyed Dave, the Einsteins, and the car. I ran as fast as I could into the traffic. I almost got hit and jumped on a hood, flying off the other side. If I wasn’t so scared it probably would’ve hurt like hell, but I was, and it didn’t. Cars honked, people kept screaming, STREAKER!!! STREAKER!!! There was a lot of commotion. Somehow I managed to run into the alley and dive into the phone booth. I ducked down and stayed down clutching a big piece of jagged glass from a broken bottle that was in the booth, just in case my fan club showed up. If I was going to die, someone was going with me. But by some miracle, and I mean miracle, they must have lost sight of me once I crossed over to the alley. There were some guys in an old blue van that saw where I was, knew I was in trouble, and covered for me. My guess is the driver of the van purposely blocked the goons’ view of the alley and then pointed them in another direction or said something that stopped them. Those guys in the van saved my life. Somehow the motorcycle cop didn’t show up either. I don’t know how he couldn’t see me. Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with the insanity of it all. Maybe my guardian angels in the van took care of him too. I’ll never know.

What I do know is that I waited a long time in that phone booth for that damned car to show up. When it did finally appear at the entrance to the alley, I ran for the car and reached for the door handle. People started cheering and screaming again. I guess all the noise startled one-eyed Dave because he stepped on the gas and the car took off. He didn’t bother to see or inquire if I was in the car. I wasn’t. The door was locked. I was now running alongside the car, still as naked as I was before, spouting a few choice words for my pals. The goons caught sight of me, and with the van gone, decided to come after me again. They started crossing Ocean Drive and headed right for me. Now we were on a busy street doing this. I was starting to lose my sense of humor. Fortunately, one of the rocket scientists in the car must have pointed out to one-eyed Dave that I was missing, because he slammed on the brakes just as the goons made it into the frame. Einstein #2 unlocked the door and I dove in. One-eyed Dave stepped on the gas, took a sharp turn, and I flew into Skip who pushed me off of him, threw me my bathing suit, and said, Put it on Howard, you’re naked! How about that? Dear cousin Skip had my bathing suit the whole time. Isn’t that cute?

My vision was so bad that I thought he threw it in the ocean when he actually just pretended to, and dunked it under the surface. What a clever lad. Einstein #1 then informed me that in the midst of my streaking, some very attractive females were very interested in the spectacle I made of myself and were calling me to join them. He suggested that I could have set something up for all of us. I didn’t see the girls, and even if I did, I really didn’t have time to converse or arrange dates for my great pals, my buddies, my dear friends, because I was a little preoccupied trying not to get killed. We drove home in silence, lost in our own thoughts. I just looked out the window of the car, watching the world go by and feeling my heart pound. I was shaking like crazy. All I kept thinking was, if those guys had caught me, I’d be dead right now, really dead. I didn’t have a whole lot to show for the time I’d been on this rock . . . but that wasn’t for lack of trying; maybe for lack of sanity, but who holds the deed on that?

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Black and white doesn’t do it justice, but here it is, the Most Artistic Body of 1976 in progress. Under the paint and bathing suit is my streaking outfit.

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Laughing in agony

The Talking Dog

13th Terrace, the street I grew up on in Miami, was famous for two things: one of Charlie Chaplin’s ex-wives lived there, and right next door to us lived Bon-Bon the Talking Dog. We rarely saw Mrs. Chaplin, so Bon-Bon (some kind of satanic wire-haired terrier) drew all the attention. Bon-Bon the Talking Dog would say a few choice words if you bribed him with a cookie. In fact, cookie was one of the choice words Bon-Bon would say. He also said mama and dada. People came from miles around to hear Bon-Bon the Talking Dog talk. He was the most famous person I knew, other than Charlie Chaplin’s rarely seen ex-wife. They were trying to get Bon-Bon on the Ed Sullivan Show. In fact, when the Beatles made their historic appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, I assumed it was only because Bon-Bon the Talking Dog had laryngitis that night and couldn’t make it, so the Beatles were filling in for him. I was grateful to him for that, but I still hated him. Well, I didn’t actually hate him, I hated what he represented, which was a four-legged flea circus that got more attention than I did.

