The Quotable Sid Stein

Adultery is a fact of life.

What your wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

To be the master of your destiny, you must command the present.

You want to arouse your lover. You don’t want to arouse suspicion.

Lovers don’t let lovers lie drunk.

I never lie, except to my wife.

Always be honest with your lover.

If your wife won’t give you a night out, then pick a disease and get on a board of directors. Not only will you get out of the house, but you will be making your wife proud and benefiting mankind as well.

The most important decision you will ever make is your choice of a lover.

If God couldn’t prevent cheating when he banned adultery in the Ten Commandments, then why does Dr. Phil think he can stop it?

Women are naturally deceptive. I am just trying to level the playing field.

It seems obvious, but if you don’t have the time to commit adultery, then your wife will enjoy a marriage based on the principle of strict fidelity (not to be confused with loyalty).

Masturbation - Sex with someone you can trust.

When AQ (adultery quotient) was meted out, not everyone received an equal share.

Adultery isn’t the Olympics. No extra points are awarded based on degree of difficulty.

I cannot overemphasize the important of being honest with your lover. In this context, it really is a virtue.

It would be wrong to say that all single women are dangerous. After all, some species of sharks are less dangerous than others.

Find a lover who fits into your budget.

Holiday Inns have meeting rooms. No-tell motels have rooms for meetings.

Sid Stein Wonders Whether Women Should Come with Warning Labels

Since my divorce, I have dated a number of women. For the most part, my dates, with few exceptions, have been women who were divorced after being married for a substantial amount of time. Most were married at a fairly young age; right out of college or soon thereafter. In other words, they spent the majority of their sexual lives with one man, with whom their relations had been strained for a number of years. It is logical to assume that their love lives suffered as well. Chances are, then, that they didn’t have much sex toward the end of their marriages.

So, it’s not surprising that once they are back in the dating pool, they are anxious to meet someone who can provide them with the things they were lacking in their marriages, both physically and emotionally. I don’t want to paint an incorrect picture of these women’s priorities. They really do want to find a man who they like and respect, who respects them and makes them laugh, and who could possibly become a long-term love interest. They aren’t kidding when they say they value honesty and integrity. Uniformly, they want someone who will really listen to them. They seek kindness and consideration. Little things actually mean a lot.

As accurate as my recitation of what a woman wants may be, there is another, starker reality. These women are as horny as hell. It’s clear that when they are out on a date, they are really hoping that the man they are with will fit the bill of everything they want. They want to believe that their date is the proverbial knight in shining armor. They want to believe because they really want sex. I’m not saying that they are blinded by their sex drive. They are cautious. Normally, they won’t hop into bed after only one or two dates. They at least want a commitment that the man is willing to give a relationship a try, even if it is ultimately unsuccessful. Yes, of course, there are exceptions.

If I am honest with myself, I am not too different from these women. What I want is more a matter of degree than of kind. In other words, perhaps I am more willing to compromise on the woman’s commitment to having a relationship with me in favor of sex. Still, I would like to have a long-term relationship some day. I suppose like everyone else, it will happen when I meet the right person.

Finding the right woman, however, is a challenge. As expected, on a first date, everyone puts their best foot forward and endeavors to make a good impression. When I go out, I try to have a good time and usually do. That often leads to a second date and beyond. If things go very well, we might even wind up in bed.

Don’t get the wrong impression of me. It’s not like I am having sex with dozens of women. Sometimes, having sex at all is a problem. Remember “No Way This Could Be Happening to Sid Stein?” http://sidstein.blogspot.com/2007/07/no-way-this-could-be-happening-to-sid.html Still, there have been occasions. And if you want to learn about them, read on.

One more thing before I get started with the history of my reasons for thinking that women should come with warning labels. I want to be fair. I am sure that many women think the same thing about men. I have heard plenty of horror stories from my female friends about their dates and relationships. However, I will leave it to a woman to write the counterpart to this essay. I think that is fair as well.

I am 49 years old at the time I am writing this. That puts me into a certain demographic when it comes to eligible women to date. And despite how many times you have heard that men only like young girls, I am happy in my chosen demographic – 18-24. Just kidding. Since my divorce, I think the youngest woman I have dated was seven years my junior. I would be happy to share the age of the oldest woman I dated, but she refused to tell me. She claimed to be 52. Right!

The “52” year old was a nice woman-smart, fun and playful. She liked good music and enjoyed attending concerts. She even laughed at most of my jokes. She had only one truly annoying habit. She liked to use baby talk. I remember standing in my kitchen fixing drinks one day when I asked her how her weekend was. She claimed to have “planted my planties.” Planties? What the hell are those? As annoying as this was to me, because I thought it was a bit infantile, she didn’t do it so much as to drive me completely nuts. I think I could have lived with it if it wasn’t for the other, more disturbing problem. How do I put this gently? After she orgasmed, she would dry up like a prune. Wet one minute, dry the next. When I say dry, I mean Sahara Desert dry. If that doesn’t bring the image home for you, then let me add Gobi and Mojave to that list. G-d bless her. She was having a wonderful time making love with me. She was all smiles and would even giggle. I asked her about that. Why are you giggling? She answered that she was simply enjoying herself. That’s great, but her “condition” rendered that certain part of the male body sore and red. One session of lovemaking with her put me out of commission for a number of days while I recovered. To be perfectly honest, I had no clue how to broach the subject with her. On the one hand, she was a very nice woman and I enjoyed her company (except for the baby talk). My impression of her was that she was at a sensitive stage in her post-divorce sexual life and would not react well to hearing that she had a sexual problem. How does one tell a woman such a thing without hurting her feelings? I tried fitting some lubricant into our next lovemaking session. K-Y. It only provided momentary relief. If I was going to make this work, I would have had to install a gallon jug of the stuff on my bedroom wall, complete with a tube leading directly to her vagina. I just didn’t know how I would be able to get away with that without letting on that after she orgasmed, she turned into a sponge, drying her out in seconds. I tried to visualize it. “Excuse me, but before we get started, I would like to attach this tube to your vagina.” Nah. Wouldn’t work.

There was another clear sign that this relationship was not going to work. One night, I brought this woman to Pinto and Hobbs, my favorite karaoke bar. I love it there because it has a very mixed and relaxed crowd of people who love to hang out, drink, chat and sing karaoke. My date, on the other hand, who must not get out that much, was horrified by some of the patrons. I guess she wasn't accustomed to seeing tattooed youths, blacks and homosexuals, all in the same room with white people. Apparently, she was not a bar person at all, and felt more comfortable in the dinner/theater world. Sensing her discomfort, I brought her to my house, had sex with her, said goodbye when she left (she had to be home by midnight or so - work the next day) and then tended to my sore dick. During sex, however, and knowing she had to leave, I could think of only one thing - getting back to Pinto and Hobbs to sing another song. And return to karaoke I did. I sang Delilah by Tom Jones, but changed the lyrics a bit. Instead of "why, why, why, Delilah," I sang "dry, dry, dry, vagina.

I don’t know if it was a post-menopausal issue or what, but to be frank, I decided that there was no way was I going to risk having my dick fall off. Call me chicken for not being able to explain the issue to her. I don’t care. My dick comes first. So, I broke off the relationship before my dick broke forever.

The “52” year old had a problem, but at least she could orgasm without too much hassle. I dated another woman who actually did come with a warning-her own. Before we had sex, she told me that it took her an inordinate amount of time to achieve orgasm and I shouldn’t worry about it if she didn’t climax. Content with my sexual prowess, I was confident that I could satisfy her. Well, my dear readers, it took her forever, as in “forever and a day.” At some point, as I was still making love to her, she began to masturbate, explaining to me that it was the only way she might be able to climax. Fine, I thought, I’ll just keep doing what I am doing. After what seemed to be about three hours (and I am still going strong, mind you), she finally managed an orgasm. Hallelujah! It did make sex seem a tad strained, to say the least. For that whole time I was inside her, she was working on her orgasm. I kept going, but I felt more like a dildo than a person. Or a dodo, I’m not sure. Apparently, she developed this problem during the sexless years of her marriage. Poor girl. Sexual issues aside, however, she was a very nice woman and I wanted to see her again. And I did. But I came prepared. I brought a copy of Tolstoy’s “War and Peace” to read in bed while we were having sex. I had always wanted to read it, but never found the time. She was a little put off when I first started reading during sex, but a lot of life is about compromise and accommodation. And as long as I was able to keep going, which isn’t always easy while reading a Russian novel, she was happy. Still, it was kind of a pain finding a comfortable position to read and turn pages, so the following time, I popped in a long movie – “Lawrence of Arabia,” one of my favorites. Unfortunately, that made me think about the dry as a desert woman and ruined the sex and the movie for me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to watch Peter O’Toole again without think about my “tool.”

