I came to San Diego in the '60s without a job - and wound up working in their famous zoo, meeting both human and animal stars from Lassie and King Tut to Art Linkletter, Jimmy Stewart and the world-renowned "chimp lady" from Africa, Jane Goodall.

Being close to Hollywood, many stars over the years donned dark glasses and popped in to visit our menagerie incognito, including Andy Griffith, Shirley Temple, Jerry Lewis and Cary Grant (who often stopped by when he was in town for a weekend of tennis).

During my seven years as the zoo's PR director, I had occasion to lunch with, or personally tour, a dozen or so popular celebs. On occasion, I engaged one, such as radio-TV notable Art Linkletter, a San Diego native, to cut a ribbon for a new exhibit or ride.

Several, including Arte Johnson, of the '60s TV hit, "Laugh-In," and long-time comedian, Phyllis Diller, became personal friends. I found them to be warm and genuinely humorous people. I subsequently exchanged calls and Christmas cards with both. And years later, they even endorsed my first book of humor.

One afternoon, I drove a zoo car to the airport to pick up TV/radio star, Arthur Godfrey when he landed in his private Lear Jet. An admitted long-time San Diego Zoo fan, he had agreed to judge my "children's zoo art contest" and present the top prize for a segment of our own syndicated TV show, "Zoorama." His fellow judges were Linkletter and San Diegan, Ted Geisel, better known as "Dr. Seuss."

The controversial Godfrey had once filmed a "live" segment of his top-rated show from our Children's Zoo. An un-diapered infant orangutan he held had excitedly wet on his shirt. Mike in hand, Arthur commented to his national audience, without missing a beat: "Honey, thousands have wanted to do that - but you are the first to succeed!"

A big name in the book world in the '60s was Dr. David Rueben, best-selling author of "Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)." He called me one day, saying he planned to make a ten-grand donation to the zoo for a new primate exhibit. I managed to get plenty of press coverage for his philanthropy - but was afraid to ask him the several personal questions I had in mind.

For special zoo events, I occasionally retained the always cooperative Marshall Thompson, star of the then top-rated Ivan Tors TV production, "Daktari," an African adventure show. With much of it filmed in Thousand Oaks, northeast of Los Angeles, Marshall invited me to bring the family to visit the set.

One day, we drove up to observe an afternoon's filming in a faux-jungle setting. The script called for a menacing black leopard - but one was not available. We watched in awe when the director called for a cougar, which the crew proceeded to spray-paint black.

A few years later, a CBS-TV producer asked my eight-year-old son, Gary, to appear in a non-speaking scene with David Janssen, during a TV-movie, "Night Chase," being filmed in our zoo. Gary later admitted it was a fun experience but had cured him of any latent desire to act. He'd had to wait around for six hours to do a one-minute scene in the kiddie zoo with the star. And further disillusioned when his $35 CBS check arrived.

Janssen, star of "The Fugitive" television show, had set the hearts of many of our female staffers atwitter while in the zoo. Upon leaving the park one day, he impulsively stopped to bestow a kiss on an admiring sales girl's cheek. Badly shaken, she asked to be excused to go home for the remainder of the day.

Wild-life buffs Gloria and Jimmy Stewart appeared at a special zoo dinner one evening. Afterward, they told me that Gregory Peck's half-brother once drove one of our zoo tour buses during a summer in college. Therefore, when a zoo inhabitant called a Peccary, (a swine-like animal from Mexico and South America), gave birth, we had our tour guides point out the little porker as our new star, "Gregory Peck-ary."

Nearby, another former star resided in our elephant exhibit. Visitors on passing busses were informed that a little Asian with long, Hollywood eyelashes was "Hatari," sent to the zoo after appearing with John Wayne in the movie of the same name.

Our official zoo greeter since 1951, "King Tut," also had stage and screen credits I had been surprised to learn that the salmon-crested cockatoo, who whistled and danced for visitors from his special perch at the entrance plaza, once appeared at a world's fair in San Diego with the flamboyant fan dancer, Sally Rand (as her zipper puller).

The regal-looking Tut had been brought from Singapore by noted animal trader Frank "Brink-'em-Back-Alive Buck." The people-loving bird was named after King Tutankhamen, whose spectacular discovery occurred only a few years before Buck brought the cockatoo to San Diego. I always enjoyed the bird's raucous greeting when I would enter the zoo mornings. Tut on occasion would meow like a cat, cluck like a chicken or sing snatches of opera.