My mother used to gaze lovingly over the fence at Bon-Bon the Talking Dog and then turn and snap at me, "Why can’t you be more like him?! At least he has talent! (Well, maybe she didn’t actually say that, but I’m sure she thought it). My father was a little more realistic about it. It’s a dog, he’d say. The damned thing barks, and these idiots think he’s giving a presidential speech!" I spent most of my younger years trying to step out of Bon-Bon’s shadow and trying not to step in his droppings. I’ve always tried to make my parents proud of me; but no matter what I did, I could never quite live up to the greatness of Bon-Bon the Talking Dog. It’s kept me from achieving quite a lot. Aside from constantly being diminished because I wasn’t a talking dog, my childhood was (looking back on it with perfect hindsight) absolutely glorious; and I knew that somehow, someway, someday, I was destined for something.

It’s a bird! It’s a plane!

It’s Matzo Man!

So maybe I wasn’t as talented as Bon-Bon the croaking idiot, but I could do one thing that the flea-bag couldn’t do . . . I could fly. I assumed I could, anyway. I knew deep down in my heart and soul (as deep down as that goes at the age of eight) that I had the ability to fly, I just needed the practice. So I would wait until my parents and sisters were asleep, creep into our little living room, and jump up and down on the sofa until I reached the proper altitude for takeoff. Once I hit the high point, I would leap off the sofa, frantically flapping my arms in an attempt to fly across the living room. I figured you have to fly across a room first before you start flying around the neighborhood, which was my ultimate goal. I usually made it a foot or two before I crash-landed on my face. Sometimes I tried it backwards and crash-landed on my ass. But if you want to get good at anything in life, be it making love or bowling, you have to practice. As the saying goes practice makes perfect, and I kept practicing. The thuds and groans from my attempts at perfection would always wake up my father who would come out to the living room, pick me up off the floor and say, You are not a bird or a bat or whatever you think you are. Now go to bed! He had a way with words.

When the flying didn’t take off (sorry), I would get very frustrated, sneak back into the living room, perch myself up on the window sill, and howl like crazy at the moon. I figured if I couldn’t fly, the least I could do was be a werewolf. I owed the world that much. But of course, not long after my howling began, it would end, with my father removing me from the window sill and announcing, You aren’t a werewolf either. Now go to bed meshugener! (That there’s Jewish talk for wise son) I was disappointed that my howling rights were taken away, but my real goal was still to be able to fly around the neighborhood. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Around the same time I started watching the Superman TV series with George Reeves as the man of steel. Then one night when I was lying in bed listening to Bon-Bon chatting it up next door, I had a revelation. A true mystical revelation! A CAPE!!! A CAPE LIKE SUPERMAN WEARS!!! If I had a cape like Superman, I could fly like Superman!!! I thought about it all night long. I pondered, plotted and planned. I had found the secret, but how could I get a cape that would keep me up there? My heart pounded with excitement. Not the kind of heart pounding one might feel when one is being chased by five angry men trying to rip one’s weenie off, but it pounded just the same. I wasted no time. Early the next morning I started hounding my mother for a cape. She wanted to know why I needed a cape and I refused to explain. Having had dealings with my mother in the past, I instinctively knew that if I told her I wanted the cape so I could fly around the neighborhood, she would frown on the idea. "You can walk around the neighborhood or ride your bike," she would say, not understanding the urgency of the situation. But I continued pestering her and she eventually gave in and fashioned a cape from an old towel. By that I mean that she put this rag of a towel that was no longer good enough for humans or household pets to dry off with, around my shoulders and fastened it with one of my little sister’s diaper safety pins. It was one of those diaper safety pins with a pink duck on the head of it. Not quite what I had in mind.

I turned on Superman and stood there in front of our pre-color black and white television set comparing my cape to Superman’s cape. His was a cape. Mine was a towel which was really a rag not fit for humans or household pets. This was my first real crisis in life. My first major deep-dark depression, and it was not pretty. My father either got wind of my deep-dark depression or noticed it himself, and came home one night with a cape; a real cape. I was ecstatic! I waited till everyone was asleep, put on my new real cape, and went right to the sofa; my springboard to a dream come true. Flapping my arms would not be necessary. Not this trip. My cape would do all the work. All I had to do was stick my arms out like Superman does, and the cape would do the rest. My heart racing with excitement, I stuck my arms straight out before me just like Superman, and bounced off the sofa. I was airborne for only a very short time, maybe a millionth of a second. And then I decided to fall on my face. It was one of those split-second decisions.