Some encounters have been quite shocking. One of my early dates came to Albany to see me all the way from Connecticut. We met downtown and I took her to dinner. The cocktails started. I think I was drinking tequila. As the night progressed, we were getting along just fine, drinking and laughing. We went to a club to hear a band that we both enjoyed. She was quite clingy at the bar, which I found a bit strange on a first date, but apparently, she was just having a great time. In any event, I took her clinginess as a positive sign, so I took her home and made my moves. We were still pretty drunk, but I was still able to find her mouth so I could kiss her. Nice kisses too! As we kissed and I began slowly undressing her, the news came. She told me she had a mastectomy but had undergone reconstructive surgery. So, I am thinking she had some scars. No big deal. I once had a college girlfriend who had a long, long scar running along the entire front of her torso. In other words, I was totally accustomed to scars. “The more scars the merrier” was even my motto for a while. “What? No scars? Sorry, can’t date you.” To be honest, I was a bit curious to see why this woman found it necessary to tell me about her surgery. At first glance, after I removed her shirt, she seemed to have ample breasts. Two of them, in fact. She seemed to be anatomically correct. Anyway, the moment of truth was about to arrive. I reached around her and unhooked her bra. It slid off slowly only to reveal something I had never even contemplated before. Actually, it was less something than lack of something. NO NIPPLE ON HER LEFT BREAST! Where her nipple should have been, there was nothing but smooth skin. Where did her nipple go? Why did they remove it? Why didn’t the doctors replace it? Why didn’t she warn me? You think you know everything at a certain point, but you never hear on the news about one-nippled women. Even Oprah doesn’t talk about it. If she did, I must have missed that show. I learned in law school that you have to be prepared for every surprise and it’s crucial to maintain your “game face” at all times. I tried my best to conceal the actual shock I was experiencing. I think I was successful and didn’t detect a reaction on her part. Let me tell you, and I’ll be honest, I was already having some trouble getting aroused because of all the alcohol I consumed. Now I was faced with an additional challenge. If I failed to perform, I was afraid she would think I went limp due to her nippleless condition. It would not be an exaggeration to say that I had to summon all the sexual strength I had to make love to her. Not only that, but I was afraid not to come. I don’t know about you, but it’s damn hard to come when all you can think about is the fact that your date surprised you with a missing nipple. At least I didn’t have to choose which nipple to suck on.

Of course, there have been less dramatic encounters since I started dating. There was the woman who drove in from Massachusetts. Relatively good-looking, nice figure, but absolutely horrible teeth. Dreadful, in fact! Brown and rotting. No wonder she didn’t have a big toothy smile in her picture online. Could this be what the Mona Lisa was hiding? Bad teeth? In all likelihood, yes. The whole time I was wondering why my date never had them fixed. She seemed to make enough money to have done something. I had only one word for her. Veneers!

I am sure many of you recall the story about how Nelson Rockefeller died. Maybe it’s just a legend. According to well-placed sources, he suffered a heart attack while making love to his mistress. A lot of men will tell you that if they have to die some day, that’s the way to go. Before you jump to conclusions, my date didn’t die. While making love, however, she did complain about chest pains. She didn’t seem to have heart attack symptoms so I didn’t think it was anything more than heartburn. As she continued to complain about having difficulty breathing, I thought it best we quit making love. I asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital. She was from downstate, so far from her own doctor. She declined my offer and seemed to recover. Two days later she called to tell me she had sustained a collapsed lung. Holy Cow! I am good! Still, I wish she had “fragile – handle with care” stamped somewhere on her body.

Some dates have taken me by surprise. Last year, I was scheduled to appear on the Coop and Tobin morning show (WPDH in Poughkeepsie) to promote my book and have a general good time, which I do whenever I am on the radio. This woman I had been seeing for a short while lived nearby within the station's coverage area. Of course, I told her I would be on the show so she could listen, and made plans to visit her afterwards. When I am on the radio, I am often confronted by angry callers who think I am despicable for having written a book about how to get away with cheating. To be honest, I think of my book as tongue-in-cheek to a great extent, even though it is based on many true observations about the human condition. Many people, however, take it seriously, and as Sid Stein, I defend my book. In the course of defending my book, things sometimes start to get a little out of hand and over the top. Conversations often devolve into arguments which at least makes for entertaining radio. As things were heating up on WPDH, a woman called in and began arguing with me. We really knocked heads over the airwaves. She was one of those adultery survivors who get holier than holy about fidelity. It was pretty funny until I later discovered that the caller was the woman I was seeing after the show. Despite the fun romp we had at her house, I didn't hear from her after that. I hope it had nothing to do with the handcuffs.

If you have been reading my blog, then you know I could easily wax on and on. Some women I have dated who should have come with warning labels I have already written about. There’s the one with the violent ex-husband. There was one who would have six orgasms during the first minute of sex and then fall asleep satisfied. One turned out to be racist. She was from South Carolina. I should have known better. You've already read about the one with the fiancé in "Sid Stein vs. the State Police. There was one who called a condom “your little friend.” Sheesh! There are those with just so much baggage they shouldn’t be dating in the first place. And if you aren’t completely satisfied with this entry, don’t worry, some women warrant their own stories and those are in the pipeline.

As I said before, I am sure there are plenty of men who should come with warning labels as well. Since I only date women, I write about them. Despite all the attendant problems with dating, it’s still fun and I will certainly continue to date. Whatever I might be able to say about women, I still find them fascinating. It’s always an adventure. Nowadays, I maintain there is no such thing as a bad date. The worse it is, the more there is to write about!

Sid Stein’s Tribute to Anna Nicole Smith or How Sid Was Rescued by A Lesbian

Whatever the actual reason is, I (Sid Stein) am a lightning rod for controversy when I sing karaoke. Without a doubt, there are times when I get what I deserve. Still, other incidents confound me and occur without any reasonable explanation. Allow me to illustrate what I mean.

I recall one night when Pinto and Hobbs was graced by the presence of R’N’R. R’N’R are three black women who sing together and sing quite well. The letters are the initials of their first names, in case you were wondering. (For those of you not wondering, because it was simple to figure out that the women’s karaoke moniker consisted of their initials, you may feel I was being condescending because I explained it to you. This is how controversy can be born. On the other hand, I have to consider all my readers, even the ones too dense to grasp the simple and the obvious). I considered myself a friend of this talented "Girl Group" and usually spent part of my evening chatting with them when we were not singing.

For those of you who do not frequent the club scene (a euphemism for bars), let me school you. On occasion, there are times when one might have a little too much to drink. These aberrations are typically safe if you are a happy person and take a cab home. No one gets hurt and the aftermath is usually alleviated by the judicious use of Advil and re-hydration.

On this particular occasion, I may have been feeling, let’s say, extra lively and animated. So, I was standing at R’N’R’s table, chatting with "R" to the exclusion of N’R. "R" was, after all, the prettiest one of the three. Apparently, the other "R" perceived that I was becoming overly friendly with the prettier "R," even though the prettier "R" was not mounting any form of protest. The neglected "R," who was also the biggest one of the three, and I mean big, decided I had crossed some line. She calmly called out my name, causing me to turn around, and then punched me in the nose. As her fist headed in the direction of my face, I got the impression that she was channeling Muhammed Ali. She had that "stings like a bee" swagger just before she made contact. Initially, I was stunned, but as soon as I recovered from the shock, I realized I hadn’t been hurt at all and started laughing. Although I don’t feel my behavior warranted such an extreme reaction (the other "R" had been drinking too), at least I understood the precedent. By the way, Muhammed Ali "R" and I kissed and made up and we are still friends to this day. Nevertheless, when I see her, I duck.

More disturbing to me was an incident which occurred while I was on stage singing a song. I don’t recall which song it was and it really doesn’t matter. I was just singing. As I stood with a drink in one hand and a microphone in the other, an unknown assailant charged into the bar through the swinging double doors, raced to the stage, knocked the glass out of my hand and fled on foot. That was the entire incident. Even Greg the D.J. was confused by that one. After all, I couldn’t have offended my attacker (female, if you’re wondering) because she had been outside right up until the moment she struck. Even if I had ad libbed something which bothered her, she couldn’t have heard it anyway. Random evil late at night is cause for concern. It’s one thing when I elicit a reaction in someone which I can trace to something I said or did. At least I can learn from it and avoid it in the future. How, though, does one prevent such randomness? And, if you ask Greg, you’ll find out that this wasn’t the first time I had been subjected to such senseless violence. That’s why I think I am a lightning rod for controversy. Sometimes, these things just happen to me for no reason at all. Such are the cards I have been dealt in life. So, I deal with it, sometimes on my own and sometimes with assistance from a guardian angel (See an earlier post - "Sid Stein Cashes In One of His Nine Lives). http://sidstein.blogspot.com/2007_03_11_archive.html

Allow me now to take you back in time to Thursday, February 8, 2007. As always, I was looking forward to singing karaoke at Pinto and Hobbs. However, tragedy struck that day. We learned of the untimely death of Vickie Lynn Marshall, age 39, better known as Anna Nicole Smith. http://www.annanicole.com/index_new.html As is always the case with celebrities of her caliber and accomplishment, her death was the main news story of the day. Producers at NBC, ABC, CBS, CNN, Fox and MSNBC were in hog heaven, salivating. Larry King busted a suspender strap. As soon as I logged on to my computer that day - ANNA NICOLE DEAD AT 39. So, I went with a heavy heart to my Thursday night sanctuary with the hope that I could relieve some of the pain.

