Enemy Vine

My friend Rich is a professional gardener whose love of the land is as rich as the soil. For my vegetable garden this year, he recommended that I plant a new breed of tomato plant all the rave called a Rutgers. Named after the school that developed and patented her, this breed of tomato is known for its heartiness and robust taste.

So after searching what seemed like the world for a select tomato plant invented not too far from the neighborhood, I found four plants at a shore point Home Depot after coming up empty-handed everywhere else.

The plants were not even into the ground and I could not wait to bite into my first ‘mater. Low and behold, between the four plants planted and spaced evenly apart, yellow jackets decided to nest underground. In the spring, my stepson sprayed a can of Raid around the opening but it not only did not touch the cave dwellers it voided the plant's chemical free advertisement.

Soon it looked like an insect airport with the yellow jackets coming in for a landing at the base camp one by one. They had scouts, spies, worker bees, and a couple of hit men perched on the side of the house wary of intruders. The success of the underground hive made a mockery out of my garden’s tilled ground, new mulch, and hankering for fresco tomato gravy.

When my bumper crop of green tomatoes started to disappear, I started to scratch my head. Even my safety dance in between the insect flights to water me ‘maters must have looked silly to the animal watching me.

Not too long into my sleuth invegitative reporting regarding the missing tomatoes, I spotted the thief, a burly groundhog wandering up the hill from the woods. He walked over to my garden as if he had been there before. Hanging upside down on my metal cages, he wrestled green tomatoes from the stalks and ate me ‘maters on my wood deck as I cursed him from behind the patio glass.

When the groundhog decided to burrow right in between plant 2 and plant 3 on a later forage, he discovered what I had worried about all season. The groundhog dug right into the yellow jacket nest and imploded it. I have not seen the groundhog in awhile for reasons I can only nightmarishly imagine but his hole, the bees, and my suddenly growing green tomatoes remain.

I doubt they had this much trouble in the Rutgers laboratory but it is a jungle out there. Now it is back to me verses the yellow jackets in the race for a later taste of this frigging mater.

Life is a Beach

My first mistake was asking my wife to record me on the camcorder walking the bulkhead rocks of a jetty below the boardwalk of Atlantic City, NJ. My second mistake was not realizing how miserable my wide body looks and feels these days. An honest mistake, I suppose I got caught up in the scenery - The seashore for a visiting shoobie. Abundant sunshine. An intoxicating breeze aiding high tide coming in. Ah, it seemed like the right moment and the right backdrop to capture a natural home movie clip.

My sneakers spit sand in my jaunt to the jetty. I hopped with glee across the first few rocks then came a harrowing moment of self-awarenes. I realized too late that my ginger waltz not only must have looked effeminate for the camera but it has been recorded for prosperity. The next couple of steps I faced the challenge of a grating slope, some further spaced rocks, and an ocean trying to reduce my land to sand with the next wave. With the ocean to my left and right, it was like walking the plank. I did not feel my mortality all at once but rather in steps.

My proud desired stride shortened to a laughable length. I tried to make light of my frailty by turning back and looking at the camera. The wind parted my hair in a way that I realized a shortage of follicles. I begin to breathe heavier than I should for this little exertion. In my mind’s eye, I could see myself in action and it wasn't pretty. I took a few steps forward and am reminded how embarrasingly different this much look than the bleached blonde surfer dudes attacking the beach to my left.

Further out on the jetty, ocean pushes itself up onto the rocks. The slime coat created underneath my footprints is a slippery slope. My left foot kicks out like an accident acting to happen. My balance shifts. It is treacherous sailing and I consider turning back. I fret about falling but manage a Joe Cool wave back to my wife. She makes no reaction. I knew that I looked like an old man but prayed that my wife didn’t see me for who I am.

I entertain irrational thoughts like hitting my head, falling unconscious, and being swept up by the sea to a death by drowning. I visualize the headlines in the obituaries of the Atlantic City Press. Ripley’s Believe It or Not Man Who Defied Death Strangely Dies Near His Museum Exhibit.

With more than 50 yards of the jetty ahead of me to conquer, I make a surrender plea. I turn back around. My feet shuffle along the same wet rocks. My steps can now be measured in inches. Nursing home patients would lap me. My hands wing out to the sides to brace a potential fall. My wife continues to film me and I am too preoccupied to tell her to silence production. In the end, I made my way back to shore without falling. My goal to conquer the jetty like a he-man was replaced by a middle age concession of not falling down and getting hurt.