Maybe I was doing it wrong. I kept adjusting the cape and trying over and over again to fly, landing over and over again on my face, and always with a loud thud for dramatic purposes. My father, who I think had been watching for a while, stepped out of the shadows, picked me up off the floor, and laid down some hard ground rules. They included no night flights. He went back to bed. Me, I sat on the sofa in the dark so depressed I wanted to jump off a cliff. It was a safe bet I would die from the fall because I sure as hell couldn’t fly. As I scanned the living room for something to kill myself with, my eyes fixed on the menorah on the mantelpiece above our Miami, Florida, fireplace. For the less enlightened, a menorah is a candleholder used by the Jewish people to celebrate Hanukkah. (Look that one up yourself.) Gazing at the menorah I thought about that small army of brave Maccabee soldiers and the miracle of their victory over the huge nasty Syrian army. I thought about the small amount of oil they had that lasted eight nights when it was only enough to last for one night, allowing them to plan their strategy while they hid in a cave. Again I thought about their miraculous victory over the huge nasty anti-Semitic Nazi bastard Syrian army. It was a true miracle. And more importantly, as I gazed upon the menorah on the mantelpiece of our Miami, Florida, fireplace, I thought about how we got stuck with Hanukkah while the gentiles got Christmas which celebrates the birth of one of our guys! Something’s screwy there! Yes, the menorah represented a miracle for the Maccabees, and I needed a miracle too. I needed to fly.

I turned away from the menorah, deep in thought, searching for enlightenment. And then something happened. Something miraculous! I heard a choir of angels sing! I turned back to the menorah and zoomed in on it. There was a heavenly glow around it! My answer was right in front of me! It hit me like the miracle it was! Superman was a gentile! It wasn’t "Supermanberg or Supermanstein, it was Superman". He was even raised by Ma and Pa Kent on a farm in the Midwest! How goyish can one person be? I figured Superman was probably more on the side of the gentiles than the Jews. There was my answer. The Jewish people who have existed for over 5000 years (as of this writing) never had a superhero! Sure, they had regular Biblical heroes, but never a superhero. Before NOW that is. Even the Jewish idea of God is abstract. No one knows what He looks like. Now with an actual physical superhero, the Jewish people would finally have someone they could point to, hound for autographs, and admire.

No, I couldn’t fly, but either could Batman or Spider-Man (who had just come on the scene three years earlier) and they were almost as famous as that stupid talking pooch next door. I started feeling powerful in my cape. Tremendous strength raged through my body. I felt myself transforming into . . . . into . . . . I needed a name. Something the world would remember. A name Commissioner Gordon (or whoever was in charge of these things) would announce after This is a job for . . . . A name that would make evildoers cower and tremble in fear! It had to be a Jewish name if I was going to be the superhero of the Jewish people. The name just popped into my head. There was no thinking process. It just came to me . . . Matzo Man. There it was . . . Matzo Man. I heard that choir of angels singing again. The long-suffering children of Israel could finally relax. Their superhero, Matzo Man, had arrived.

The next day, my mother redeemed herself from the towel-rag-cape disaster by drawing a large Jewish star on a piece of paper which she cut into a circle and fastened to the front of one of my tee shirts. I would wear this with my cape draped over my shoulders as capes are worn. I got hold of a Lone Ranger eye mask to hide my true identity, and I was set. I was no longer Howard Camner, that no-talent crazy kid who lived next door to the very talented talking dog, I was Matzo Man, protector of the world; Superhero of the Chosen People (and of course, any good citizen who might need my services). My problem then became one of public relations. I needed to establish myself as a crime fighter. I wanted the world to know I was there for them. In short, I needed to become as famous as Superman. I decided that the place to begin was my own backyard; or in this case, my own rooftop.

Every day after school I would shimmy up the rain spout on the side of our house in full Matzo Man garb and stand on the roof; hands on hips defiantly, cape flapping in the breeze. I would scan our street (as far as I could see anyway, which wasn’t very far) for any sign of criminal activity. I played it to the hilt. And I believed it to the hilt. Just as kryptonite made Superman weak, whenever I got near bacon, ham, or pork of any kind, I would crumble to the ground gasping for breath, as if I was buying the farm. It didn’t matter where I was, be it someone’s house or a grocery store. Show me a ham sandwich and I was on the floor vying for an Academy Award. In grocery stores bewildered shoppers would gather around watching some of the greatest near-death scenes ever performed near a deli section. Sometimes they would clap, which would infuriate me. This was no joke. There were evil villains at work trying to do away with me by planting ham and bacon in strategic locations to keep me powerless against them. But there was a remedy.

