I got up and researched my verse, Romans 8:28, in 5 different translations and, as you might expect, it read differently in each.  I even looked the verse up in the Reina Valera Actualizada (Spanish).  Then, for some reason, I turned to John 1:1 and read, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  Then it hit me; King James, NASB, NIV, Reina Valera are all Bibles but they are NOT the Word!  The Word was with God and the Word IS GOD!  So I looked up  John 1:1  in each of the five translations I had before me and guess what?  They all read exactly the same!  Even in Spanish it read the same, word for word, which is highly unusual when translating from one language to another.

So consider this, whatever translation you may have is only the Bible; it guides you to the Word of God, but the true Word IS GOD.  So it becomes irrelevant which Bible you use as long as it leads you to the true Word which is God.  Hmmmm.

Be that as it may, I have entertained tens of thousands of people, and scared half that many nearly to death with this thing.  I learned very early that the key to realism with a spring puppet is to move it slowly.  Real animals don’t jerk around, they have purpose to their movements.  So for the first several months I spent a LOT of time watching how my dog and cats reacted to the world.  I then simply put that learning into practice as I honed my puppet skills.  It eats, it looks and it runs but, most importantly, it jumps!  And always when you least expect it. 

In the many years of performing with Rocky, I have had someone pull a knife on us more than once.  The sudden appearance of the blade is not nearly as funny as the accompanying “I’LL CUT THAT THING!”  Once in Atlanta, I actually had someone whip a gun out from under his coat.  Fortunately Rocky was on the floor by that time and not in my hands. 

The key to remember is this, it isn’t real.  But when it is coming at you, most people react rather than think and the result is great comedy and the occasional panic attack.  I have never caused a heart attack, but I have come close.  And I have avoided causing a premature birth by having the sense to size up my victim before I let it fly.  And there is a whole other skill I have developed, picking the right target.  You can see it in their eyes when they are not quite sure whether it is real or not. 

I did a show for a high school football team one spring at a camp.  There was a HUGE defensive tackle in the front row that I could just tell was the one.  “Let me put him away,” I said as I turned to the right.  Little did he know I was lining  up my target.  BOOM! I let it go and hit him square in the chest. “WOWWWWWW!” He yelled as he went backwards in his chair and landed in his quarterback’s lap to the delighted laughter of his teammates.

Then there was the lady in a shopping mall where I was doing strolling entertainment.  The raccoon is key there since it draws a crowd for me.  They come to see what it is and, after I make it play dead, I segue into magic.  But this particular day a lady approached me with an armful of packages and a 32 oz. Coke.  I ran it up my arm and, after looking closely, she said, “That’s not real.”  “That’s right, ma’am,” I replied.  ”I have a dead animal in my show, don’t tell the kids.”  He ate a little something out of my hand as she leaned in to look closer.  “That’s not real!”  she said again.  “I already told you that,” I said as I beat him on my hand to show he was not real.  “Let me put him away,” as I turned to my right.  BOOM!  She screamed bloody murder, packages went everywhere, she dropped her Coke, then slipped and came down right in the middle of the puddle, elbows hitting tile, and wound up with Rocky laying next to her head.  She looked at it one more time and said, “That’s not real!”

My good friend Bill G was in town a few years ago and went with me to a mall performance.  “I’ve seen you before,” he said, “Now I want to watch how the crowd reacts.”  So he watched as, once again, I nailed a lady with her family, with her screams and all that.  As I walked off in one direction, they headed in the other, with Bill close enough behind to hear their ensuing conversation.  A few minutes later he came back to where I was, laughing out loud.  “What? I asked.  “I was listening to that family, and to what one lady said to the one you threw the raccoon on.”  “What?” I asked.  “That thang liked to latch on to you!” he said.  We both laughed over that one for quite a while.

These are only a couple of tales.  There is another entire chapter dealing with celebrity encounters you don’t want to miss.  Keep a look out for “Attack of the Killer Coon – Part Deux” coming soon.  And, if you are so intrigued you must have a Rocky Raccoon for yourself, you are so lucky because I SELL THEM!  For information on how to order your very own Rocky Raccoon, complete with training manual, follow this link: www.jimchester.com/magic_comedy/rockyraccoon.html.  Click on the “Add to Cart” link and you will be able to order your very own.  Payment is through PayPal.  With a little practice, you too can soon be flirting with potential bodily harm and lawsuits.  See you soon for Part Deux.