When I arrived at Pinto and Hobbs, Anna Nicole was the hot topic of conversation. I don’t want to say she was that hot a topic. That wouldn’t be quite correct. Most of the people who go there shun the whole "celeb" thing anyway. That’s a nice way of saying that they think they are way too cool to succumb to the vacuous and numbing temptations of popular culture in America. As adorable or as pretentious as that is, depending upon your point of view (personally, I find it adorable because most are fairly young and still finding themselves), Anna Nicole did pop up (or should I say pinned-up) in conversation. It made me think that I was obligated to somehow pay tribute to this American icon.

More recently, when Phil "The Scooter" Rizzuto, the Hall of Fame Yankee shortstop and broadcaster, passed away, it was easy to choose a song to sing as a tribute. The only appropriate song, if you don’t already know, is Meatloaf’s "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" because it contains a play-by-play baseball broadcast performed by none other than "The Scooter" himself. But what song could I sing for Anna Nicole? I thought a Marilyn Monroe song might work, like "Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend," but wouldn’t singing that diminish the memory of Monroe? I pondered the question for a while and came up with a karaoke favorite of mine, "Close to You," by the Carpenters. http://www.richardandkarencarpenter.com/

It might seem like an odd choice, but it seemed perfect to me. For starters, based on the copious coverage of her life and death, it appears that many men wanted to be close to Anna Nicole. Maybe many women too. More than that, though, Anna Nicole was famous for problems she had with her weight. She went up, she went down. Drastically. She was the spokesperson for Trimspa, if you recall. http://www.trimspa.com/ (Check out the testimonials on Trimspa’s website. They are priceless). Karen Carpenter also had weight issues. She died from anorexia. I thought it was a match made in heaven, so I submitted a slip to Greg so I could sing for Anna Nicole.

When I got up on stage, microphone in hand, I wasn’t anticipating any problems. We are talking about a tribute song to Anna Nicole Smith, after all, not Jesus Christ or even Jerry Falwell, who also passed away this year.

Before the song started, I asked Greg to give me a moment to address the crowd. "Friends," I began, "I would like us all to share a moment of silence in memory of the beautiful Anna Nicole Smith, who tragically passed away today. She was the epitome of beauty and sex in America, and we will forever miss her." After a very short moment of silence (hey, we were out drinking and trying to have fun), I continued. "In tribute to Anna Nicole, who endured problems with her weight her entire life, I would like to dedicate this song to her. It was written by another luminary who left this planet far too early, Karen Carpenter, who, unlike Anna Nicole, became way too thin." With that, the music swelled and I began to sing. "Why do birds suddenly appear…"

My dear readers, I had a crowd. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who mourned the loss of Anna Nicole. There were quite a few others gathered around the stage, snickering and laughing. They appreciated the fact that I sacrificed valuable karaoke time in favor of remembering Anna Nicole. That is, all except one girl.

The expletives which gushed forth out of the mouth of this young girl, screaming at me from the top of her lungs, were so deplorable that even the raunchiest rapper would have been shocked and horrified. As I continued to sing, her voice boomed loudly, overwhelming the PA system. "How fucking dare you talk about Anna Nicole when we have soldiers dying in Iraq!?" Was she fucking kidding me? Iraq? Soldiers dying? I considered telling her to get a life, but the animus she expressed was terrifying. As this girl was about to charge the stage, Sara, my sweet young lesbian friend, with whom I discussed the Anna Nicole tragedy just minutes before, came to my rescue and restrained my would-be assailant.

Sara was ably assisted by her friend, Marissa, a lovely, young Jewish student and Mets fan, about whose sexual orientation I am not quite sure. She might be gay, or simply a L.U.G. (lesbian until graduation), or straight. I never bothered asking because she was way too young for me anyway. If she ever has the need though, I would love to adopt her. She’s adorable.














As they restrained this lunatic, Sara tried talking some sense into her. "Sid is just kidding. He’s really making a commentary on our society and its screwed up priorities. Calm down!"

Remarkably, Sara was able to swiftly restore order to Pinto and Hobbs which allowed me to finish my song and my tribute to Anna Nicole. Later on, Sara explained that this poor distraught girl had just lost a cousin who was serving in Iraq. I felt sympathy for her, but why the hell was she out at a bar in the first place? Drown your sorrows at home, honey. Picket George Bush. Leave Sid out of it.

I thanked Sara for coming to my rescue. The incident created an immediate and everlasting bond between the two of us. Very sweet, if I might add.

Sid Stein Narrowly Escapes Contracting Legionnaires' Disease

If you have been reading my stories, then you should know a few things about me by now. For example, you should have learned that I love to sing karaoke. I am an attorney who wrote a book about cheating, I am divorced and have had some pretty funny dates. Even if you haven’t read a word except for my name, then you probably would guess that I am Jewish. I am. Sid Stein, for Christ’s sake! How Jewish can you get without naming yourself Cohen and advertising your circumcision?

Being a card-carrying member of "The Tribe" has always been an important part of my life. I have always maintained a strong connection to the Jewish community and even lived in Israel for a few years. By the same token, I don’t segregate myself from the gentile world in the United States. Some of my best friends are gentiles. Really! If you have been reading my blog, you would know that too.

Long ago, I decided that instead of dividing the population of the United States into Jew and gentile, I would re-categorize Americans into two groups - people I could get along with (Jew-friendly) and people I was afraid of (too gentile to be true). In other words, just way too goyish to tolerate. Rednecks fall into this category. If you don’t know what goyish means, you might fall into that second category. Of course, it’s wrong to generalize and stereotype, so I am always willing to give anyone, even a perceived redneck, the benefit of the doubt. By the same token, I don’t often thrust myself into the heart of darkness without a very good reason. Knowing that I am inclined to shoot my mouth off, I have learned over the years that discretion truly is the better part of valor.

Therefore, it was with some sadness that I told my friend and karaoke comrade, Kate, that I was afraid to go to her birthday party. Why? She was holding it at an American Legion Post in East Greenbush, New York, across the Hudson River from Albany, a place where few Jews deign to tread. In fact, most Albanians (that would be residents of the city, not the country), Jewish or not, don’t like crossing the river into Rennselaer County if they can help it. Our perception is that it is populated by very strange folk. Think "Deliverance." You may think that rednecks only live down south. I have news for you. They are all over these United States. The accents might change, but they all watch Jerry Springer and NASCAR with the same enthusiasm. I hate to admit this, since I am a resident of the Capital Region of New York State, but the most popular radio station in the area is WGNA - country radio! Go and figure.

My friend Kate grew up in East Greenbush, Rennselaer County. She lives in Albany now which makes being her friend that much easier. Since her birthday party, at a time when we were just cementing our friendship, she has introduced me to some of her family and friends from the other side of the river. As it turns out, many are quite pleasant. I even enjoy spending time with them. As I have said many times before, live and learn.

As a friend of Kate, I did feel badly because I didn’t go to her party. But why did she have to have it at an American Legion Post? In my life, I had never even set foot in one. I imagined all kinds of flag-waving, patriotic Republicans with antiquated social opinions. Even though I was too young to be drafted for Vietnam, I was never prepared to make up for it by volunteering for the armed services. And Kate wanted to bring Sid Stein into a hotbed of army veterans? My initial reaction was - no way, no how. I mean, come on - I am a Northeast liberal Jew!

A year or more passed since her party when Kate asked me again to go to the "Post," as she called it. A friend of hers (and acquaintance of mine) was hired to provide karaoke services. She wanted me to go for two reasons this time - to support him and to sing with her. I told her I would think about it. I considered the facts. Even though the people at the "Post" were different, by the same token, they weren’t criminals. At least, I wasn’t aware that any were. There wouldn’t be any reason to tell them that I was Jewish. It’s not on my driver’s license, even though the name kind of gives it away. I could always tell them I was German. Besides, I really thought that I was being a big baby about the whole thing. I knew some of her friends who would be there, including her adorable niece, so I would have a group to hang out with. More than anything else, I think I was ready for an adventure. I called Kate and asked for directions. It was "Post" time for Sid Stein.

I hopped into the Sidmobile and set out for the "Post." I remember feeling a sense of euphoria mixed with a tinge of trepidation as I made my way across the Hudson. I really didn’t know what to expect, but I had visions of men wearing camouflaged hunting jackets accompanied by women who looked a lot older than they really were and sporting hairdos from the 70’s. I also anticipated a lot of smoking. Since the "Post" is a private club of sorts, New York’s anti-smoking rules do not apply. Kate told me that was part of the attraction. Not being a smoker, I wore old clothes.

Despite my preconception of the "Post" being far away, it was actually quite close to Albany. I was surprised to find out that it was only 10 minutes or so from my house. I considered moving further away but was comforted by the fact that I lived on the other side of the river. And, unlike some of the other "Posts" I had driven by in my day, this one was housed in a relatively new building which looked clean and modern. It even had a large illuminated sign out front complete with an LCD display of the time and date. Kitchy, but helpful to passersby.