Hollywood's biggest animal star, "Lassie," came to the zoo one spring to test the reaction of our famous performing seals prior to an up-coming movie scene. The story of how she "attacked" me on stage at our Seal Bowl is detailed in my book of zoo memoirs.

Looking back, I would have to say my favorite human celebrity to visit the zoo during my tour was Jane Goodall, the British scientist who studied the life of chimps at the Gombe Stream Game Reserve in Tanzania, Africa. I had the good fortune to meet and escort this most-dedicated young lady during the zoo's 50th anniversary celebration.

Jane was so sweet and soft-spoken and knowledgeable and REAL, I am moved whenever I read today of her continued devotion to wildlife causes and conservation. The universe should have produced many more like her.

Going to the beach can make for a pretty boring day. You lay on a beach blanket until the sun bakes the first two layers of skin off of you and then you go for a dip in the water. Pretty mundane stuff. Here's a list of ways to make your next trip to the beach a little more fun.

1. Make sand sculptures of questionable body parts.

2. Wait for someone to go into the water and then throw your beach blanket over theirs. Then watch the fun as they return looking for their spot.

3. Go to the concession stand and order a broccoli Popsicle.

4. Strike up a conversation with the lifeguard and inquire what would happen if you started yelling, "Shark!"

5. Yell, "Shark!" and see if it's true.

6. Go up to people, frantically, and tell them that you buried your wife/husband in the sand and you can't find them.

7. Dress in a woolen overcoat and count the minutes before the ambulance arrives.

8. Bring a backhoe down and dig for clams.

9. Find a group of people playing volleyball and when they hit it to you, run away with it.

10. When people aren't looking, replace their suntan lotion with a squeeze bottle of French's mustard.

You see? A day at the beach doesn't have to be a day at the beach. It can be a memorable day at the beach. Enjoy your summer.

Important disclaimer: If you attempt any of the above suggestions, be prepared to be beaten to a bloody pulp.

George Carlin is gone.

A text message from my girlfriend early this morning told me the news that George Carlin had died. I immediately felt terrible and rolled back over, wanting to go back to sleep and not even think about the bad news until later in the day. Just the night before, I'd gotten back home after a month on the road and was feeling a bit exhausted, ready to take a few days off and not deal with the Comedy Business for a while. With this bad news, I ended up spending the rest of the day thinking about hardly anything else, and I know I'll be having moments just like this for at least the next week or two.

George Carlin was my idol and my inspiration. Like so many comedians before me (and since), I watched him perform and wished I could do it as well as he could. I wished I could write the way he did, and I wished that I could make the lasting impression that he now leaves behind. I still do.

I remember when I saw Carlin for the very first time. I was only nine years old, and I sneaked a peak at one of his HBO specials one late night when I should have been sleeping. I didn't get a lot of the humor, but I remember that it was the first time I had heard a professional comedian using adult language like he was and absolutely killing an audience. Before that night, "dirty jokes" were just something that the older kids told at the playground. I had no idea that professional comedians used those same words to make other adults laugh the way I saw Carlin do it that night. I was so young at the time, I didn't realize that his jokes weren't just adult (or "blue" or "dirty" or what have you), they were also very smart.

Not until years later did I get exposed to Carlin again. This time, I caught the first broadcast of "What am I doing in New Jersey" on HBO. At that point, I was old enough to understand all of the humor, and I literally laughed until I cried. To this day, I consider "things to keep people on their toes" to be one of the most brilliant stand-up routines I've ever heard, even if it has never been his most popular bit. It was at that point that I was completely, 100%, a George Carlin fan, and I never missed another special after that. I bought his CDs, I picked up his back catalogue of albums, and--when he started writing them--I bought his three books. I even watched the entire season of "The George Carlin Show", his one and only attempt at a sitcom, back in the early 90s. He was, by far, the biggest comedy influence in my life.

And now he's gone.

Even as I write this, it hasn't quite sunk in yet. I've never been moved too much by the deaths of celebrities, and often have scoffed when I saw people on TV, crying their eyes out and feeling remorse at the loss of a movie star whom they never even knew. For the first time in my life, I actually get it. I never met Carlin, yet I feel as if I've known him for over twenty years. After all, I've been learning all about him for that long, letting him into my home and letting him inspire my career as long as I can remember. How could I not feel as if I've lost someone close to me?