The ordeal looked even more pathetic on the playback of the high definition camcorder.

My Impotence Precedes Me

Luigi Al Denti's cataract eyes issued me a surreal P.T. Barnum stare. “I know I haven’t been always truthful with you in the past. I don’t blame you for not believing me but I gotta tell you somepun about my vacation down the seashore.”

I fretted, “Tell me that you didn’t get into trouble with the law while on vacation.”

“Not this time. I may as well just say it. Joe, you are in the Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum.”

“I certainly am an exhibit in the Ripley’s museum in Atlantic City.” We gained each others full attention. I asked, “Now if I can pick your brain, what the heck did you think when you saw my statue?”

Luigi tugged on the plastic tubing line of his portable oxygen unit for no apparent reason. As he searched for the right words, my ears bent to the steady oxygen bursts into his nasal passages. A place on his face begged for my pardon before continuing.

“Ugh, forget about me for a minute.” he dismissed. “There were visitors in your chamber over by the well that the poor girl fell down. They were saying mighty cruel things about you wearing a beekeeper’s costume.”

I winced at the expected turn of events. “Did it remind you of how some ignorant people have treated your handicap in public?”

“Yeppers.” Luigi replied agreeably. “That is why I stuck up for you. I told them folks that didn’t know better a thing or two. I said that I know you. I said you can say what you want about the guy but he is an impotent person. Joe Torn is a social worker for the retarded. They all just stared at me for the longest time. I sure shut them up.”

Joe Tornatore in leaner times

Planet Eccentric

The Ripley's Believe It Or Not almanac called Planet Eccentric has just been published. I am pictured on page 176 with a 1/4 page layout and a caption that reads No Ordinary Joe. The hardback book chronicles the world's most eccentric people, places, and creatures in no less than 256 pages. Hundreds of color photos abound. The pages are filled with stories of world record holders, contortionists, strongmen, exhibitionists, and a diseased guy so terrified of venom that he wore a beekeeper's suit outdoors from 2001-2003.

Ripley's kept their verbal promise to me and put the name of my disease, Mastocytosis, in print with a brief medical explanation. They also plugged my book Stop and Smell the Silk Roses. If the above picture looks familiar, Ripley's used the photograph on my actual book cover for their page layout. No marketing major in the country would question how this could happen.

Leafing through the pages of Planet Eccentric, I have concluded that my company is a little suspect but the friendly spread is a walking endorsement. It suits me fine.

An Eccentric Life

A few months ago, I had a sensational dream that I was a guest on the Oprah Winfrey show. A vivid dream, I have a trace memory of Oprah supportively resting her hand on my leg. Enough about dreams and back to reality.

Regular readers might recall me announcing my inclusion in Ripley’s Believe It or Not; Planet Eccentrics hardback book due out this fall(see 12-16-04 post called @Ripleys.com). I recently received a mind-boggling email from the publishing company. The publishing company is asking me to go on a promotional tour for their book, which includes appearances on some noteworthy television shows. Trust me, I am not dreaming. Here is the email.

Dear Joe Tornatore

I am representing the Mint Publishing Group and we are publishing the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not; Planet Eccentric book this October. We are currently preparing our promotional campaigns for the Fall and we would like to know if you would be interested in participating in upcoming promotions for this new title? These promotions would primarily be on National TV such as Regis and Kelly, Oprah, Good Morning America, Montel Williams Show etc.

Your transportation, food, hotel etc would be covered, but please keep in mind I cannot answer any further questions regarding payment at this time, I am just enquiring about expression of interest at present.

If you are interested in participating in the promotion of our new book or you require more information, please contact me as soon as possible at xxxxxxx or via phone at xxxxxxxxx. I have attached a PDF flyer for you to view.

I do not know if congratulations are in order because I suspect there is a further selection process to make the promotional tour. I did express splendid interest. Who wouldn’t want to be pampered as a paid guest on television shows? When there exists no promotional tour for your own book, living a high profile life promoting somebody elses book may be a pretty damn good substitute. Not bad for a guy getting stung by a bee.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

This weekend, I assumed the persona of my alter ego, The Bee Man of Blackwood. No, I didn't put my beekeeper's suit back on but I did complete my first book signing at the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum in Atlantic City, NJ for Stop and Smell the Silk Roses. I am free publicity for the Ripley's museum. They sell my book in their gift shop and I make free personal appearance to boost ticket sales. Quid Pro Quo.