I didn’t pass by. I pulled into the crowded parking lot and found a space way in the back. That’s all that was available. Fortunately, the parking lot was well-lit. I wouldn’t have to worry about getting jumped by anti-Semitic WWII vets. Still, based on the amount of cars, I was concerned. Just what I needed. A packed "Post." Nevertheless, I would not let my paranoia deter me from singing that night and hanging out with Kate. Even the vets should be able to understand "America - Land of the Free and Home of the Brave."

I took a deep breath of the fresh night air as I stepped out of my car. I was as ready as I would ever be. And with that, I walked inside.

American Legion Post #1231 in East Greenbush, New York is named after Melvin Roads. No one among Kate’s "Post" friends knew who Melvin Roads was, but based on the look of his picture hanging on the wall, I thought he must have been a veteran of World War I. As I later learned online, I was correct. However, there was no way I could have known from just looking at his picture how unlucky Melvin actually was. According to information provided by the "Post" on the website I found, Melvin was a young soldier who was killed in action just hours before the end of World War I. Poor Melvin! Imagine the grief of his parents who were probably sure that their son would be returning home safely when they learned the war was over.

The "Post" was everything I expected and more (or less, depending upon your perspective). As I entered the main hall, I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. At the very least, I was in some sort of time warp. Even though I have been a fan of sci-fi over the years, I usually prefer to read about it in a book or watch it in a movie. This was more like 2007 - A Karaoke in Space Odyssey. In Star Trek lingo, I had gone where no Jew had gone before. Now that I think of it, that’s not much of a stretch. Both Willaim Shatner (Captain Kirk) and Leonard Nimoy (Mr. Spock) are Jewish.

I was not wearing a t-shirt announcing my heritage, nor a big Star of David or yarmulke, so I proceeded further into the hall to find Kate. It was dominated by a large square bar around which sat those who had served our country, accompanied by their wives and girlfriends who actually still sported those hairstyles from the 70’s. Many were smoking.
I love it when I am right.

My guess would be that most of the men sitting around smoking and nursing their drinks had served in Korea or Vietnam. It was not a particularly young crowd, but about a third of the people were under forty. As I took a closer look, there were definitely some who undoubtedly served in the Big One as part of Tom Brokaw’s "Greatest Generation." I could tell because they looked ancient and grizzled. I was amazed that some were there at all. The oldest ones looked like they should have been on respirators.

Although she wasn’t waving an American flag as I half expected, I wasn’t disappointed when I found Kate, seated at a table in the back, close to the d.j. Most of the people at her table were under 21, friends of her very cute niece. As I sat down, I felt as if I had joined the kids’ table at Thanksgiving dinner. I said hello to the d.j. and decided to get a beer. Kate wanted her usual Captain and diet. She has ordered it so many times that I have stopped asking her what she wants to drink. I made my way to the bar only to discover that there was just one bartender. She seemed nice if very busy and sported a 70’s era hairstyle. Hmm. I didn’t know how long it would take before I was able to order, so I did what any guy would do, I checked out the crowd. Slim pickings, I am sorry to relate. I did spot a woman in her late sixties at the other side of the bar who must have been quite a looker when she was 17. You know how when you are looking for something it’s always in the last place you look or right under your nose? Well, the most interesting person there happened to be standing right next to me. I kid you not when I tell you that this man looked like Sean Connery’s twin brother. http://www.seanconnery.com/ And check out this clip - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FgMLROTqJ0 I couldn’t resist, so I introduced myself. He had an accent. "Excuse me, but you look just like Sean Connery?" I had to say something. I couldn’t resist. If I didn’t have to wait so long before being served, I would have regretted saying anything at all. Oh yes, I was not the first one who thought he looked like Sean Connery. 007 proceeded to tell me a long Scottish tale which had none of the excitement of a James Bond movie. He did have a great baritone though, gravely and worthy of the master spy himself. Somewhere during his analysis of "Braveheart, the bartender came over and asked me what I wanted. I never thought I would have to be saved from James Bond, but I was relieved. I thought it would be safer if I didn’t order an import, so I settled on a Budweiser. It has a red, white and blue label. How can you go wrong with that at that?

Armed with my beer, I brought Kate her Captain and diet. As soon as I sat down, she asked me what I wanted to sing. Kate loves to sing karaoke, but she doesn’t like to sing alone. Although two people singing together usually means a duet, that is not always true at karaoke. And it’s rare for Kate and me to sing a duet. We usually just sing together, unless I am singing by myself. Since I felt like I was in a foreign country, I thought it best to start things off by singing with Kate. She chose "Will You Love Me Tomorrow." Most of you are probably familiar with the Carole King song from her album "Tapestry." http://www.caroleking.com. It’s a beautiful song, but I prefer to sing the cover by the Shirelles. It’s more lively which is a plus at karaoke. Experience teaches that people get bored listening to slow ballads. http://www.theshirelles.com/theshirelles.html

It’s important to understand something about me when I sing "Will You Love Me Tomorrow." I have to ad lib. I can’t help myself. At Pinto and Hobbs, late on a Thursday night, it can get a bit raunchy. It’s not strange to hear me say things like - "Bitch, I don’t give a shit if you still love me tomorrow." Sometimes, it gets worse. People laugh and no one minds because they know it’s all in good fun. I realized I wouldn’t be able to use my usual material at the "Post." It was a "family" place. There were old people and old women. I decided it would be wise to alter my routine. Since I was among veterans, I thought a little army story would be amusing. I decided to go with a variation on and much abridged version of "Girls with Guns," which I hope you already read. I thought it would be appropriate for the following reasons: 1) it involved guns; 2) it involved a girl; and 3) it involved an army girl.

I stepped up to the microphone with my usual bravado when Kate and I were called by the d.j. And why not? We had sung this song many times before. The music started and so did we. I don’t know if it was our best performance (I had only part of a beer by then), but we were doing fine. After the third verse, however, things turned ugly. If you want the complete lyrics, please go online. I will give you the third verse:

I'd like to know that your love
Is love I can be sure of
So tell me now, and I won't ask again
Will you still love me tomorrow?

The third verse is followed by an instrumental section. That’s when I start my ad lib.

"So, I was going to school in Tel Aviv and had a girlfriend in the Israeli army who used to bring an Uzi submachine gun to my room. She would point it at me and ask me if I would still love her tomorrow."

That’s when I heard the rumbling from the crowd. "Did he say Israel?" "I think he did."
Of course, I was thinking that Israel and the United States were allies. I guess I was wrong. After all, I was on foreign soil. I didn’t want to take too many liberties with a room full of veterans. The following day’s newspaper headline shot through my thoughts. "Man killed while singing a love song at karaoke." I immediately shut up. No more ad libs.

The crowd quieted down, but I was still nervous. Maybe you remember the scene in the "Blues Brothers" movie when John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd are singing the blues with their band behind a chicken-wire screen at a Country and Western Bar. The crowd hated the blues, so started throwing beer bottles at the band - hence the chicken-wire. The band’s solution? Sing the theme from "Rawhide." The crowd was mollified. Well, my friends, that was a movie and I was in real life, even if it was a non-fiction version of the "Twilight Zone." Still, I am glad I remembered the scene, and after my near tragedy, I decided to sing something more amenable to the musical tastes of the "Post." My next request for a song was "Desperado" by The Eagles. It’s not exactly country, but I could give it a twang and get close enough. At least I wouldn’t be singing about Israel or the Jews.

I sang my heart out with my best country twang. They loved it. I was exhausted from the stress but greatly relieved. Kate was happy too. I saved her from any further embarrassment in front of her constituents. We went back to drinking and laughing. After a few bottles of Bud, I actually felt at ease. The "Post" wasn’t so bad after all. Kate and I even sang another song without incident.

I am not sure exactly how it happened, but looking back, I like to think of it as temporary insanity. No doubt it was a combination of the beer and just feeling good that things were going well. So I did the unthinkable. I put a slip in for "If I Were a Rich Man" from "Fiddler on the Roof," one of my best songs. I really nail Tevye, Yiddish accent and all.

For those of you who have never experienced the joy of karaoke, it’s important to know a few things. The singer is holding a microphone and watching a television monitor, following the words. Even when you know the lyrics by heart, you have a tendency to watch the monitor anyway, just so you won’t make any mistakes. That means you are not always watching the crowd. In my case, as I transformed myself into Tevye the Milkman, that omission was a mistake.

I was well into the song. I had just started another set of daidle deedle daidle dum (dumb being the operative word), and not needing to look at the monitor for that part, I looked up. What can only be described as a lynch mob was gathering at the bar not 15 feet away from me. Although it was difficult to absolutely discern the murmuring of the men who
had assembled and were now scrutinizing me, I thought I heard enough to understand that I was in big trouble.

It was the second time that night when I felt like I was in a movie. Perhaps you remember the scene from "Annie Hall" when Woody Allen goes to visit Annie’s family in Wisconsin. The anti-Semitic grandmother looks at Woody and sees a Hasidic rabbi. That’s exactly how they were looking at me.