Carlin was so much more than just a great comedian. He was also an advocate of free speech, and his battles in that arena paved the way so that comedians such as myself can continue to have a career at all. He showed the world that a comedian can say things that are considered taboo and not only be funny to smoky club audiences, but the masses, as well. He showed that comedy can be vulgar whilst still managing to be smart. He showed that the comedy road didn't have to end with a sitcom, but could be paved forever on the stage, and that a comedian didn't have to get worse with age, but could actually improve as life rolled along.

In an interview about fifteen years ago, I remember Carlin discussing his age and his (then) approaching sixties. "Why would I quit doing something I've spent years trying to perfect?" was essentially his response to the idea of retirement, and he was true to his word. He was still performing constantly, having produced yet another HBO special a mere months before he died. That alone far outweighs the achievements of the average comedian, even if all that had come before did not already do so a hundred times over. If I could only hope to accomplish that, my career would be one that any comic half my age would envy.

I'm so sad that Carlin is gone. Sad because I never got to meet him, shake his hand, and tell him how much he meant to me as both a comedian and a guy sitting in the audience. Sad because I know there was more in him that he had left to say that I (and countless others) wanted to hear. Mostly, I'm sad because I know that there isn't a successor to his throne anywhere and sight and, quite possibly, never will be.

The comedy world is so different now than it was in Carlin's heyday, and I don't know that we'll ever see anything like him again. Great comedians come along all the time, but a guy like George was one of a kind. Plenty of people are funny, plenty of people are smart. Only Carlin had the power to really convince me that he was both at the same time, without being pompous doing so. Only Carlin had the ability to make me think one minute about the existence of God, while the next minute having me laughing about the power of a fart in a crowded room. I'm sure others will try, but I'll only end up comparing them to him.

So, goodbye, George. I'd like to think that, had we met, we would have gotten along very well and you'd have had a lot to tell me. I'm lucky that, despite the fact our paths never crossed, I still got to learn so much from you and so much about all things funny. I will remember that first time I saw you, and all the other times in between, when you had me laughing and sometimes blushing at the your ability to tell the world to "fuck off"...and yet still make the world love you anyway.

Maybe, one day, I'll be lucky enough to do the same.

"It would be so much fun to be a writer!" What could be hard about it? Sure, I've heard of "writers block", but that should be easily overcome.

A friend of mine asked me to write blogs for his company. What did he want me to write about? It's a great topic. One that I LOVE. It should be pretty easy to research, after all. I'm great with typing, and I have good English skills. "Sure, why not? It has to be pretty simple!" was my answer to his query.

So I sat down to write about "candy". Who doesn't love chocolate? Who doesn't love to hear about the origins of Bazooka Joe? His company offers 48 varieties of nostalgic candy. It should be easy, fun and informative. I can do it!

Nearly a year later, I have stumbled upon a severe case of "writers block". Sometimes there is more information out there than a person can process. Sometimes it only SEEMS that there is too much information out there.

I keep telling myself, "This is hilarious! It's such a seemingly simple thing to write about something that I've been eating my ENTIRE LIFE!" Especially HIS company's candy. It's all nostalgic. It came straight out of the 50's, 60's and 70's era.

I will admit, eating it has been much more simple than writing about it!

But in all seriousness, I have enjoyed it. I love that people are taking the time to check out his website, that I have actually enriched peoples lives on several levels by what I do. Enriching people by promoting candy?

Yes. It goes much deeper than that. As I said, the company is nostalgic. I have helped people tap into their memories, the simple days of their youth. The summers of mowing lawns, or babysitting to earn enough money to go the beach, laze around, and buy their favorite candy. It conjures up thoughts of people long ago forgotten.

I am now remembering one friend whose name was Motz. He was from Sweden. He introduced me to the "$1,000,000,000 chocolate bar". "Want to eat a million dollars worth of candy?", he said to me one hot summer afternoon. Yes, I have my own memories, too.

What are your memories? I hope my friend and I can help you to tap into yours by what he's done with his business, and by my frankness in sharing with you.

Is blogging hard? Sometimes. But I wouldn't be helping you tap into a different era of your life without it. Is it worth it? Oh, yeah.

Summer is fast approaching and companies are gearing up their advertising plans to convince us to spend more. It can be entertaining to listen to their buzz words.

One of the buzz word phrases that have been around for a while is: "Can we Biggy Size that." This phrase means: "Can we get you to pay more for more food." Of course the regular order of food was enough and when we: "Biggy size that" it really means: "Can we add more to your expanding waist line." I think a new phrase is needed: "Can we calorie reduce that for you." Think about how much greener that would be.