I learned a lot about public relations this past weekend. It is not that easy to sell a book even in a museum housing your exhibit and playing your TV episode on a continuous loop. Yes, I moved some books but it was far from a circus maximus arena. The museum averages one thousand customers during the summer but the gate was lighter this weekend. Advertisements appeared in the Atlantic City Press and Atlantic City Weekly magazine so can I blame the picture perfect weather that would not drive vacationers from the beach and into air conditioned buildings? Enough excuses.

Back to the learning experience. I learned that if I charged $1.00 per autograph and scrubbed the book signing I would have been a better business man than author. Nevertheless, I signed about 500 free autographs this weekend and met people from all walks of life. Sitting tableside, it was awkward asking people if they wanted my autograph when I really didn't know if they gave a flying frock. Likewise, it was awkward being asked for my autograph when I doubted myself of being in a position of celebrity to dole it out. But autograph I did. I even autographed the bikini top of a sun worshipper but please don't tell my wife. It may sound like a whole lot of guilt-ridden rationalization but I pressed lightly and scribbled as fast as I could. I also learned that people spell their first names so differently that this unalienable right should never be taken for granted by a signer. I also never once envisioned myself being a part of another family's scrapbook but I posed for pictures with vacationers from as far away as Columbia and Spain. I got a chuckle by an adept interpreter explaining in sign language to a deaf man that I was the Bee Man of Blackwood.

I had almost left the city to enter the Atlantic City Expressway, when I began wondered how many people are in a position to even have a book signing. I felt fortunate. That is when I saw a frail homeless man holding a cardboard sign that read HOMELESS, I'LL DO ANYTHING FOR FOOD. I was signing books for cold cash and this beggar owned little more than the one cardboard sign. Back to the learning experience. Signs come in all shapes and sizes.

Meglomania Brought to a Knee

The Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum New York Avenue and the Boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey

In the end, this is too funny of a story not to mention on Freudian Slips. However, I originally intended to not post this story but the keen memories of others are coming back to haunt me. I have been getting emails from people who are asking me if the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum in Atlantic City, New Jersey is having the grand opening on my exhibit this weekend. Too many of you remember that the event was actually scheduled for this weekend. People were checking my blog for details and there was no mention of it. Let me explain why. First of all, let me set the record straight. I will not be down at the Ripley's Museum this weekend in person for good reason. For anyone who wants to take a jaunt down to the AC boardwalk and pay admission, I assure you that my rare exhibit is in the Survivor's Gallery. It is up and running...or should I say up and standing, or upstanding if you will. Furthermore, the Ripley's museum is indeed having a grand opening this weekend although I am no longer an invited guest. Ripley's nixed me from the star studded lineup and extravaganza. From what I have been told, the museum is hosting a ribbon cutting ceremony, not on the Bee Man of Blackwood as promised, but on the unveiling of a brand new medieval torture chamber exhibit. I am chuckling just writing that I have been axed by....torture devices. This is irony in the archaic making. So anything pointy that Vlad the Impaler kept on hand for his enemies will probably be on display. Left to my own devices, I consider my beekeeper's suit just as much an instrument of torture.

I have been informed why I am not a part of the weekend festivities. Ownership wanted to have two special events a month apart rather than roll me into the throng of masochists reveling in the scrotum vices, tongue removers, and nine inch nails. I understand completely. So what was once a grand opening and ticker tape parade will not only be delayed but scaled back to a book signing at the Ripley's museum on Saturday June 25th and Sunday 26th 1-6pm on both days. That's Hollywood for you! Ripley's is in the process of doing a press release and advertising my name in area newspapers and local rags. Fox news has come to Ripley's events in the past but what will actually transpire is anybody's guess. Heck, they might tell me it is a BYOB affair, Bring Your Own Balloons. Keep in mind that during my last business meeting with Ripley's, the sitdown was interrupted because a frantic call came in of a two-headed cow found in rural Pennsylvania. That's no bull!