But as it turned out, it was beautiful in Daytona Beach.  We were at a time share which, being the second week of September, was largely inhabited by retirees.  There were not many people there as it was the off season so we had no problem identifying each of them.  By day two we had assigned names to each of them.  There was Sunscreen, the old guy with skin the color and texture of beef jerky.  He would be at the pool or in the ocean by 7 am and spend most of the day in the sun.  He would put a layer of sunscreen on his head so thick I thought, looking from our balcony, it was white hair.  But no, it was several ounces of SPF-45.  Then he would oil the rest of his body so it would simmer without actually turning to leather.  One afternoon he swam past my wife with what looked like a cigarette in his mouth.  But when he submerged he removed it and held it aloft like a periscope.  That’s when she noticed it was a Tootsie Pop.  So we had to change his name to Kojak.

Then there was Bar-B-Q, who was at the grill for lunch and dinner every day we were there.  And Mullet, the middle-aged guy with the long braid hanging halfway down his back.  And Cutie Pie, the very pretty young lady who was with Bald Spot.  And here would come Ms. Cellulite, flapping in through the gate to the beach.  The coolest person there was the one we could barely see, Wind Surfer.  All we saw of him was his kite careening through the air and his dim silhouette flying over the waves.

Being on the coast one would naturally think, seafood.  Yes, there were plenty of seafood restaurants throughout the area and we did eat at a couple. But I have to tell you, NO one anywhere cooks seafood as good as anyone in Louisiana.  Not even a 4-star Florida restaurant can serve anything close to what any and every Louisiana cook puts on the table day to day.  It’s all in the spice.  Louisiana uses it, others don’t.  And Louisiana has a take on presentation.  Sure, Floridians can serve a fillet of fish with a side of garlic potatoes and a sprig of parsley, but it can’t hold a candle to dumping a load of hot crawfish, potatoes, corn and sausage on a table covered with newspaper.  And never wear a white shirt to a crawfish boil, it won’t be white when you’re done.

Seafood aside, it was a delightful week.  I was able to cook some excellent steaks, made easier because Bar-B-Q already had the grill hot.  And the rip tide lessened as Hanna made her way up the coast so we were able to spend some quality time in the surf.  We even were able to relax as Ike bypassed our home town, choosing Houston as his primary target.  As Ike turned north, my brother in Cincinatti got more damage from it than we did.  He lost a tree and was without power for 15 hours.  Welcome to our world.  I need to e-mail him to say that I know a great place to evacuate if he needs to get away.  And no need to bring sunscreen, Kojak has plenty.

I like classic rock, but I have heard it for years and there are only so many times you can listen to a station “get the Led out.”  I listen to quite a bit of jazz.  I especially like older jazz, big band swing music.  Maybe I was born 30 years too late, but the tightness and quality arrangements of big band music is fantastic!  I actually sat and watched “The Glenn Miller Story” the other day for at least the 9th time.  Truth is, it never comes on that I don’t sit and watch it.  I own Glenn Miller CDs, as well as Bennie Goodman, Lionel Hampton, Harry James and many more.  I also like fusion, which is a cross between rock and jazz in both instrumentation and style.  It has a lyrical quality that is easier to follow than the manic wanderings of Charlie Parker, although Charlie was a legend.  My favorite jazz fusion artist is Billy Cobham, one of the best drummers of all time, but he also wrote and arranged.  Of his library of work, two albums stand far above all else, “Total Eclipse” and “A Funky Thide of Sings,” both produced in the 70s.

I have been a musician since the age of four and have picked up and played about a dozen different instruments, if only to learn one song.  I prefer instrumental music because it doesn’t have to lay low in the background while the singer tells some story.  Let the singer go perform at a poetry reading and let the band play!

If you were to catch me in my car any given day I can almost guarantee you I will be listening to classical music.  My love of classical goes back to college when I took a class in music appreciation.  Not because I wanted to expand my horizons, but because it got me out of taking another written humanities class.  I, like many others, did not like classical music at the time because it was slow and boring.  But at that time I had never heard Igor Stravinsky.  Stravinsky has literally changed my life.  This is NOT easy listening music, in fact my wife refers to it as hard listening music.  It is so complex with atonality and varying rhythms, many people uneducated in music just don’t get it.  If you just got lost in the previous sentence, you know what I mean.

Classical music is not meant to fill the void in the background while you drive or eat or read.  It is best enjoyed in a very quiet, dimly lit room with no distractions and your eyes closed.  To really enjoy it you have to let the music consume you, become one with it.  I taught music appreciation for one year in a private school and, as an experiment, had the class move all the desks to the edge of the room and lie down on the floor with all of the lights off.  I then played Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring.”  You should have seen their faces when it was over and the lights went back on.  “I didn’t know there was music like that!”  Exactly.  We had a party at the end of the year and they asked me, “Are you going to play any more of that Russian psycho music?”