Going green is of course the latest buzz word. Changing your light bulbs to energy efficient bulbs is going green. Reusing your grocery bags is going green. Going green means to be more conscience of your planet's resources. I have been working on going green. I changed all of my light bulbs to more energy efficient bulbs. That left me with a bunch of non-green bulbs that I didn't know what to do with. Maybe I can give the bulbs to my neighbors that haven't gone green yet. At least I would be recycling. That's being green right?

The airlines have their own buzz words. For example, the phrase friendly skies has been around for a number of years. Lately the airlines have been trying to make us more comfortable with our flights so we will consider flying more. Sometimes I think we are given more information then we really need to know.

This is a true story. I was scheduled to fly to Arizona and I am sitting on the plane in coach. The captain announces: "Good morning passengers it is a balmy 80 degrees in Phoenix today. We will be cruising at 31,000 feet and our estimated travel time is five hours ten minutes which will put us in Phoenix at about 1:10 pm. Before we are cleared for take off I should let you know our indicator light is on. It is showing that our fuel door is open. Just as soon as we get it closed we will prepare for our flight.

Do you really think everyone on board wanted to know that the fuel door was open?
Feeling a great urge to reply to the captain's announcement. I shouted out from my
Coach seat: "Thanks for catching that for us before we were airborne." That bit of humor delighted my co-passengers. As for the Captain's sense of humor, let's just say, the Friendly Skies were not so friendly after that.

My brother, Rick, invited me over one Saturday night for a barbecue and beer. His wife had gone camping with her girlfriends, so it was like our own boys night out.

It threatened to rain, but that didn't dampen our spirits and we sat outside. We started to barbecue and listen to his newest blues CDs on his portable player. Many laughs and several beers later the rain forced us to take the party inside.

What more could anyone ask for? Various genres of blues wafting through the house, ice cold beer flowing, steaks cooked to perfection, and, oh yeah...the bat flying around the livingroom.

"A what?" my brother choked. "There's a bat flying around your livingroom", I calmly replied. He belted out a scream as he leaped from the table and raced upstairs. I could hear the bedroom and bathroom doors being slammed shut in unison. All the while I was laughing at our new situation. Well, until the bat swooped down on me, that is.

We must have made quite a sight. Two forty-something men screaming like frightened school children over a flying mouse. "What do we do now?" my out of breath brother wheezed. I suggested we get a broom and a towel to catch it in. Twice before I encountered bats in my home and this technique worked well. Rick handed me the broom and declared, "Since you're the expert you can chase him out the patio door." I bravely marched into the livingroom to duke it out with the flying vermin, giggling stupidly the entire time.

With each swing of the broom my enemy out-maneuvered me. I brushed it a couple of times but that only infuriated him all the more. I glanced in the hallway to check on my brother. He ws holding a dishtowel like a matador tempting a bull. "Get out!" he repeatedly yelled as he waved the towel wildly. Like the bat would understand him, eh!

Wings flapping furiously our rodent flew straight up the stairs towards the bedroom. "See? I was right to close those doors!" Rick exclaimed. I figured it was only a lucky guess on his part but I wasn't about to steal his thunder. I let him bathe in the glory of his decision by keeping my mouth shut.

Once again, I forged ahead broom at the ready. I slowly climbed the stairs waiting to spring into action. Watching my every move with his beady brown eyes, the bat rested above a door. In an instant, it lunged at me recklessly. I'm sure I could hear it screeching as it dove...or, it was me screaming a hasty retreat down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs I regained my composure and proceeded to launch a counterattack. Charging back up, broom frantically waving, I managed to trap it against a window ledge. Huffing and puffing I triumphantly announced," I got the little bastard, now get your ass up here!"

During my counterattack my brother chose to don more protective gear. Rick, now sporting oven mitts and goggles, squeezed in front of me and pushed the dishtowel against the vermin trying to hold him in place, as I cautiously slid my broom to the side. I then raced into the bedroom to get a chair. Rick climbed onto the chair to improve his grip. "He's moving!" he hissed through clenched teeth. I repositioned myself directly behind my brother by balancing one foot on the stair bannister and my other foot on a wall. I then reached over his shoulder and clutched the dishtowel with the squirming bat underneath. "Let's open a the window and push him out!", I volunteered. Then, I asked Rick how to open his windows as they were just recently installed. "How should I know? I didn't put them in!" was his retort. So, with my free hand I reached over his head and tried to open the latch every which way with out success. "Hurry" he gasped "He's trying to escape!" No kiddin'?