Stop and Smell the Silk Roses

Extra, extra, read, all about it! UPS delivered four cartons of the second edition of my autobiography, Stop and Smell the Silk Roses this week. Any reader can tell from the hundreds of puns that I wrote this book cover to cover. The book is about deadly insect encounters, their interaction with my rare skin disease, and my unorthodox protection in a beekeeper's suit (see profile picture) until doctors figured out what in creation to do with me. The book description sounds like heavy reading but it is largely off-beat humor juxtaposed with near-death. There is something ironic about a man who sets out to write the story of his life and it winds up an unexpected comedy. I still don't know what to make of that one.

Life inside the suit produced comedic interactions from an infinity of strangers who confused me with every occupation under the sun. Looking back on my life it doesn't seem possible to have been confused with a dogcatcher, carnival worker, anthrax investigator, terrorist, fireman, bubble boy, exterminator, a chef, penguin feeder, part of a Candid Camera joke, Department of Health worker, World Trade Center cleanup worker, gardener, mascot for Canadian Maple Syrup, Haz-Mat worker, Ralph Nader activist, astronaut, butcher, and Mosquito Control Commission worker to name a few. I was once mistaken for a World Trade Center cleanup worker the same day I was frisked by police who suspected me of being a terrorist! I couldn't have been both and yet I was neither.

It is the story of an ordinary man, whose medical condition forced him into a life of extremes. It chronicles a man who got stung by a bee and wound up in a museum, in a comic strip, and on TV. It's one man's journey of self-discovery through mistaken identity. It is about a life given welcome pause and an opportunity to awaken to stop and smell the roses.

I need to reclaim my garage so if anyone wants a book chock full of irony and humor, send me an email at joetornatore@comcast.net . $11.99 gets you an autographed copy mailed to you. My friend Joe Heller said it best, "You can search The Library of Congress and not find a book like this." You got to love paid constituents!

The Twilight Zone

"It is difficult to produce a television documentary that is both incisive and probing when every twelve minutes one is interrupted by dancing rabbits singing about toilet paper."

-Rod Sterling

On the evening of March 2, 2005, I received a frantic call on the telephone. "Joe, you better turn on the television because you're coming on the Sci-Fi channel."

“The Sci-Fi channel? Why? What do you mean?” I asked.

“Later.” he parted.

I decided to believe the caller and risk embroiling myself in an elaborate hoax aimed at getting my goad. I hollered up to my wife to turn to the Sci-Fi channel. We did not need to turn on a television because at least two TV sets churn kilowatts at any give time. My stomach began tying knots worthy of a sailor’s approval. I paced in circles at first then Katterina Witt figure eights. A minute later, I canvassed the staircase leading to our bedroom. My wife lay strewn on the bed in disbelief.

The Sci-Fi channel just picked up Ripley’s Believe It or Not in syndication and they were airing my episode. Can there be a more ironic moment than walking into your master bedroom and seeing your own wedding kiss broadcast on the Sci-Fi channel? Gulp. Gulp. Love and science fiction should never be melded together. Add real actors, my beekeeper’s suit, and a Rod Sterling voiceover and Prest-O Change-O you have the makings of a stellar Twilight Zone episode.

http://www.scifi.com/ripleys/episodes/season3/315.html

I started to get fan mailed emailed to me later that night from television viewers. Never doubt the power of a Google search. Dave Morejon of Tampa, Florida gave me permission to reproduce his letter to me.

Mr. Tornatore,

After seeing your story this evening on Ripley's Believe It Or Not television show (airing March 2, 2005 9:00PM Eastern) I was struck by a saying we use during many a wild evening. While my cousins and our friends, and fathers and their friends, are drinking together we usually end up in a game of enthusiasm. We break into two even numbered groups, face each other and chant a saying back and forth, getting louder each time. As we chant louder each time we also get more daring, say by jumping around and/or ripping our shirts off for the next round (females included), until one team is outdone by the other and can no longer top their crazy antics. Our chant is what I would like to pass on to you because it applies to many aspects of life in that it means that there are no problems with us, we have no chip on our shoulder and we are not afraid to stand up and face the challenge. I imagined you saying it as you bravely shed your suit for your wedding day. The saying is: THERE AIN'T NO FLIES ON US, THERE AIN'T NO FLIES ON US, THERE MAY BE FLIES ON SOME OF YOU GUYS, BUT THERE AIN'T NO FLIES ON US!!!