Just as pork made me weak, matzo gave me strength. Popeye had his spinach when things got rough, and if it worked for him, it would work for me. I always kept a little piece of matzo on me, secretly hidden, just in case. It was usually stashed wrapped in a napkin in my Matzo Man crotch. My daily rooftop search for criminals proved fruitless. The only evildoer I ever really saw was the Witch of 13th Terrace who came out of her house every day when I was on the roof as Matzo Man, and every day would twirl her finger around her ear to say I was crazy. What a nutcase she was. We really believed she was a witch. She was the second wife of our neighbor whose first wife, a very sweet lady, had died. This second wife hated kids, especially me. Any toad we saw in the neighborhood we were convinced used to be a kid who had crossed the Witch of 13th Terrace. I never confronted her as Matzo Man, but I thought about it many times. There wasn’t much else to think about up there on the roof. The problem was, she had evil black magic powers, and I only had pseudo-super powers, sort of. If she turned me into a toad, I was in trouble. My only hope would be that my mother or father would see this toad wearing an eye mask and a cape with a Jewish star on his chest and figure out it was their son. Still I stood guard over our street, daring trouble to come my way. Concerned neighbors would constantly call the house or knock on the door and tell my mother that someone in a cape was on our roof. Mom would come outside and yell at me to come down. It was embarrassing. I couldn’t imagine other superheroes’ mothers yelling at them to climb down from this or get down from that. It just didn’t happen, except to me.

The roof thing got old after a while, and I decided it was time for me to really get known. I would introduce my elementary school to Matzo Man. It was called Merrick Demonstration School. What the hell were they demonstrating? My hope was that the principal of the school, Mrs. Henrey, would install a special Matzo Man signal light on the roof of the school that she would turn on whenever Matzo Man was needed to battle evilness. I even drew a picture for her of how I wanted the signal to look. It would be the letter M inside of a giant Jewish star. And no matter where I was, or what I was doing, whenever I saw that signal in the night sky, Matzo Man would spring into action. If it worked for Batman, it would work for me.

If Mrs. Henrey was going to install a signal light, things were getting serious, and I came to the realization that Matzo Man was going to need some help. I would need a sidekick. Batman had Robin. The Green Hornet had Kato. The Lone Ranger had Tonto. Quick Draw had Baba Looey. And Matzo Man would have . . . . Gefilte Fish!!! Yes, Matzo Man and Gefilte Fish, the new dynamic duo. I drafted my good friend Barry Nedelman (a Jewish kid!) to help me rid the world of the criminal element. I sat Nedelman down and explained to him that this crime fighting business was serious stuff, and Matzo Man and Gefilte Fish were the beacons of hope for many, many, people. He insisted that he understood, and we were on our way to superhero history.

002.tif

Here I am being attacked by a snake.

Behind me is Barry Gefilte Fish

Nedelman watching me being attacked and doing

nothing to stop it.

I gave Nedelman the towel-rag-cape my mother so reluctantly constructed, and a tee shirt with a big G for Gefilte Fish on the front. Gefilte Fish did not have an eye mask, because in my mind, it was my identity that had to be kept secret. Gefilte Fish was important, but he was, in truth, just a sidekick to greatness. At this point I was determined to make Matzo Man a living legend. I started wearing the costume under my school clothes, sans eye mask, which I kept hidden with the emergency booster matzo in my superhero crotch. That was one busy crotch. This made walking a bit of a problem. Another problem, and a huge one, was that having my cape under my clothes made it extremely difficult to sit down in class, as it kept pulling from one end or the other. So I would slouch and get yelled at by the teacher who would tell me to sit up straight. Sometimes my cape would bunch up in the seat of my pants making me look like the hemorrhoid king of the world. To make life easier, I decided to stash the costume in the boys’ bathroom which faced the school field. It was a clever decision because for the next few weeks when we were taken outside for recess, I immediately nodded to Nedelman and we both quickly ducked into the bathroom. Moments later the bathroom door would burst open and Matzo Man would leap out, followed by his trusted sidekick, who would just sort of walk out hiding his face. There were always screams of laughter, but I paid it no mind. I didn’t have time to waste worrying about it. As far as I was concerned, there were evil villains out there bent on world domination and somebody had to stop them. That somebody was me. However, after the initial dramatic leap out of the bathroom (and I had to leap. Superheroes don’t just walk. It’s okay for sidekicks, but not the main guy), there was really not much for us to do. After all, these weren’t the mean streets of New York or Chicago. This was the schoolyard of an elementary school in 1965. Not exactly a hotbed for criminal activity.