Eventually, I managed to slide two windows over only to find a one piece screen covering the opening. Rick instructed me to open it any way I could, as enough was enough. With my free hand I pushed the screen as hard as I could. It instantly popped out and fell two stories onto the lawn below. At that exact moment we shoved our winged visitor out the window. Amazingly the bat grabbed onto the ledge and looking back at us refused to budge. Rick heaved at it one more time and out it went. We immediately closed the window and took a deep breath.

Rick looked over his shoulder at me and declared, " Well, I'm sober now. Time for more beer!" At which point we toasted our victory.

It was a very hectic time for Peter's family as they planned to move to a new city. The preparations seemed endless. The house was filled with boxes from one end to the other; everything was labeled to make it easy to find a household item quickly. "Have you seen the toothpaste?" "I left it in the bathroom; I won't pack it until the morning just before we leave." "It is all gone." "We used it up? Well, there should be another tube in the box with the household goods. You'll find it somewhere in the front room." "All the front room packages are already packed on the truck!"

Some people describe moving as exciting; some people look forward to the new challenges and opportunities they will have; Peter's family described the moving process as "utter chaos". As they prepared for their move, my friends' normal routine didn't exist. Human beings seem to adapt well in chaotic times, but for dogs it isn't so easy.

Preparations for the move began a month earlier; they wanted to make the final days in their "old" home as carefree as possible. For their dog, Rufus, the move was disturbing. Dogs have an innate sense about moving that we cannot imagine. For more than a month, Rufus was not his usual-canine-self. He could tell that something was up. He became very anxious every time that the family left home without him. He wanted to go with them everywhere. He did not want to be left alone. A few weeks earlier, Rufus was left in a kennel for a couple of days when the family was out of town. He was especially jittery after that experience; he had never acted that way when kenneled before.

Moving day finally came. Peter had everything packed; the movers just left. Peter was driving an additional rental truck and his family was driving two cars filled to the brim with electronics and clothes. Rufus could not sit still. He was pacing from one end of the house to the other; he would go from one family member to the next as if to say: "Don't forget to take me along!" "Don't worry, Rufus, we have a seat in the car just for you!"

Rufus was of mixed breed--a handsome, short-haired-dog--with shades of brown, tan and black. He was a friendly dog to neighbors and strangers alike. He wasn't always so congenial. The folks at the animal shelter said that he was abused as a young pup. He wasn't very trusting of people. Peter's family picked him up when he was three months old. He instantly clung to Peter's oldest boy. He laid his head on Michael's lap all the way home in the car. He didn't let Michael out of his sight at all that first day and slept in his bedroom at night. He found his first real friend. As time had elapsed he settled down and learned to trust everyone in the family-as well as their friends.

Rufus was now 8 years old. He weighed 75 pounds and measured about 34 inches high, from paws to head. There was quite a change in his size, confidence and demeanor since that first day at the shelter. These facts made his anxiety all-the-more noticeable during the month of the move. Now everyone was concerned about how Rufus would adapt to his new house and surroundings.

Peter and his family would be living in the church's parsonage. As with many traditional churches, a parsonage was provided for the pastor's family. This was done for the convenience of both the congregation and the pastor. There was something unusual about this particular parsonage, however. Not only was the parsonage located right on the church property, but it was also connected to the church itself. The parsonage was deceptive in size because it merely looked like an extension of the church. A door from the house separated the family from the pastor's office in the church. One door from the pastor's office opened out into the sanctuary where the parishioners sat in the pews; another opened into the altar area in the front of the church from where the pastor conducted the services.

For the first week in their new house, Peter's family unpacked box after box and set up the furnishings in their new home; wherever they went, Rufus lay down right there beside them. Everything was fine as long as a family member was present. Rufus was acclimating quickly to the new surroundings, but he insisted on going along for a ride anytime the family went out on an errand. He wouldn't let them out of his sight. They were anxious to get settled, because on Sunday Peter would be installed in a special evening worship service. This is when Peter would officially take over his duties for his new congregation.