Sincerely,

David Morejon Tampa, FL

The Birdman and The Bee Man

On February 1, 2005 the Gloucester County Times ran a feature article on me in their People Section, a section devoted to the Movers and Shakers of Gloucester County. While this article may create a buzz, I assure you I paid the reporter not a dime to describe my story as "legend." When the reporter pulled up to my house, I was carrying in a copy of his employer's competitor, the Courier Post. The Courier put me in their paper the same day the Times came out to do a different story. I am on no world tour but I have surely exceeded fifteen minutes of fame. The ink hadn’t dried on one story as I was granting an interview for the next. If you think that is ironic, pull up a chair for this. While the reporter and I sat chatting in my living room, the photographer assigned to my story called to say I was scooped because he was trying to get an action shot of a bank heist in progress. He would be late. True crime always seizes the headlines. My bizarre tale of disease, rescue, and notoriety kept the reporter's attention at least. During a lull in the conversation, the reporter chagrined. He admitted that today seemed a little peculiar for him as a reporter. “In what way?” I asked the reporter, coyly turning the tables. “I only have two assignments today. Quite frankly, I am having trouble separating your stories in my mind.” “What do you mean, isn’t it a given that my story is an unusual one?” The reporter inched forward on my couch. His speech slowed to a deliberating pace. “I am covering you - Joe from Ripley’s who is known as the Bee Man. I am also covering a Philadelphia Eagles fan named Joe Ripley known as the Birdman!” I have been centerstage to irony in my life, but this left me incredulous. “Are you kidding me?” “No, I'm totally serious." the reporter relented. "You see, that is why I’m trying not to cross-contaminate your stories.” We both laughed out loud. Once I caught my breath, a triple entendre followed. “That would be like putting the buzz in buzzard.” Holy birds of a feather flock together, Batman! I suppose the Gloucester County Times decided this eerie coincidence needed more enumeration than a guffaw in my living room. They layed out an entire page of us. Top fold, Joe Ripley The Birdman and bottom fold Joe from Ripley’s the Bee Man. It is a Ripley’s Believe It or Not story coming to life. It gets even weirder. The Courier Post story covered me being a rabid Eagles fan (see posting Super Bowl XXXIX) calling me South Jersey’s Super Fan. The Gloucester County Times labeled The Birdman….drum roll please….Super Fan.

A Comic Strip.

The Bee Man of Blackwood

A modern day Marco Polo, Robert Ripley lived an extraordinary life as an adventurer and explorer. He traveled the world searching for the unusual. Ripley started what has now become the enterprise known as Ripley’s Believe It or Not! He received over one million letters a year for twenty years from people wanting a spot in his famous newspaper cartoons. Such prolific fan mail explains not only where all the trees went but how many different people from all walks of life there are. Some time ago, Ripley’s Believe It or Not contacted me about turning my life into a comic strip. Today, January 20, 2005 I enter the auspicious realm as a comic strip. The Ripley’s Believe It or Not comic strip is syndicated in about 75 newspapers across America, 37 different countries, and over 200 publications worldwide. It will also be posted on a few websites, including http://www.unitedfeatures.com/. The sheer volume of newspapers translates into millions of readers. Because of the media exposure, I hope my disease, Mastocytosis, is Googled a hundred thousand times. Why? There is no blessed cure for this peculiar disease. While I have been lampooned in art, my hope is to gain public awareness about my rare disease. I looked different during the years I costumed in a beekeeper’s suit, but no comic strip can begin to tell the story of how Mastocytosis has changed my once ordinary life. I have no regrets consenting to be the subject matter of a cartoon. It provides carbon dating of what I went through to stay alive until doctors figured out what to do with me. Yes, some alter ego is now The Bee Man of Blackwood in the Funny Section but allow me to share what the comic strip couldn’t cover in concept and design. The Bee Man of Blackwood could easily have been titled Masto Man with just as much flare for the unusual. Mastocytosis is about understanding your body as it counter-intuitively works to deceive you on a cellular level. Mastocytosis is about a mortal’s subtle erosion of energy, endurance, and talents. The erosion is such a slippery slope some of us fall further from grace until quality of life changes warrant a caregiver. I hope my condition never reaches this systemic saturation point. I live one day at a time looking at life from both sides of the spectrum. Let me count the ways. It hurts me to grasp a pen and write but I am still gainfully employed. My muscles inordinately fatigue to prepare a meal but I can still cook like nobody’s business. It hurts to exercise but it hurts worse if I don’t. The thousands of lesions on my body constantly itch but I am not in the least contagious. Pressure points cause pain even to hug my children but I still love. I am often out of breath answering to the day but I am still breathing. I cannot be stung by in so much as a bee but I can stop and smell the silk roses.