"Didn’t he say something about Israel before?"

"He must be a Jew."

I might as well have dropped the "N-bomb" on a crowded bus in Harlem. I looked to Kate and saw her panic-stricken expression. It was telling me to get out of there quickly. Or else.

I thought it best to maintain my cool, or at least what remained of it, but realized that the sooner I got out of the "Post," the better. So, instead of faking a coronary, I started coughing. I handed the microphone back to the d.j. and excused myself. The mob moved in my direction as I headed toward the door. I kept moving without looking back again. Grace under fire.

It was over 50 feet to the exit. If the mob decided to take action, I was a dead man walking. Walking wasn’t that easy either, because after so many beers, I really needed to go to the men’s room, conveniently located near the exit. A baseball analogy came to mind. Three strikes and you’re out. I already had two. Besides, if I took the chance of relieving myself, then they would know for sure that I was Jewish. No hiding that fact in the men’s room. I quickened my pace and scooted out the door. Then I ran to my car, doing my best to hold it in. I am sure it looked more like a fast waddle. I spun around as soon as I got to my car door. No one was following me. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I was safe!

In case you are wondering, I made it to the bathroom just in time. If you recall, I only live 10 minutes away from the "Post."

Maybe you are also wondering what happened to Kate. After all, she was the one who invited the Jew into the "Post" to begin with. I called her from my house. She was laughing her ass off. She did say they asked her never to let that happen again. Trust me, it won’t. Besides, why run the risk of contracting Legionnaires' Disease?

Random Thoughts - Exotic Destinations

As I peruse the profiles of women on dating sites, I noticed that many enjoy traveling to exotic destinations. Does that include exotic dance clubs or not? After all, one can learn about the pyramids in Giza or Machu Pichu in Peru from books. On the other hand, many of these women might be better off learning a few dance moves from strippers.

http://www.rediscovermachupicchu.com/

http://www.richard-seaman.com/Travel/Egypt/GizaPyramids.jpg

http://www.pandaw.com/downloads/gallery/Mekong%20Scenic/Angkor%20Wat.jpg

Sid Stein Experiences Deja Vu

After the ordeal I endured on my way to New Orleans (see Sid Stein is Involved in a Racial Incident on His Way to New Orleans), I was determined to have as much fun as possible. That meant at least one very late night roaming around Bourbon Street visiting the various bars. And I suppose that meant a lot of drinking. Hell, they named the street after a kind of whiskey. How much clearer can you get? (My apologies to France).

If you have never been to Bourbon Street when a big event is taking place in New Orleans, then you are really missing something. It’s a bit crazy, but a lot of fun to do at least once, especially if you like girls flashing their breasts for cheap plastic beads. I wish some psychologist would conduct a study to help explain what motivates women to misbehave sexually in exchange for incredibly inexpensive baubles. It might save a lot of time and money in the minefield known in common parlance as dating and romance. Instead of buying your date an expensive dinner and taking her to a show, wouldn’t it be great if you could show up with a few strands of plastic beads? "Hi, honey, here are some beads. Show me your tits."

Whatever variety of "people watching" you may enjoy, it certainly is not the only activity on Bourbon Street. More than anything else, the focus is alcohol, served in excess at the many bars which line the street. And, you can drink in the street! Just ask for a plastic "go" cup as you are leaving your bar. There are clubs featuring jazz, rock, karaoke, and of course, strippers. Just be careful with those Hurricanes. They are powerful and pack a punch, And I am not talking about Katrina. Two other notes in case you are thinking about making a trip for the first time. Don’t argue with the police and don’t wander off Bourbon Street down dark alleys. You will be mugged. I forgot to mention one other very important thing. Some of the hookers are men. Don’t ask me how I know that.

As I mentioned in my previous entry, my father accompanied me on my trip to New Orleans. He is now a 2 year Jazzfest veteran. I am sure he’ll want to come next year too. My dad, however, is no longer interested in wandering around after a day in the hot sun and a club show. Even though he has more stamina than many people much younger than himself, he prefers a decent night’s sleep before heading out to Jazzfest for another day in the sun. His desire to go to bed "early," however, did not mean I was left to my own devices on Bourbon Street.

As it turned out, a good friend from Albany, Kate, was in New Orleans for Jazzfest. Although I knew about her for quite a few years because we both did Family Law, I didn’t become friends with her until she started coming to karaoke at the Bleecker on Thursday nights. It turned out we had a number of things in common beyond singing. We both love New Orleans and Jazzfest. In fact, even though I never ran into her before, Kate attended Jazzfest every year like me until Katrina hit. I learned that the house where she stayed every year had been destroyed in the flood, and her friend who owned the house moved out of state. This year, however, her friend was returning to New Orleans to visit for the first time since Katrina and arranged housing for herself and Kate.

I don’t know about you, but I am always a bit leery of encountering friends from home when I am out of town. Relationships which work on one level at home do not always translate well in different situations and places. For the most part, my friendship with Kate centered around karaoke. Seeing someone once or twice a week at a bar is a lot different from spending hours of face time with a person. There are other people and other distractions. And, as much as I was looking forward to spending time with Kate in New Orleans, I was equally nervous. The last thing I wanted was for something to go wrong in New Orleans. Would she drive me nuts? Cramp my style? Embarrass me in front of my sister and father? If anything went horribly wrong, it would mean feelings of great discomfort at karaoke back in Albany. I certainly didn’t want to screw up my weekly cathartic activity. In these stressful times, we all need a little release. Despite the downside potential, though, I was going to hit it with my best shot. After all, Kate may have had feelings of trepidation herself. And, there was always the infinitesimal possibility that I would be the one to embarrass her.

Before we left Albany, I had ordered three tickets for the Buddy Guy show at the House of Blues on Saturday night. Seeing Buddy Guy in a club is a no-brainer. He is a legend and still one of the best blues guitarists on the planet. I was sure my Dad would enjoy the show. The other ticket was for Kate.

My sister and I spent the day at Jazzfest. My dad took her 7 year old to the Audobon Zoo. He’s a great kid with a lot of energy, but wore out my father who decided against going out at night to see Buddy Guy. That meant I had an extra ticket. I called Kate and asked her if she could invite one of her friends from where she was staying. She got back to me and told me that Natalie, in whose house she was staying, would be able to go with us. I didn’t know Natalie, but I always liked the name. There is a beautiful ballad by Julio Iglesias called Nathalie. My sister offered to pick up Kate and Natalie and take us down to the French Quarter. She’s a great sister.

My father was snoring on the couch, forcing my sister to pack her son into the car so he wouldn't feel lonely while she was acting as our chauffeur. Kate said that she and Natalie would be waiting for us outside on the porch. And they were. My sister, as helpful as she is, can be a bit impatient. So far so good.

Natalie hadn’t planned on going out Saturday night. That was apparent from the moment she stepped into my sister’s car. She was bombed and very loud. Oh boy! She was kind of cute though, even though that fact didn’t make a bit of difference to my sister. You may wonder how I knew that Natalie hadn’t planned on going out. Well, there is only one way to survive Jazzfest in the hot New Orleans sun if you want to go out at night. Do not drink alcohol, especially to any degree of excess. If you do, the sun works its magic and wears you down. Chances are that you will be so washed out and dehydrated that you will either wither or simply pass out. Natalie must be some kind of girl. A trooper! That’s a lot of stamina for one person. On the other hand, I did wonder if we were going to "lose" her at some point.

My sister gave me one of those "where did you find her" looks. At least Natalie was polite. Still, she could have been a little more discreet around my 7 year old nephew. Was there really any reason for her to discuss the alarming rise in the murder rate in New Orleans since Katrina? I got another look from my sister. And did Natalie have to be so loud about it? On the other hand, she was kind of cute.

Fortunately for my sister’s state of mind, Natalie didn’t live far from the French Quarter, so the trip was short. Natalie could do only so much damage to my nephew’s psyche.. Thanks for the ride, Sis. It’s a shame you were too tired to see Buddy Guy.

Maybe it was about 9 or so when Buddy Guy took the stage dressed in his trademark black shirt with big white polka dots and black guitar adorned with, you guessed it, white polka dots. Did you ever wonder why they are called polka dots? I never did.

For those of you who have never seen Buddy Guy, try to see him if you have the chance. Not only is he one of the best guitarists, but he is an incredible showman. You will be highly entertained.

As the show wore on, Kate and I were catching up to Natalie who continued her consumption of alcohol which began hours earlier. She also calmed down. Even though I was thinking that maybe it was the calm before the storm, we were having a great time. I was relieved that things were going so well.

Since we were already in the French Quarter, Bourbon Street was next on the agenda once the show ended. It was outstanding, by the way. And off we went. Kate wanted to sing karaoke, so we headed down Bourbon toward the world famous Cats Meow. http://www.catsmeow-neworleans.com/ Check it out.