The day for the installation finally came. Most of the preparations for the service were handled by the parishioners. Another pastor in the area conducted the service. Peter's primary responsibility was to be on time at the service. That was certainly not a problem as Peter walked through the door of the house and into the church office. His family walked around to the front door and entered the church with the rest of the parishioners. As the service began, Peter was positioned to sit in a chair up front, facing the front altar area with his back to the congregation. From there he listened as the installing pastor preached an eloquent sermon, reminding Peter of his duties to the congregation and their duties to Peter and his family. Suddenly in the middle of the sermon, there appeared an unexpected guest. He showed up peeking out from the church office and entering the altar area in the front of church. He peered at the congregation in wonderment of all the festivities. Rufus had decided to go to church, too!

The church was packed with parishioners, singing hymns and engaged in worship. Rufus wondered where everyone had gone and what all the commotion was about. He could easily hear the worship music from the parsonage. He did not want to be left alone! He simply had to investigate! As everyone in the family became preoccupied with the start of the service, no one gave a second thought as to how Rufus was doing. After all, he was only next door. Rufus would be fine!

When Peter saw Rufus, thoughts of panic quickly set in. What would Rufus do next? Would he start to bark? Would he start exploring the church, greeting the parishioners as he went along? Peter calmly got up from his seat, went over to Rufus and guided him back into the house--making sure that the door was shut tight behind him. He then walked back to his chair for the remainder of the service, his formal installation and the festivities that followed. Needless to say, Rufus was the hot topic of conversation all evening!

Almost every dog owner can remember a funny story about their pet. Very few would have a story like the one about Rufus, The Dog Who Went To Church!

I didn't grow up in a religious house. We were "High Holiday Jews," which, in layman's terms, are Jews who only attend synagogue on the most sacred Jewish holidays. On those days, we would solemnly pray and rend our garments and starve ourselves in worship of the Lord. But every other day of the year the Lord could go fly a kite.

As a child, I particularly liked Yom Kippur, when adults are not allowed to have anything to eat or drink all day. The official reason for the fast is to cleanse our souls of the sins of the previous year. I suspect the actual reason for the fast is to give Jews another reason to complain.

I used to make wagers with myself as to which elderly parishioner would faint each year from dehydration, starvation, or Metamucil withdrawal. After the first one dropped, the rest of the parishioners often gave up on their own efforts, viewing the unlucky victim as a necessary sacrifice to a merciless God.

"Oy, I'm not going like Ida, someone get me some rugaleh!"

Even more than the fainting alta cockers,* though, my favorite part of Yom Kippur was that, as a kid, I was immune from the ritual fast. I'm not quite sure why that is. Kids sin just as much as adults do, and often without guilt or awareness that they did anything wrong. My Hebrew School class alone was a hotbed of emotional torture and abuse. The Torah was no match for atomic wedgies.

I suspect the true goal of allowing children to eat while their parents starve, like the goal of most Jewish traditions, is to instill a sense of guilt in the children. Of course, most kids would probably have some sympathy for their parents on Yom Kippur. And I did, in those first few self-aware years. But by the time I was 9, I had grown weary of my mother's constant guilt trip. Nothing too small or trivial was immune from its reach.

"You finished the milk? Oh well, calcium, shmalcium. Who needs a skeletal system?"

"Did you fill the gas tank? Last week you forgot, I almost ran out of gas on the highway. I suppose I deserve to be run down by an eighteen wheeler, huh."

"Happy Birthday, Jo! Just about this time 29 years ago I was receiving my third blood transfusion and writhing in agony."

It was almost calming, in a way, the stability of it all. The seasons could change, communism could fall, and my testicles could drop, but I could always depend on the eternal guilt trip. Still, you can only cry wolf so many times before the villagers stop come running.

So when Yom Kippur rolled around, I didn't pay much attention to my mother's complaining. Years of living with her had provided me with built-in earplugs, tuned into her frequency only. Most Jewish kids develop them, out of sheer necessity. It was either that, or become a momma's boy. I already had enough to contend with without adding a Norman Bates complex to the mix.

But just because I didn't sympathize doesn't mean I instigated. You might not feel bad for a harpooned man-eating shark, but you don't get near its jaws while it's still thrashing about. Usually I just stayed out of her harpooned way on Yom Kippur, much like I did on any other day that she might be unstable, like her day of the month, tax day, weekdays. I envied my friends who had alcoholics for parents -- at least their mood swings are predictable from the smell of their breath. Plus they always had good booze in their liquor cabinets. We had Manishevitz, which is only good if you prefer diabetic comas.