To the millions of readers around the world, Masto Man is not coming to a theater near you but it is a story that indeed needs to be told. The Bee Man of Blackwood is today’s news but long live Masto Man!

Punk'd by the Locomotive Called Ego

The other day I punk’d myself and I am not too ashamed to admit it. Although it has taken me a couple of days to sit down and write about it, it is actually hilarious when I think about it now. After all, the locomotive called ego sometimes needs derailment. Allow me to digress to setup the punk’d scene. In the last few months, I have spoken with numerous people in the media from newspaper reporters, to cartoonists, to book publishers, to museum curators. My life teeters on the brink of the lifestyles of the not rich but infamous.

On the way home from work, I noticed a long distance number logged into my unmanned cell phone. I did not recognize the number of whomever had called me. I thought nothing of it until I got home from work and heard the phone ringing. I answer.

“This is Sony Pictures. I have been instructed to ask for your fax number to send you a contract immediately.”

“A contract? Oh my God!” I regained my composure but only for a moment. “Who is this really?”

“This is Mr. Smitterling’s secretary, the Vice President of Something or Other with Sony Pictures.”

“Okay okay. I love Sony Pictures! My fax number is my phone number. I’m going to have to get off the phone for you to fax that over. It’s the same phone line.” I am talking a mile a minute at this point.

She adds, “Okay, after we hang up, I’ll send you the terms and conditions.”

“What am I agreeing to? What do you have in mind?” Thank God I didn’t say it outloud but I’m thinking full length motion picture if not mini-series. My voice began to cackle. The last time nerves compromised my voice quality was while filming for the TV show Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

The secretary’s voice assumed an uninviting tone when she explained, “It’s not what you are agreeing to it’s what Sony has agreed to.”

Yikes! That is when I remembered sending Sony Pictures correspondence a week ago. I asked for non-exclusive reprint rights to what in show business they call a “screen grab” of my appearance on Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Sony was getting back to me. I had completely lost sight of the fact that Sony Pictures is the parent company of Ripley’s. Dang, I was heading over to make-up and wardrobe when I realized I had punk’d myself! Chug-a-lug-a-choo-choo.

2005 Predictions

The Courier Post solicited reader input for an upcoming feature article about predictions for 2005. Both serious and humorous entries were welcomed. I decided to have a little fun with the assigned newspaper reporter, who is familiar with my story. I submitted the following earth-shattering prediction that would make Edgar Cayce blush: I predict that in 2005 Chuck Darrow will boldly go where few reporters have dared to go before. To the Ripley's Believe It or Not museum in Atlantic City, NJ to cover the grand opening of "The Bee Man of Blackwood" exhibit scheduled for Memorial Day weekend. Chuck will win the box of Cuban cigars door prize and meet Joe Tornatore, who supplies memorable quips for a later Courier Post article entitled, "Man, Myth, or Legend?" The reporter emailed back a favorable response including willingness to cover the grand opening of my exhibit. Who says you need a printing press to make your own headlines? The reporter didn’t even ask me how I knew he was a cigar smoker........

And I thought I signed up for the US Army.

@Ripley's.com

I have come to realize that any incoming email from a stranger hosting an email address with a

@ripleys.com suffix grabs my attention. I have been immersing myself in interesting projects lately and my story reached the International Property Manager for BION. My association with Ripley's Believe It or Not has always given me the jitters but International Property Manager for BION sounded so Terminator-ish.

Low and Behold, my profile and a picture of my Cyborg T2001 Series beekeeper's suit has been accepted for publication into the 2005 Ripley's Believe It or Not hardcover almanac. This is not small potatoes. It is a sack of Red Bliss potatoes in an Irish famine. This book sells millions of copies worldwide. It is part of Scholastic Books, the leaflet every school age kid in America takes home to pester their folks into shelling out $19.99 to read about the Bee Man from Blackwood, New Jersey.