In those days, there just wasn’t a hell of a lot of crime going on. Not that we were aware of at the age of eight anyway. So Gefilte Fish and I just sort of stood around in our superhero costumes watching the other kids having fun playing softball, dodge ball, or kickball, while we waited for something diabolical to happen so we could step up and save the day. But nothing ever did. That is until one Saturday afternoon when Matzo Man was cruising the neighborhood looking for evilness. I was on my bicycle, now known as The Matzomobile. I was in full costume, cape flapping behind me as I rode like the wind. I came to a skidding stop at the entrance to a dirt road not far from my house. I had passed it a million times out of costume, and had gone down it plenty. It was just a short dirt road connecting two residential streets. But as Matzo Man I stopped, because now it looked like it might lead to a criminal mastermind’s headquarters.

I was about to look for clues as to who this evil genius might be, when a boy about my age and his older sister approached me. They both looked me up and down and started laughing. My arms folded across my chest, cape flapping in the breeze, I glared at them through my eye mask. I moved my hands down to my hips defiantly so they could see who they were laughing at. I wanted them to look at the big Jewish star on my chest, gaze upon the big letter M in the middle of that star, and realize that it was none other than the legendary Matzo Man they were messing with. I wanted them to apologize for their stupidity and then flee in terror. But something went awry. When the boy saw the Jewish star, he spit and snarled, You’re a dirty Jew! Now, as Howard Camner I probably would have been frightened and I would have pedaled home as fast as I could. But my alter ego was quite different. I grit my teeth, closed my eyes, and swung as hard as I could. Bull’s-eye! I had slugged that little Nazi bastard smack in the nose. I heard and felt that little Nazi nose shatter. Blood flew everywhere and I reveled in it. I loved it. The boy screamed in agony and sobbed. His sister screamed and threatened me. I don’t remember what she said, but it didn’t matter. This was my moment of glory. This was a little bit of payback for World War Two, the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, thousands of years of persecution, and a lot of other things I knew nothing about. I just sneered at the little Fraulein bitch, and pedaled away in a blaze of glory. When I got home I shimmied up the rain spout to the roof, and stood up there, heroically . . . majestically . . . surveying my domain . . . making certain 13th terrace was safe for the moment, and wondering what wicked foe I would come up against next.

Before long the phone rang in the house, and mom came outside to call me down.

003.tif

Matzo Man preparing for bed after a long day of fighting

evilness.

Matzo Man Meets

His Demise (sort of)

The next day at school I was so full of myself for having snuffed an anti-Semitic Nazi bastard; I was unbearable, even for me. I assumed, as word got around about Matzo Man’s conquest, that all the girls would want me, and President Johnson would invite me to the White House and would give me an award for bravery above and beyond the call of duty. Apparently, the school faculty heard of my heroic deed, because my teacher came to me and asked if I thought Matzo Man would reenact the historic moment for the class (with no actual hitting). I pretended to ponder for a moment, and then told the teacher that I would be speaking with the superhero after school and would ask him. I added that he would probably be happy to demonstrate the battle between good and evil for his . . . um . . . my classmates.

Here was my chance to show the world the marvelousness of Matzo Man, and to let the innocent know that he (I) was there to protect them from any sinister wretchedness that might try some wickedness upon them. I was also hoping I’d get my Matzo Man signal light out of this. My mind was reeling with ideas for this performance. I knew that I would probably have to jazz up what really happened, because my slugging the kid only took a second. And since there would be no actual hitting, that didn’t leave me much to work with. I also knew that I needed a damsel in distress; a helpless defenseless young lady that Matzo Man would rescue from an almost certain tragic fate. I drafted my girlfriend Lisa (who I will get into later) to play the part. She refused, which she was very good at doing. I stopped begging and started pleading, telling her I desperately needed a damsel in distress, and would do anything if she would play the part. I rattled off a list of things I was willing to do, and when I got to I’ll pretend you’re not my girlfriend, and you can tell everyone you hate me, she went for it, agreeing to make an ass out of herself just to get rid of me. I also drafted the neighborhood/school bully, Michael Hatcher, to play the young Nazi bastard. This would be a real stretch for him.