All of this is to say, don’t disdain a friend or aquaintance because you happen to catch him listening to “Petrushka.”  Ask to borrow his CD, go off to a quiet place and give it a try.  Because you might, just might, find that classical music is worth the effort.

Sudoku has several levels of play from beginner to pure evil.  I was on the beginner level for months, having finally moved up to the simple level.  I cannot even fathom moving further to the easy level.  The absolute worst part of this game is, it is highly addictive.  If it were a pill it would be a controlled substance.

I am not sure what part of the human psyche is responsible for this urge toward self-abuse.  Why is it that humans not only have the ability to solve problems, apparently they have a deep-rooted need to do so?  I prefer problems that have more satisfying conclusions like how to open the double seal on a bag full of brownies, how to stretch the salsa with ketchup without being too obvious, or how to buy a $398 Easton high-tech composite softball bat without my wife catching me.

Puzzles have been around as long as man has walked the planet.  Early puzzles were fundamental; things like, “How do I stick my spear into the heart of this gigantic lizard before he turns me into a prehistoric hors d’oeuvre?”  As time went on, puzzles became increasingly complex.  “How can I catapult this flaming ball of pitch over the castle wall without it breaking up and raining death on my Imperial Guard?”  But now that man has solved every single mystery in the universe, the need to solve problems has moved on to senseless, mind-numbing games.

Riddles are an early form of problem solving games.  I like riddles, for the most part.  Here are a couple of examples of typical riddles.  (Answers will appear at the bottom of the page.)

• 1.  How far can a horse run into the woods?
• 2.  Is it legal in North Carolina for a man to marry his widow’s sister?
• 3.  If a man and a half can dig a hole and a half in a day and a half, how long does it take a monkey with a wooden leg to kick all the seeds out of a medium size dill pickle?

Crossword puzzles have been around a long time, and they are the puzzle of choice for my wife and her father.  The problem is, crosswords require a long-term investment to get good since clues tend to be repetitive.  However, doing crosswords is great for developing vocabulary, which is one reason I have trouble understanding my wife.

• “Jimbeaux, I bought a firkin of ghee last night.  Have you seen it?
• “Huh?”
• “The firkin of ghee I bought.  What did you do with it?”
• “I throwed it in the truck.”

Obviously I lack the vocabulary to attempt crossword puzzles.  But Soduku, according to the author of “Sudoku for Dummies,” is a puzzle anyone can do; anyone with months of time on their hands and a propensity toward masochism.  So, if you have more spare time than sense, give it a try.  All you have to lose is several hours a day of otherwise productive time and your sanity.

Riddle Answers:

• 1.  Halfway, after that the horse is running OUT of the woods.
• 2.  No.  If the woman is a widow, then the man is dead.
• 3.  I don’t know.  My dad told me that one and I have yet to figure it out.

Vocabulary:

• firkin: a small cask for butter equal to a fourth of a barrel or, in the case of butter, 56 lbs.
• ghee: clarified semifluid butter made from water buffalo’s milk.
• throwed: past tense of throw

    “If you see a bright flash, duck under your desk and cover your head; there has been a nuclear explosion.”  As if a 40 year old wooden desk which was half-rotted from three generations of gum stuck to its underside would protect you from the bully in the next row, much less a nuclear blast.

So one day recently, as I was trimming the hair growing out of my nose, I suddenly realized that I am now approaching old!  It wasn’t so much the memories of the 60s as it was trimming the hair.  Why is it that at some point around age 40, when hair begins getting sparse on your head, it suddenly seems to re-surge in many other less complimentary parts of the body?  For the first 40 years of life, I don’t remember ever having to trim nose hairs.  Now I can’t go a week without trimming them, lest my wife see me and demand that the trimming commence.  And it’s not just the nose, I have hair growing out of my ears, too.  And what is the deal with eyebrows?  Again, 40 years of wake up, leave, come home and sleep has suddenly turned into, “What in the world is that caterpillar doing on my brow?”

Something else I have noticed.  A friend told me I would know I was getting old when I started going “Ughhh” when I get up out of my recliner.  Shoot, I have been saying, “Ughhh” for years now when I sit DOWN in my recliner.  And yet I continue to sign up for the church softball team every spring.  Each year I tell myself, “Just one more year.”  Then I go out and play with guys half my age, turning double plays and hitting .600 and somehow, between administering massive doses of Advil and Ben-Gay, I complete another year.  What a sense of pride as I limp into the house to tell my wife, “I went three for four tonight…UGHHHHHH,” as I fall into my recliner. 