It wasn't difficult to stay out of her way, for the most part. As the offspring of narcissists, I was almost entirely self-sufficient by the time I was 5 years old. I was the only pre-schooler with his own ironing board and first-aid kit. My sister did her best to shoulder the responsibility, but my parents had an effective divide and conquer strategy that Hirohito would have admired. In my house it was every toddler for himself.

Unfortunately, though I was self-sufficient, I was not very handy. Failure to operate the most basic household tools is the first sign of homosexuality. Gays often have difficulty working with their hands, and are prone to tripping over their own feet. Something about homosexuality impedes hand-eye coordination, which seems anomalous, considering our wonderful hand-eye-penis coordination. I'm pretty sure at least half of Jerry's kids were actually just severe homosexuals.

Usually my lameness had little impact on my self-sufficiency, even when personal possessions would rip, tear, or break. It's not difficult to work around physical lameness, once you realize that squares can actually fit inside circles and vice versa. You'd be amazed at how little masking tape it takes to reattach a stuffed Miss Piggy head to her body.

So masking tape, thumbtacks, and other primitive tools allowed me to survive without resorting to help from my parents. But when I turned 11, I developed an addictive taste for tuna fish. I never really liked tuna fish before; actually, as a kid, I avoided all canned foods. Something about eating food out of a can disturbed me. Despite our high-tech, modern world, we still eat food from cans. It seemed like a ritual from bygone eras, from before the days of computers and digital watches. It was an out-dated tool of survival. Like locomotives, or procreation.

Somewhere around prepubescence, though, I lost my sensitivity towards metal-encased food products. Which required me to use a can opener, the most enigmatic of all kitchen utensils. Have you ever examined a can opener? All those wheels and levers and intricate mechanical functions. And I'm not even talking about the really complex ones with all the extra bells and whistles. You know, the ones that cost the same as a studio apartment in Bensonhurst.

Suddenly, for the first time since the womb, I was dependent on my mother again. It was not a pleasant feeling. I tried to avoid seeking my mother's help. First I tried to ween myself off of tuna fish, but that was no use. I have an addictive personality. Fortunately my addictions tend towards mostly benign activities, like bathing, or oral sex. But once I click with a certain food product, I can't stop myself. I've single-handedly kept Frito-Lays in business for the past thirty years.

Next I considered asking strangers to open the can. I was sure I could find someone in the street to do it. I was a pretty cute kid.

"Excuse me, kind sir. Would you please open this can for me?" I'd ask a passer-by, holding out the can opener. I was so skinny as a kid, he'd probably think I was a starving child, perhaps being neglected by his parents. I considered the possibility that he might call Child Protective Services who would take me away, but that was a risk I was willing to take for a tuna fish sandwich. Plus I figured the boys' home would probably serve tuna fish for lunch all the time.

It seemed like a good plan, except I lived in the suburbs, and there were almost no pedestrians. My neighbors were not an option either. We had alienated them long ago with our very constant and very loud arguments. I'm not sure who called the police on us more often. It was probably about half and half. Either way, it's not easy to enjoy Wheel of Fortune with your next-door neighbor screaming at her husband at the top of her lungs for purchasing another laser disc player.

After a year of debating my options, I decided that either I had to learn how to use a can opener, or else resign myself to needing my mother's help for the rest of my life, which was of course not without precedent. I'm pretty sure Carol Brady made her kids lunch when they were well into their 20s and 30s. But then again, I'm pretty sure she also bathed them when they were well into their 20s and 30s, and that did not appeal to me at all. Still, all things being equal, I enjoy a challenge, as long as it doesn't require public nudity or anything sports-related.

So when Yom Kippur came around that year, it was a perfect opportunity for me to develop my can opening skills. My parents spent most of the day in their separate bedrooms, ostensibly contemplating their sins of the past year but more likely blaming each other for them, so I would have full reign over the kitchen to tackle the white whale standing between me and my meal. And it wasn't just lunch that I was after -- tuna fish is a wonderfully multifunctional canned food. Make a boy a tuna fish sandwich and he'll have lunch. Teach a boy how to use a can opener and he'll have dinner.

The coast clear, I reached into the kitchen drawer and extracted my mortal enemy from its resting place. It came willingly, without a fight. Its complacency only heightened my resolve.

"It's you or me, Mister," I said to the utensil. I liked calling inanimate objects "Mister." Except my stuffed Miss Piggy, who insisted on being called "Ma'am."