I was instructed to complete some paperwork of an urgent matter and send off three preferred pictures and a synopsis using a FedEx account number to an address in the swamps of Florida no later than December 17, 2004. This must be an editor's return to work because this was the second writing deadline I had to meet by Friday.

I emailed the dubious BION Property Manager that my property was for sale. I asked for a few

reasonable demands and got little more than a sympathetic ear. I concentrated my efforts into retaining control over the exact text next to my almanca picture. If you ever receive a business email soley in capital letters, you know negotiations are not going well. Strike one for Mastocytosis sufferers everywhere. I then argued for a couple of "Blues Clues" key words for the reader to learn about my disease. Strike two for funding and research for Mastocytosis. BION finally obliged me enough to allay "send me what you got". The truth of the matter, I just finished a writing deadline at 2:23 am the previous night and still was writer weary. I had no pre-fabricated words of Mother Mary wisdom or acceptance speech cued on the hard drive waiting for a Book of Oddities to shout "Come Hither my tortured soul".

I could just let others determine my fate in print. Not a freaking chance. My wife caught me in the panicked throes and prose of preparing my Ripley's acceptance speech. I was leafing through a file so thick I once used it as a shabby step stool to change a lightbulb. A 2001 coorespondence letter appeared on top of the scrap heap. I could feel my lovely wife's lovely eyes enlarge wider than Marty Feldman's ever did.

"Are you crazy?" she pointed to the signature area of the page.

My 2001 signature included "The Anaphylactic" as a byline. I gave it a double take myself, as if the document had been pirated by forgerers.

"Uh, well you see, I was kind of working out the kinks in my nickname back then." I said sheepishly. I grabbed the document and headed for the grinding wheels of the shredder.

This admission impressed upon me as stupid, even to a wife who held my most private confidences. I began to think of my sports memorebilia business to which I answer to "The Plaque Doctor", my "Bee Man of Blackwood" cult identity which Ripley's has marketed to the hilt, and my Clark Kent existence as a family man and social worker. How many personas can I carry in my travel bag before bumping into a raised eyebrow psychologist who wants to label me schizophrenic?

Have no fear Bee Man appears and I type into the night, crafting my woeful tale to be read by millions of readers. The only advice here is...you can't be a pawn in life. You got to be a player. Along with the pictures and a plea bargain for page layout not to have me next to Jo-Jo the Dog Faced Boy, I included the following human interest story slated for book shelves in mid-2005.

Four percent of the population are allergic to bee stings and some people die from their bee stings. In 2001, two separate yellow jacket attacks four weeks apart nearly proved fatal for Joe Tornatore of Blackwood, New Jersey. EMT's saved his life after the first attack. Joe's bodily reaction to the second bee attack proved worse so waiting for an ambulance was not an option. Joe stumbled into their minivan, falling unconscious. His fianceée started to drive him to the hospital but a detour right outside their housing development thwarted rescue. His fianceée drove through the detour. Believe It or Not, she found a spare ambulance parked at an automobile accident scene. Joe was rushed to the hospital in that ambulance and placed on life support until the intense swelling over his entire body subsided and he could breathe again on his own. Joe recovered and married two short weeks after his hospital discharge.

In the aftermath, allergy immunologists discovered that the real trigger for Joe's anaphylaxis was caused by Mastocytosis, a rare skin disease striking only one in a half million people. Mastocytosis is the proliferation of mast cells, which produce histamine. Excess histamine can cause the release of tiny brownish-red lesions on the body, lesions resembling chicken pox in appearance and itchiness.

Joe wore a beekeeper's suit outdoors to increase personal safety until the University of Pennsylvania Hospital completed a complex immunotherapy program to mute his reaction to bee stings should he ever fall prey again. While wearing the beekeeper's suit from 2001-2003, Joe was confused in public as an astronaut, chef, Amtrak worker, dog catcher, and circus performer. Joe was once mistaken for a World Trade Center cleanup worker and a terrorist...on the same day. His humorous adventures are told in his autobiography, Stop and Smell the Silk Roses. Joe can be found on TV' Ripley's Believe It or Not episode #315, as a comic strip panel, and as an exhibit in the Ripley's museum in Atlantic City, NJ, where his book is sold.