Since Barry Gefilte Fish Nedelman couldn’t be in the skit since Gefilte Fish wasn’t present at the actual event, I asked him to be our director. When he called ACTION! the Nazi bully pretended to beat up the damsel in distress. I was hiding behind a movable chalkboard. When Lisa screamed for help, as in HELP! HELP! I jumped out from behind the chalkboard (in full costume, of course) announcing, LET HER GO, EVIL ONE! The frightened Nazi bastard looked at me and sneered, Who are you? I turned toward my classmates, put my hands on my hips, and proclaimed, I AM MATZO MAN!!! For some reason, which I still haven’t figured out, my classmates seemed to find this amusing and they all started laughing. Even the teacher couldn’t stop laughing. In fact, the teacher was laughing uncontrollably. But their laughter meant nothing to me. It bounced right off the Jewish star on my chest and . . . . well, actually, it didn’t bounce off at all. It actually hurt, but superheroes don’t cry. I left out the dirty Jew remark from our little skit because I instinctively knew it would subject me to every kid on the planet (including Jewish kids) calling me a dirty Jew just to see if I would fight.

Even though their laughter did get to me, I truly believed that my classmates didn’t know my true identity. They weren’t laughing at Howard Camner, and they really didn’t know Matzo Man, so there was no reason for total distress. Besides, after the skit we would be going outside for recess, where Matzo Man was about to really make a name for himself. The activity for that day’s P.E. class was a game called Red Rover, Red Rover. The idea of the game is that you have two opposing teams standing opposite and facing each other about 20 yards apart. The defending team would stand in a horizontal line and interlock arms to form a human chain. Someone on the defending team would choose someone on the opposing team at random and recite: Red Rover, Red Rover send so-and-so over! At that, so-and-so would run at the human chain across from him or her, and attempt to break through the arms to the other side. If he or she made it through, they would now join the defending team. It was a ridiculous game. It was a game that begged for trouble. Red Rover went on for a while without much excitement as I stood there in my Matzo Man costume salivating for someone to have the courage to challenge me to break through the human chain. I wanted to make them all eat their laughter and choke on it. There were no takers for a long time, and then finally, I heard the words I was waiting for. My now pretend girlfriend Lisa who hated me blurted out:

"RED ROVER, RED ROVER,

SEND MATZO MAN OVER!!!"

This was it, my moment of glory, again. I was going to break through that chain of human arms like a hot knife through whipped cream (or something like that). All eyes were on me. A hush seemed to fall over the schoolyard, and I took off like a shot. I can’t even call it running. It was more like flying in leaps and bounds. My cape flapped behind me, propelling me, hurling me, right toward Lisa’s right arm which was interlocked with the left arm of future drag queen Jose Rodriguez. Faster and faster I flew; closer and closer the chain of arms appeared; and then, just as I was about to demonstrate my magnificent power and break through, destiny decided to do me dirty, with a little help from my now pretend girlfriend Lisa. She lowered her arm. I don’t really remember the gruesome details of what happened next. I either tried to dive under her arm or over it. Whatever I did was the wrong thing to do. She caught me under my chin. I flipped up in the air, fell backwards, and landed on my left leg which cracked so loud it could be heard for miles. At least it sounded that way to me, and I know it sounded that way to me because I was there. The bone just snapped in half. There I was, Matzo Man, the superhero warrior against evil, sprawled on the ground with all my classmates (including my pretend girlfriend who just broke my leg) looking down at me as I sobbed and wailed in agony. Superheroes do cry.

The P.E. teacher, Mr. Blaum, scooped me up and ran carrying me into the school clinic. They called my mother and interrupted her mah-jongg game, which I’m sure she was not happy about. As she was on her way, Mr. Blaum tried to keep my mind off the pain by showing me the various wooden paddles he used to beat kids with. Each paddle was bigger than the one before it and corresponded to specific crimes: spitballs, chewing gum in class, passing notes, etc. Today, of course, a kid pulls out a gun, blows a teacher’s head off, and gets a D in conduct. I was not amused by the paddle exhibit, nor did it take away my pain, but it was a learning experience. Ironically, I became more of a celebrity with the cast on my leg than I ever was as Matzo Man. My classmates flocked to sign the cast, and life was wonderful. There is a footnote to this. The doctor who set my busted leg for it to heal must have been very distracted while he was doing it, because the bone grew back together at a