Next I took a can of tuna fish out of the cupboard and held it up to my nose. I could smell the bitterly sweet tang of the tuna inside. It struck me how just a few millimeters of metal made the difference between survival and starvation. The tuna called to me, saying "eat me" over and over again. This was before those words took on a different meaning in my world.

I placed the can on the counter and arranged the can opener above it in the most logical manner possible. The opening mechanism slid into place. Success! I reviewed the notes I had taken the last time my mom used the can opener. I had watched her carefully in preparation for this momentous occasion. She was opening a can of dog food at the time, but I figured a can was a can.

According to my detailed instructions, the next step was turning the knob clockwise. I estimated it would take at least eight to ten twists to open the can. Everything was going as planned. I felt energized, probably how a military commander feels when he leads his army into a battle he knows he will win. I was just a few moments from tuna nirvana. This wouldn't be just lunch. This would be a personal triumph.

I gripped the knob with my left hand and began twisting. Unfortunately, I forgot to remove my right hand from the can when I did. The opener sliced into my index finger.

"Fucking shit!" Those words still have the same meaning in my world.

I ran to the kitchen sink and held my bleeding finger under the running water. My eyes began to well with tears. Not because of the blood -- as a world-class klutz, I was accustomed to cutting myself with various sharp instruments. Even a fine-toothed comb can be a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.

No, I was disappointed in my failure. Did this mean that I was doomed forever to seek my mother's help every time I wanted tuna fish? This had dire implications for my future. Would I have to go to a local college, just so I could come home every day and have tuna fish? Would I need to live with my mother for the rest of my life, to feed this addiction? And what if I developed a taste for other canned foods? I didn't love canned corn yet, but my tastes were notoriously erratic.

"Jonah, what are you doing?"

It was my mom. After a day of not eating, she looked even more gaunt than usual. Her hair fell lightly around her shoulders, instead of being pulled into its customary stern bun. She was wearing her aqua blue housedress, one of three housedresses she wore on a repeating cycle. She owned a fourth one also, a pink and purple number with white trim, but she only wore that one when the other three were in the wash. I never quite understood why that one was the alternate. It was prettier than the other three. Maybe she was saving it for special occasions, but I doubted that the Queen was going to come over to watch my mom clean the toilets anytime soon.

"I was . . . I was . . ."

I couldn't finish the sentence. I was frightened, not just that she would be angry at the mess, but that she would be angry at having a failure for a son.

She turned off the running water and wrapped my finger with a paper towel.

"Come on." She led me to the bathroom. "Sit."

She took out some rubbing alcohol and a bandage from the medicine cabinet, and started dressing the wound. Her eyes were half-closed, and her legs appeared ready to give out any second. I didn't want her to fall on the bathroom floor, which was cold, unforgiving marble. (My parents had rejected out-of-hand my suggestion to install pea-green shag carpeting in the bathroom.) But she didn't seem to notice her own weakness. As she wiped the blood from my fingers, she moved with instinct, not with deliberation.

She covered the cut with a Kermit band-aid. She wouldn't buy me Miss Piggy band-aids -- presumably, a pre-emptive attempt to curtail my sexual orientation -- so I settled on Kermit. Which was fine with me. Something about his color struggle appealed to me. Plus there is something inherently antiestablishment about a frog who loves a pig.

"Let's go."

She led me back to the kitchen. I sat at the kitchen table while I watched her prepare my lunch. Her hands shook while she twisted the can opener and dumped its contents into a tupperware container. She mixed the tuna fish with a little mayo and sliced some lettuce and tomato, which she placed on the bread -- steps I was planning to skip in my attempt to prepare lunch, as they required handling a knife, and I was pushing my luck already. She garnished the plate with two chocolate chip cookies and slid it in front of me, along with a big glass of milk.

"Eat." She kissed my forehead, and left me with my hard-earned sandwich. I watched her stumble out of the kitchen. She looked small and frail, the aqua blue housedress hanging around her like a potato sack, a few stray grey hairs around her temples belying her age. There was so little to her, without her force of will to hold her up. I imagined a day when she would be sitting at the same table, and I would make her lunch and kiss her on the forehead. I expected that day to come sooner than I expected, whether I wanted it to or not.

So I couldn't operate a can opener. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. There were some good local colleges, and I could live rent-free. Plus, I hate moving, especially packing. There was always so much dust on everything, and reminders of times past that you wished were present.