Older people have a tendency to sit around with their peers and talk about their ailments.  I learned this years ago when my wife and I sent our daughter to stay with my parents for a week.  About the middle of the week we called to see how things were going.  “Dad, please don’t ever send me here again.  All Papa and Gramma do is sit around with other old people and talk about what hurts and what doctor they went to this week.  I wanna come home!”

My wife and I are trying to avoid this scenario by hanging out with a circle of friends 20 to 30 years younger than ourselves.  They simply do not tolerate such talk.  Our conversations go more like this:

• Friend: “Elijah is a little cranky today, he is cutting a new tooth.”
• Me: “Yeah, I’m a little cranky myself, I just lost a tooth.  Hit it with the scissors while I was trimming nose hairs.  Where is Ryan today?”
• Friend: “He and David are out hunting bugs.  And, by the way, what’s up with that caterpillar on your forehead?”

I realize America seems to think we have cornered the market on good sportsmanship and fair play.  We never cheat…except for occasional sports doping, water boarding and regime toppling.  Otherwise we are model global citizens.  Seriously, why do we think leaders of adversary nations would even consider being forthright with us?  What would history be like if we did that?

“Hello, Adolph?  Dwight Eisenhower here.  Yeah, it’s been awhile.  Say I just wanted to give you a quick update on a little something we’ve been putting together over here, Operation Overlord…O-ver-lord.  Let’s just call it D-Day.  Look, we’ve noticed you have been massing a large force at Pas de Calais on the French Coast.  You’re way off.  No, not even close.  We will be landing a massive invasion force in Normandy…Nor-man-dy.  Yes, I know we’ve been bombing Pas de Calais pretty hard, we were just messing with you.  Now write this down.  June 6 we will begin an all-out assault on Normandy.  No, I’m serious.  And those first 1,000 paratroopers you will see landing behind your lines, ignore them.  They’re rubber dummies.  No, seriously, they’re dummies.  And get this, they are rigged with firecrackers so your troops will think they are being shot at.  Yeah, that’s a good one all right.  Anyway, be ready because we are sending about 5,000 ships over the morning of June 6.  No, not 500, 5,000.  And we are going to land about 340,000 troops that morning.  So, did you get all of that?  Because we would really hate to make you mad by arriving unannounced.”

That is absurd you say.  Well, it could have happened, especially after the courtesy call we received in December of 1941.  “Is this Mr. Roosevelt?  General Yamamoto here.  Look, I just wanted to let you know we have a large group of folks headed your way.”

Grow up, America.  We are in a WAR on terrorism.  This is not a game and we can’t expect the other guys to play fair.  Do the homework, interrogate the suspects, look closely at the satellite imagery.  But don’t sit by the phone and wait for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to call the White House.  “George, Mahmoud here.  Hey, about those nukes…”

I have a cat, Lindy, who will come when she is called and she will even play fetch, up to a point.  You have to use the right object for the game which, in her case, is a plastic wrapped “star” peppermint.  Hold it by one end of the wrapper and give it a shake and she comes running.  The fun starts when you throw it because she will vault over things that a dog merely goes around.  Then she comes trotting back and proudly drops the peppermint right at your feet.

I wish she could teach that to my dog, Lucy.  Oh, my dog LOVES to fetch, in fact I think she lives to fetch.  She is a lab/coon hound mix which makes her, well, a mutt.  Her toy of choice is a tennis ball, which I buy by the dozen because she has not yet learned the difference between a tennis ball and food.  Apparently she must think it is possibly the toughest piece of meat she has ever encountered.  Her favorite thing is to catch a thrown ball on the first bounce.  But, as she brings it back, she will come close enough to make you think she is bringing it back, only to veer off and trot around thinking, “Okay, now it’s YOUR turn to fetch.”  So I ignore her which will eventually draw her into grabbing distance.  Ignore her a little more and she will actually touch it to my hand.  But if I try to grab it she is off again.  “Drop it!” I yell.  “Ha, ha,” she thinks.  It seems like possessiveness is an emotional quality of my dog.  I have also seen her exhibit joy and shame.  Do animals possess even higher emotions like self-sacrifice?

I think they do.  And I witnessed a most vivid example of just that many years ago when my wife and I were first married and living in a single-wide in Tallahassee, FL.  I was a hippie living like a redneck in this trailer on the outskirts of town where we had enough land to let the animals run loose in the neighborhood.  I had a huge lab at the time, an 85-pounder named d’Artagnan, that ruled over the other dogs of the neighborhood.  We also had a big orange male tabby cat named Thumper.  Just as d’Artagnan ruled outside, Thumper ruled inside.  So he was one indignant tomcat when my wife brought home a little female we named Kitty.  My wife bringing new pets into the house is a trend that would persist over the next 33 years of marriage.  I have learned to just let it be, as long as she cleans the litter box.  Anyway, Thumper was really put out at having this newcomer in his lair, and he would have absolutely nothing to do with her.