We were drunk, but we still didn’t like what we saw at the Cats Meow. It was packed with much younger drunks. It also looked like the club had hired some hot-looking girls to sing songs to the crowd. That meant fewer songs for the patrons to sing. We would have been lucky to get one song in. For karaoke addicts such as ourselves, one song would simply not be enough. I had another, more adventurous, destination in mind anyway. Kate and Natalie were amenable, so out the door we went.

Club Oz is pretty far down Bourbon Street. I don’t know if the owners chose the site on purpose. Perhaps they didn’t want too many tourists destroying the normal peace and tranquillity associated with New Orleans’ premier gay dance club. If they did, then they found a good spot. It’s at the other end of the street from Canal, which forms the southwestern border of the French Quarter where Bourbon Street begins. In other words, it’s a schlep to get there, especially after a day on your feet at Jazzfest and a night of heavy drinking. Except for whatever personal difficulties you might have walking, you should know that most of Bourbon Street is pedestrian-friendly after 7 p.m. It is closed to traffic between Canal and St. Ann. You are free to stumble your way in and out of clubs without worry, at least until you get past St. Ann. Club Oz is on the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann. In other words, Club Oz is as far down Bourbon Street as you want to get. http://www.ozneworleans.com/

I would like to digress a moment to say a word or two about gay bars in general, and Club Oz, specifically. If you are straight, chances are you do not frequent gay bars. That is a shame because they are a lot of fun, especially if you like to dance as I do. Without a doubt, they are the very best places to dance. The music is great and you can dance with abandon. As I explained in my book, "A Little on the Side," they are also a great place for cheaters to bring their lovers. On the one hand, it’s unlikely that you will be spotted by anyone who knows you or your spouse. On the other hand, gay men have an unwritten rule - if you see someone you know and they don’t talk to you, you don’t out them. It’s the original version of the famous "Don’t ask, don’t tell" rule. For straight men, there is an additional benefit with a positive sexual twist. It’s great to bring a date to a gay bar if she has never been. For starters, she will think you are very secure in your masculinity if you don’t mind being surrounded by gay men. Even better, she will be thinking about sex the whole time. She won’t be able to avoid it. She might see two men kiss or just hug. Sure, it won’t be heterosexual sex that she is contemplating, but I always think it’s a great plan to have your date thinking about sex so you don’t have to bring it up in conversation. You also have no competition at a gay bar. No one there will be interested in your date. Unaccustomed to not receiving attention from men at a bar, your date will look to you for comfort and reassurance that she is desirable. She may get a bit clingy, but so what? She’ll be yours.

As for Club Oz, it is simply one of the best gay bars in the land. In New Orleans, if you tell someone that you were at Club Oz, they don’t automatically think you are a closet homosexual. They just figure you like to dance. They may think that’s "gay" because "real" men don’t dance, but neither will they be worried about you in a locker room nor introducing you to their sister. After discovering Club Oz many years ago, I always make it a point to visit there at least once every Jazzfest. On weekend nights, the place is packed and there are always some adventurous female tourists there. It’s usually a lot of fun.

Since I didn’t think I would be on Bourbon Street more than once this trip, I offered to take Kate and Natalie to Club Oz. They were game and off we went down Bourbon Street, enjoying "people watching" as we staggered and stumbled.

New Orleans is packed with tourists of all ages during Jazzfest. Late at night on Bourbon Street, after hours of drinking, some become quite boisterous. So, in order to preserve its nature as a gay club, Oz charges a five dollar cover. Except for the strip clubs, it may be the only bar on Bourbon to do so. That keeps the merely curious out and ensures that the gay population of New Orleans will have a place to dance even during crowded tourist weekends. It’s never wise to alienate your core demographic. By the way, don’t be fooled by those strip clubs which induce patrons to enter because they don’t charge a cover. The first drink will cost you twenty-five bucks and you may only be getting to see a man with implants anyway. Live and learn.

I paid the cover for the three of us, and inside we went. I was shocked. There were hardly any people there. Where have all the gay men gone? Did they all move to Miami after Katrina? Did the gay community organize a boycott of Oz for some unknown reason? Did they run out of free condoms? Readers, yours truly was confused. Where were all the Judy Garland lovers?

There wasn’t any problem finding three seats at the bar, so we sat down. At the very least, I knew that the girls would have a good time. Why? I will tell you. On the weekends, Club Oz always has two or three very hunky and good looking men without a trace of body hair dancing on the bar and flexing their very big muscles. If you are a fan of the gluteus maximus, you will not be disappointed. The dancers wear g-strings. If instead, you are a connoisseur of pectorals or biceps, don’t fret. There are plenty to go around.

Since we had just paid a cover and ordered drinks, we figured we might as well stick around for a while. Maybe we were a bit early. Besides, the girls were enjoying the dancers. I decided to get up and dance. Solo. Why not? No one cares at a gay bar so long as you are having a good time. Even in my inebriated state, I was pretty good. I even got up on the small stage to show off my talents. And, I didn’t even fall off!

After dancing like a complete fool, I went back to my drink and the girls. Frankly, I was disappointed. Even after 45 minutes, Oz wasn’t getting any busier. For the first time in 13 years of going to New Orleans for Jazzfest, Club Oz was a bust.

After a long day in the sun listening to music, going to the House of Blues to hear Buddy Guy, roaming around Bourbon Street and drinking heavily, what does one do late at night? Get something to eat, of course. The three of us were resolved to leave Oz and find some food. Still, I couldn’t leave without providing my companions with at least some excitement, so I pulled a five dollar bill out of my pocket and stuffed it in the g-string of one of dancers on the bar. I am not going to say that I touched anything while providing this monetary reward to the Adonis on the bar, but I did turn to Kate and announced: "Kate, just so you know, that’s as gay as I get." She laughed heartily. Laughs are good.

I am going to take a few words now to toot my own horn. Among my sister’s friends, I am legendary as a late-night reveler. Until Katrina, once a year, for five days in New Orleans, I had more stamina than anyone I have ever known. I would arrive in New Orleans on a Wednesday afternoon, shower, change my clothes, get a bite to eat and then hit the clubs. Typically, I would not get back to my sister’s house until 5 or 6 a.m. I frequently closed Bourbon Street. Although there are a few bars which never close, at some point, city trucks roll down Bourbon spraying water and vacuuming up the thousands of plastic cups and beads left behind by tourists. At least once, I didn’t make it back to my sister’s house until 10 a.m. That was my all-time record, beating my personal best by 2 hours. On many nights before heading home, I would stumble up Bourbon to Krystal, a burger joint similar to White Castle. http://www.krystalco.com/ (Very nice website, by the way) After downing about a half dozen little burgers, I would take a cab to my sister’s house, usually in a semi-conscious state, hit the bed, wake up four hours later, drink coffee, shower and then head to the fairgrounds for a day of music in the hot sun. The music ends each day at 7 p.m. My sister and I would return home where I would rest a few minutes, shower, get something to eat if I had time and then I would head to a club at night where my drinking and partying would begin again. This scenario repeated itself everyday through Sunday night. I usually flew back to Albany on Monday morning.

However, in all those years of partying, I never strayed off Bourbon Street in search of food. My sister always warned me not to stray and I always followed her admonition. It’s not that I am so rule-oriented, but New Orleans really can be a dangerous place if you are not careful, and sometimes, even if you are. This year was different. Natalie, a long-time resident of the city, was with me. And with Kate, of course. Natalie suggested we go to a restaurant off Bourbon Street. Dark side streets sounded appealing to me at this point. So I said to her: "Where you lead, I will follow." I often wax biblical late at night when I am drunk.

We headed up Bourbon toward Canal at a very slow pace. Natalie and Kate were busy chatting about something, so I was content to follow a few yards behind. Plus, I didn’t mind looking at all the pretty young girls. At certain times, it’s important to be able to entertain yourself.

We hadn’t gotten too far along Bourbon when suddenly I was accosted by two very skanky hookers. They were so ugly that I thought Jerry Springer was going to pop out and surprise me. Skanky wasn’t the worst of it. They were extremely aggressive, grabbing me all over and aksing (misspelled on purpose) me if I wanted to "party." Despite my protests, they did not let up in the least. I thought about screaming for help, but I was too embarrassed. Couldn’t Sid Stein deal with a couple of whores without calling in the reserves? I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.

As it turned out, I was rescued by the cavalry in the form of a mounted New Orleans Police officer. "Unhand the tourist!," he barked. Before I could say "Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks," they were gone. Like magic. Was David Copperfield working as a Crescent City crusader? I offered the cop some beads as thanks. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked. "Just get the fuck out of here." And off I went, scurrying up the street to catch Natalie and Kate.

Kate thought my encounter with the hookers was pretty funny and teased me about it for the next 5 minutes. Natalie suggested I check to see if I still had my wallet. I did. Then I wondered if she expected me to pay for food.

Despite navigating off Bourbon Street, we arrived at our destination without further incident. The Deja Vu, 400 Dauphine Street, just one block over from Bourbon on the corner of Conti Street. http://www.neworleansonline.com/directory/location.php?locationID=140

It’s a popular local eatery open 24 hours for your dining convenience. It also beats waiting in line for greasy Krystal burgers. I think I ordered the seafood platter. I am not sure which manner of seafood I ate, but I remember it was very satisfying. Remembering that I still had my wallet, I picked up the check and said: "You know, Natalie, Deja Vu is the kind of place you hope never changes."