This is a wonderful biography but my careful analysis of the last three editions of the book till midnight indicates only select company garner a full page layout. Hey, shoot for the stars until the meteor lands! The first item exorcised will be my cleverly placed book endorsements. I also know a thing or two about editing and space considerations in print. An extra word is like adding a full length sitcom to a Super Bowl commercial. So expect to see nothing more than my King Bee garb alongside the caption "Who is this joker?"

My Cheapskate Pollyanna gift offering.

Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum

Courier Post "AC Today" 11-28-04

One Man in his Time Plays Many Parts

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances: And one man in his time plays many parts… -William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act II

It seems appropriate to quote Shakespeare here. On Sunday, November 28, 2004 I sit down at the kitchen table with a steamy cup of coffee and the morning paper. With Thanksgiving behind us and the holiday shopping season upon us, I break from the habit of tackling the sports page. Instead, I separate the two pounds of colorful advertisements from the black and white newsprint. An Atlantic City Today insert grabs my attention. I flip open the pages, take a caffeinated swig, and what I read causes me to double gulp Folgers. From a feature article on The Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum in Atlantic City, NJ, my eyes effortlessly lift my name from the page. By my own admission and other patron’s admissions, I am a recent yet permanent fixture in the Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum, a depository which showcases the unusual and celebrates the unique...for a price. I have no words for the Courier Post writer, who described my exhibit early on in this article, ahead of even Meng, the “Human Unicorn” who sported a thirteen inch horn protruding from his head.

For the rest of the day, I try to come to terms with strange company the likes of which include horny Meng. My self-esteem remains intact because I am rarely caught without a plan. Success summons businessmen. The consensual tradeoff for my likeness to be re-created for the Ripley’s museum is to sell my autobiography in their gift shop. Tit for Tat it is as simple as that. When it is all said and done, I want to be most remembered as a writer not artifact. Whether my unorthodox plan proves to be a successful endeavor remains to be seen. There are few certainties in life, but I wish to note Meng’s autobiography appears nada nowhere in the Ripley's museum. This makes me way ahead of a man who now receives second billing to me. Stop right there. I don't want anyone to think I have a big head like Meng. I am a Neanderthal next to this specimen.

With all pretense aside, the moral of this story is to make lemonade out of lemons. This may be one of life’s greatest yet underachieved lessons. A friend once lampooned my resolve. “If I left Joe in a pile of excrement, he would be sitting on gold bars when I returned the following day.” There is a sprinkle of truth to that exaggerated notion so the rare opportunity to recognize my sarcastic friend for his left-handed compliment has come to pass. Amen.

“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction” is not only proven physics but practical sense for proof of life. Our reaction far outweighs the immediate action of what happens to us. Human adjustment is necessary for personal growth. None of us should ever accept lemons as straitjacket fate. If God gives me the slightest opening in a land of ruins, I’m driving a plow through the devastation to resurrect anything that can be salvaged.

From the pillaged ruins, I return back to making lemonade. You don’t need to refer to a recipe book to make lemonade. Water, sugar, and lemons are all that constitutes pure lemonade. If we stir these ingredients together ever briefly, mouth-watering lemonade can be enjoyed. Stirring is a key step. Attitude and mindset are crafted ladles, instruments of change. There is no lemonade if we don't stir, just lemons.

I would like to take the art of making lemonade to a higher echelon. Take that freshly squeezed lemonade and place it in the hands of the right people and viola….lemonade shines with limelight. My life changed when I was stung by a bee. Because of a bizarre series of unfortunate events and fortuitous self-promotion, my story has been portrayed on two TV shows and I can now visit myself in a museum, when I dare to. While this associates me more with notoriety then fame, any entrepreneur knows there is no bad press in the limelight. Think of lemonade as the beverage of choice for anyone down on their luck. A tip of a lifetime, I invite anyone to squeeze their lemons and see what they get. Drink up. Just think twice before contacting any museums.

Winners accomplish their goals in life. Winners hurdle obstacles, maybe not at breakneck speed, but they are overcome before reaching the finish line. I cannot see the finish line yet but I envision it. I may never realize my dream but it will not be for a lack of trying. I am not a gifted writer but I am a tireless scribe, equal parts reincarnated monk and starry eyed paperback novelist. Will my barter with a museum lead me to actualizing my goal of becoming a recognized writer? While reading the newspaper today, I wonder about the Shakespearean wisdom of this man playing many parts…