Until one day when Kitty got outside.  Not because a door was left open, she just walked out the kitchen window with no screen onto the porch railing and out into the yard (did I mention we were living like rednecks).  In a matter of seconds the frail little kitten was surrounded by d’Artagnan and his entourage barking up a storm while Thumper sat on the porch rail and watched (he, too, knew how to get out through the window).  But as the situation escalated, Thumper jumped from the rail to the ground between Kitty and the dogs, promptly darting out into the yard with the doggie entourage giving chase.  It was during this time that Kitty made her way back inside to safety.  After a lively game of “chase the cat,” Thumper finally made his way back in through the window and laid down.  Not long after that we found Kitty curled up with him, nursing on his stomach, and they were the best of friends thereafter.

I have seen some pretty intelligent behavior on the part of animals before and since.  But I may never see another example like this one, of an animal putting itself in harm’s way for the benefit of another.  I only hope that, faced with a similar situation, I would act with as much valor.

I am not especially fond of being scared. And I think most people, at their core, are the same way. Why is it, when you watch “America’s Funniest Home Videos” and you see someone get scared, they always jump up and down like they’re going to wet themselves yelling, “Don’t ever do that again!” But the same people will go to a theater and experience the most horrible thing imaginable: $13.50 for a bucket of popcorn and two Cokes. Then they go into the movie and get scared all over again.

People in haunted houses perplex me. Whether they buy a haunted house, stay overnight in one on a dare, or find themselves trapped in one having to endure endless Amway presentations, they all have one thing in common. They stay there! Now I have not had much experience with hauntings, but I think I know how I would react…I would get out! I may be wrong, but cats barking like dogs, portraits bleeding from the eyes, and objects flying off the table and hitting me in the head are not features I look for in a home. But the idiots in the movie call Professor Bloomingdale from the university and have him come out and assess the situation. Only when the good professor emerges from a closet with a butcher knife stuck in his gizzard will the poor wife grab her husband and say, “I’m a little concerned about our house, Bob.”

It usually ends up that the house was built on the site of an ancient Indian burial ground. Doesn’t the zoning commission look into these things?
    “Mr. Jones, I see you want to build a 450 home development on the site of an old Cherokee burial ground.”
    “That’s true, but we dug up as many of the remains as we could find and tossed them into the dumpster behind the Wal-Mart.”
    “Approved. Next order of business.”

Of course, in their haste to begin Phase 1 they missed the remains of the Cherokee medicine man, Sticks Gizzard With Knife, and he is now on a rampage. After a couple of months of doing battle with the spirit of Sticks Gizzard and losing the dog, three university personnel and a mother-in-law (there is always an upside), the spirit finally joins his tribe in the dumpster, which was consecrated with an official state historical landmark sign, and the house burns down. Now is the logical time for the family to move to a new neighborhood or Alaska. But no, they rebuild on the site and, in the process, discover the remains of an Indian princess with a knife where her gizzard used to be. Get out!

Midnight Bus to Iguacu

A bullet hole was in the windshield of the mighty bus
Then came the tale of armed banditos frightening all of us
I said, “You’re joking!” but my friend insisted it was true
And thus began our fateful trip to Foz do Iguacu.

Rolling through the darkness, there’s nothing else to do
But grab a pen and maybe then record a thought or two
Cramping thighs and bloodshot eyes are what’s in store for you
Riding on the midnight bus to Foz do Igucu.

What’s that I see, why, could it be a playground or a park?
It’s hard to tell at 3 AM when all you see is dark.
I feel a little better as I see the moonlight glow
Until I hear the driver say there’s eight more hours to go.

“Maravilha” said the driver as we stopped once more
Getting up to stretch my legs I headed for the door
I went into a little bathroom thinking it was free
Until a man behind a desk said, “Thirty cents to pee.”

On and on into the dark the mighty carriage rolls
Delivering its cargo of exhausted Christian souls
Before too long will be the dawn and then those skies of blue
But still there is no thrill, just six more hours to Iguacu.

Sixteen hours of tribulation, backache and despair
Could that be the falls I see? Thank God we’re finally there!
Stepping off that bus I am so glad this trip is through;
And next time I will fly to see the Foz do Iguacu.