Sid Stein Is Involved in a Racial Incident on His Way to New Orleans

First of all, I am not sure if this is a tale of racism or reverse-discrimination. Let me be clear. I am not a racist. I have had black friends since I was a kid and have decried racism in the City of Albany in a number of letters to the editor. I listen to a lot of rap too. I even have a "Free Yayo" G Unit t-shirt and a 5950 cap. That being said, let’s continue.

In 1981, my sister got married and moved to New Orleans to attend law school. I married the following year and spent three years in Israel before returning to the United States to attend law school myself. Two lawyers in the family! Mazel tov to my parents. Although I visited my sister in New Orleans during the summer of 1983, it was an uneventful trip save for an excursion to Baton Rouge to see the Pointer Sisters. "I’m So Excited!"

Years passed and I eventually had my own law practice in Albany. One day as I was going through my mail, I came across a flyer for a law conference in New Orleans. Tax deductible! I needed to get away and thought it would be nice to spend some time in the Big Easy. I could even see my sister. So, I gave her a call. She asked a pointed question. "Sid," she inquired, "do you really want to go to a law seminar or do you just want to have a good time?" I confessed. I just wanted to have a good time. So, she told me to forget about the law seminar and the tax deduction and come to the Jazz and Heritage Festival (Jazzfest for short) at the end of April. She guaranteed to me that I would love it. I made reservations. http://www.nojazzfest.com/

Since 1993, I have missed only one Jazzfest. In 2005, the year of Katrina, Passover was late. It coincided with Jazzfest. I did the right thing and spent the holiday with my family. I was back at Jazzfest the following year. I really do love it.

In 2006, I added a new twist to my annual trip to New Orleans. I brought my father along. He loved it too. We were a good team. I enjoyed showing him around the festival and introducing him to Rock N Bowl for Zydeco night. We saw Etta James and Dr. John on successive nights at the House of Blues. We were in the right place and it was the right time. At last. The man can party! He liked it so much that he decided to go with me this year too. And he did.

Jazzfest is very popular, so it’s always good to make plane reservations well in advance. Last year, my father’s made a last minute decision to attend, so we had to travel separately. This year, we coordinated our trips so that we could fly together, father and son. Awww, how sweet. Just to be clear, my dad is a great guy and I love him.

One aspect I enjoyed about Jazzfest with my father was the role reversal. As the veteran Jazzfest attendee, I showed him the ropes. He learned from me. It’s nice to teach an old dog new tricks. Still, I am glad that he’s a quick study.

Jazzfest is held over two consecutive weekends. For years, I always went on the second weekend. It was the weekend when the first family of New Orleans, the Neville Brothers, wrapped up Jazzfest with a set on the main stage (there are about 10 separate stages of music going all day). The second weekend was my favorite because my sister’s friends had guests who would come down every year. We all hung out together, so each year was a reunion of sorts. One of her friends hosted a barbecue every year on Wednesday night, another threw a big breakfast party on Sunday morning. After Katrina, however, things changed. Some of the out of town guests stopped coming and the people who made the breakfast lost their home. The Nevilles no longer perform. Aaron claims that after Katrina, the air quality affects his asthma too much. Live, learn and adapt, I say. For me, it meant that coming on the second weekend lost its importance. This year and last, I have attended the first weekend. It just happened that I preferred the music schedule for the first weekend more than the second. Both weekends are always great. Some years, the first weekend had the better line-up, others the second. Before Katrina changed everything, I was willing to sacrifice the better music weekend for the sake of seeing everyone.

There was only one thing I regretted all those years when I would come for the second weekend of Jazzfest - not being able to attend Piano Night. Piano Night is a very special occasion. It’s a benefit concert hosted by WWOZ for a music foundation in New Orleans. All the best piano players come and play short sets, one after the other, sometimes with a band, mostly without. It’s simply a magical club night which I caught the very first time I was down for Jazzfest. The following year it was rescheduled, permanently, and now takes place on the Monday night between the first and second weekends of the festival. Since I was going for the first weekend, I rearranged my usual trip (arrive Wednesday and leave Monday) so I could attend Piano Night. I was sure that my Dad would enjoy it too.

I am telling you all this about Jazzfest to emphasize how much I look forward to it every year. Every year, amidst the dark despair of winter, I have something to look forward to. It was with this feeling of anticipation that I set out on a Thursday afternoon to New Orleans.

Going to Jazzfest has changed since the advent of the Internet. I can now buy tickets online for shows I want to see at nightclubs. Instead of waiting an hour or more to get into Tipitina’s on a Sunday night to see the Meters, I can now order tickets weeks in advance in an instant. And, I am sure that my father would not have patience to wait in line for so long. For that Thursday night, I had ordered tickets for Rock N Bowl to see Chris Ardoin and Geno Delafose on Zydeco night.

As we boarded our USAirways flight to New Orleans via Philadelphia, my father and I were excited. Our excitement was enhanced by the fact that we were leaving Albany so late in the afternoon and would have to hurry to make it to the show. It would be a quick hi to my sister, shower, and then out the door.

Imagine how I felt when the captain announced that our departure from Albany was delayed due to problems in Philadelphia and couldn’t tell us when we would be leaving. There was more at stake than just the tickets to the show. Now we had to worry about making our connection to New Orleans. I was not happy.

As is customary on airlines, we waited on the plane. I wasn’t even seated next to anyone interesting. My stress levels began to rise as I counted the seconds. After what seemed like an eternity (I finished the crossword puzzle in the flight magazine - twice!), the captain announced that we were ready for take-off. According to his projections, we would be arriving in Philadelphia about 15 minutes before our connection was scheduled to depart for the Big Easy.

I assume that most of you are familiar with airports. Some are quite big and have multiple terminals. If you have to go from one end of the airport to another, it can take a long time. Dad and I were going to get about 10 minutes or so to make our connection.

The flight from Albany to Philadelphia is not very long. At some point during the flight, we were told that we would be arriving at Terminal F. I looked at my ticket and saw that we would have to get to Terminal C for our connecting flight. It was more like Terminal S for stress. Actually, it really was Terminal F - for f*&%ked up. http://www.phl.org/pdf/PHL_intl_map_hi.pdf

When I was in the Girl Scouts, I learned to be prepared. Okay, I wasn’t really in the Girl Scouts, but my sister was a Brownie one year, I think. So, I checked out the back of the flight magazine where they show the layouts of the airports. I wanted to see how far Terminal F was from C, besides just D and E. It didn’t look good. The terminals were not even connected. There was not even a monorail. Just a shuttle bus. It wasn’t looking good at all. And I really didn’t want to miss Chris Ardoin. Since the death of Zydeco master Beau Jocque, Ardoin was my favorite and I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years.

If life was perfect, everyone on your flight would have to rush off to make their own connecting flights in time. That’s never the case though, especially when there are slow moving senior citizens seated in front of you who first have to get their carry-on bags down from the overhead compartments. Dad and I made it off the plane as quickly as we could. I exercised the pushy New Yorker prerogative even though I live in Albany, two and a half hours north of the Manhattan where people are much more polite. If I could, I would have grabbed my father’s hand and pulled him along, but I decided it would be too weird.

Okay, readers, this is the sensitive part and I need you to read this with an open mind. Don’t forget that even though I was trying to maintain a cool head, I was still stressed about our late arrival. And before you read any further, go back and reread the first paragraph. Please. Really.

The shuttle bus to Terminal C was waiting for us as we left the plane. I barked at my father to hurry out of fear that the first bus would fill up quickly forcing us to wait for another. I got to the bus ahead of my father, boarded and found an aisle seat toward the back. As I expected, the bus filled up right away. My father hopped on and stood near the rear door on the side of the bus opposite me.

Sitting by a window seat on the other side of the aisle was a black woman, a T.S.A. agent. I knew that because she was wearing a uniform. On the seat next to her was a bag. Aldo shoes. It was the only seat on the bus not occupied by a person. I watched as my father looked at the seat, saw the bag and do nothing. He remained standing.

Ordinarily, I would easily have given my seat to my father. Although he is in great shape, I, of course, am his dutiful son and have a great deal of respect for him. It would only be right. This time, however, there was an empty seat save for the Aldo shoe bag. My father, however, is a bit shy in certain circumstances. I could see that he didn’t want to ask the woman to move her bag.
I decided to intervene and said: "Dad, do you want to sit because I don’t think Aldo needs a seat."



My father gave me one of those "don’t bother" looks.

I heard some mumbling behind me. I turned my head and saw four black women sitting in the last row talking about something. I wasn’t sure what.

Then, one of the women addressed the T.S.A. agent. "I think he was talking about you. I heard him say Aldo."

Then, with quite a bit of attitude, the T.S.A. woman glared and said: "You know, you should learn how to say excuse me."

Of course, I wasn’t going to let her comment just "sit" there. I felt a need to respond. It’s what Larry David would do. So I said: "Actually, I was hoping to get my Dad to say just that, but he’s a bit shy. Really, when you think about it, by putting your bag on the seat, you were engaging in passive aggressive behavior, which to me, is still aggressive anyway you look at it."

My father heaved a nervous sigh. I could see the look in his eyes saying: "Does Sid always have to shoot off his mouth? Can’t he just mind his own business?"

The T.S.A. agent wasn’t going to let the dispute die. "You should mind your own business," she snapped.

"My own business? This is a public bus. It is my business. I paid for a ticket to ride on this bus and so did my father. Did you?"

Obviously, it was a rhetorical question. As a T.S.A. agent, I doubt that she had to pay to get on the shuttle. My question was designed as a rebuke. I could see she wasn’t happy that I asked.

My rhetoric drew an animated response from the black women sitting behind me. They wanted the agent to return fire. Instead, she turned to them and said calmly: "Let him keep talking, someone will be waiting for him at the gate."

What!? I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t let that go.

"Are you threatening me? You want to tell me someone is going to arrest me because I wanted my father, a ticket holder, to have a seat? You have to be kidding. That’s too funny."

A hushed silence fell over the participants in this little spat. The T.S.A. agent sat smugly in her window seat, Aldo shoe bag still at her side. My father was turning red. Poor guy! It must be difficult to have a son like me.

I peered out the window to my left, opposite the agent. There on the tarmac sat a plane. I couldn’t believe it. Was G-d himself intervening in this dispute? If He was, then what was He telling me? Surely, it was a sign. I just wasn’t sure what the sign meant or what I should do with it. This is what I saw.



Parked on the tarmac for all to see was a Northwest Airlines jet. NWA in giant letters painted along the fuselage. I am sure it’s a pretty common sight at an airport, even considering all the problems Northwest has been having of late. Perhaps you are wondering what role it played in my confrontation with airport security.

N.W.A.’s "Straight Outta Compton" is regarded as one of the greatest rap albums of all time. Featuring some rap luminaries such as Dr. Dre, Ice Cube and Eazy-E, the album is one of the most influential rap albums in the history of the genre and has made many "best of" lists, including those compiled by "Rolling Stone" magazine and VH1. Although I don’t expect many white people in my age demographic to know about the group, it certainly is well-known in the African-American community. To borrow a term coined by Tracy Turnblad in the musical "Hairspray," it’s Afrotastic! Oh, by the way, there is one little detail about N.W.A. that I have not shared with you yet. It does not stand for Northwest Airlines. Although the "N" bomb is an incredibly offensive word, N.W.A. stands for Niggers With Attitude.

Dear readers, how can I relate to you the level of temptation I experienced at that moment? Did I dare take advantage of the opportunity presented to me? Except for maybe the "C" word, is there a more politically-incorrect word in the English language?
Need I even ask?

I didn’t have much time to think about my next move. Although the shuttle was moving slowly, the Northwest jet would soon be out of sight forever. I quickly weighed the pros and cons of what begged to burst forth out of my mouth. To be honest, I don’t know if I actually made a decision or if the words just popped out.

Before the moment was forever lost, I said, clearly, resonantly, in a well-modulated voice with sufficient volume: "N….W….A…." I paused momentarily to look at the shocked expressions of the black women sitting around me. It was glorious. Their shock at what I said was multiplied by their incredulity that I even knew to say it. I thought I heard one or two of them say;" Oh no, he didn’t!" Before any of them had a chance to respond, I added: "Northwest Airlines." I smiled smugly.

What could they say? Accuse me of reading the side of a plane? They were struck dumb.

My father still stood by the door of the bus. He didn’t comprehend what just occurred. He had never heard of N.W.A. How many Jewish men his age are into rap? My guess is not too many.

Within a moment, the bus stopped. My father and I hurried off and entered the terminal. The T.S.A. agent and her friends remained behind.

I can only imagine what the women on the bus said to each other after I left. I’d like to think that along with their shock and outrage, at least one of them turned to the T.S.A. agent and said: "He got you, girlfriend!"

I didn’t have much time to reflect on what happened. My father and I raced through the terminal to get to our gate. We made it in the nick of time and were the last ones to board. Remarkably, our luggage made it to New Orleans with us. And yes, we arrived in time to see Chris Ardoin at Rock N Bowl.

Random Thoughts - The Rap Scene

If Big L was alive today, he'd be dead.

http://www.tradebit.com/usr/djmixtapez/pub/9001/Harlem-s-Finest.jpg

Sex and Candy

For a few years, I went to the Bleecker Café on Thursday nights for karaoke. I do love to sing and I do love attention, so karaoke is a natural choice for me. The Bleecker had one of the best late night crowds in Albany, an eclectic (and I do not use the word eclectic lightly) mix of Center Square residents, politicians, lobbyists, karaoke addicts and one author. For those of you unfamiliar with Albany, Center Square in Albany is a mini version of Greenwich Village. What made the Bleecker especially unique in New York’s capital city was that race, gender and age were all optional. In other words, when Sid Stein says eclectic mix, he really means it. (Sorry about going from first person to third, but I couldn’t help it.)

Not everything stays the same. The owner of the Bleecker died. Michael Boxley, former advisor to New York Assembly Speaker Sheldon Silver, was involved in a sexual assault case, making all legislative personnel more cautious about going out and about, and I got divorced. Change isn’t always bad. The Bleecker was sold and is now called Pinto and Hobbs and it’s still a great place to go. Over the years, I became friendly with the karaoke DJ. Greg is a nice guy too. He gives me a lot of leeway when I sing.

The Bleecker isn’t the only place where Greg is a DJ. By now, you have read about my Wednesday night hangout, Bomber’s, on Lark Street, across from Planned Parenthood. The crowd there is much younger on average, mostly 20-somethings who look at me as an old man. And, if truth be told, I am old enough to be the father of many of them. Still, the girls are cute, they are not my daughters, and if you gotta sing, you gotta sing.

When I sing karaoke, I like to adlib during musical breaks in the song. It’s always funny, but sometimes a bit raunchy. That is what I meant when I said that Greg gives me a lot of leeway. Greg, however, is a businessman, and he is more cautious at Bomber’s than he is at the Bleecker. I am not sure why, but maybe he thinks the kids won’t appreciate me as much as the more mature Bleecker crowd. Fortunately for Greg, there is one song that doesn’t leave me any room for adlibbing. That’s "Sex and Candy," a one-hit wonder by a group called Marcy Playground. It’s a song well-suited to my baritone voice and may be my best song. So, if Greg just wants me to sing, he’ll play "Sex and Candy," figuring I will just sing it straight, which sounds a bit funny considering I primarily sing it at a gender-optional place. I know Greg picks the song for this reason, but I don’t mind. I love the song.

http://www.marcyplayground.net/

Here are some of the lyrics:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time to sit and think about myself
And then there she was, like double cherry pie
Yeah, there she was, like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair?
Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?
Mama, this surely is a dream.

It’s somewhat slow, and very sexy, which is one of the reasons I enjoy it. So there I was, on stage at Bomber’s, singing to the 20-somethings, when a most remarkable thing happened. As I was singing, two lovely, young girls came up on the small stage. One danced seductively in front of me, the other behind. I knew they were making fun of the "old man at the bar," but I didn’t mind at all. I quite enjoyed the attention from these two beauties. They were smiling and giggling. I am sure they had friends at the bar who were also enjoying their escapades. I still didn’t mind. They were both great dancers. At my age, attention from young girls is attention from young girls.

With a big smile on my face, I kept singing "Sex and Candy." It was going well. I was happy. Greg was happy. The two girls seemed happy as well. Then, the one in front of me made a huge mistake. She apparently thought that she could make a complete mockery out of Sid Stein for the benefit of herself, her friends and the rest of her demographic at this very crowded bar. I could see the wheels spinning behind her mischievous grin. Although I am sure she never saw "The Blue Angel," the great German film in which a sultry, sexy Marlene Dietrich playing Lola tempts and ridicules the much older professor portrayed by Emil Jannings, I had. I knew the score. I am Sid Stein, not some stodgy old bachelor in a movie.

Maybe you are wondering what mistake this poor girl made. Well, as I was singing and she was gyrating in front of me, she started to unbutton my shirt. I am sure she didn’t intend on going too far - she just thought she was being funny at my expense. Her mistake was that I had the microphone in my hand, compounded by the fact that I am not Emil Jannings portraying a fictional character. And, she was no Marlene Dietrich. I turned to Greg who was half titillated and half shocked. Maybe he was thinking - lucky Sid. I said to him: Sorry, Greg, I know you want me to just sing, but I can’t let this one go by without saying anything." And so I did. I said, so that all could hear me clearly:

Honey, I don’t want you to unbutton my shirt. I want you to unzip my fly and give me a blow job.

The poor girl was mortified. She shouldn’t have been messing around with Sid. She slunk back to her friends. I just hope that in some small way, I redeemed that professor in "The Blue Angel." More importantly, Greg forgave me. And the beat goes on.