A Sid Stein Update on "A Karaoke Tale from March 8, 2007

Yesterday, I posted an entry about a fictional tale I told at Bomber’s on karaoke night (Wednesday) about a woman who died at my house because she was allergic to peanuts. Last night at Pinto and Hobbs, I was greeted by someone who had heard the story at Bomber’s.

First of all, there is something you should know about me. Karaoke is my guilty pleasure. I love to sing. I find karaoke to be entertaining. It satisfies my need to sing, I see my friends and it’s something to do instead of tossing darts, shooting pool or talking about sports. Why are American men obsessed with talking about sports anyway? For a number of years already, I have been going to Pinto and Hobbs (formerly the Bleecker) on Thursday nights for karaoke. Although the initial part of this story occurred at Bomber’s the night before, the rest of this story actually happened and took place last night at the P & H. Bomber’s, by the way, is a guilty pleasure of a guilty pleasure. Although it is a fairly funky place, most of the clientele at Bomber’s is very young. Sure, there are plenty of pretty girls to look at. Unfortunately, most of them look like my eldest daughter. As a result, I always feel a little like a dirty old man when I am there. I go because: 1) I love to sing; 2) the deejay is my friend; and 3) there are oodles of pretty young girls to look at. If truth be told, I prefer the company of age appropriate women. So, I never stay at Bomber’s for very long.

Now, back to Pinto and Hobbs where I get my heavier, weekly dose of karaoke. I say dose because I think karaoke is addicting for some people. I know it is for me. That’s the way it is with guilty pleasures.

I arrived at the P & H about 11 pm. Although karaoke officially starts at 10, it’s a late night spot and most people don’t start arriving until 11. Sid Stein included. The usual suspects were there. I am referring to my friends and a diverse and occasionally odd assortment of neighborhood people. The composition of the crowd runs the gamut from young to old, tattooed and pristine, and all races and genders. Last time I counted, there were at least 6 genders there. I am glad we have a more open society, but it certainly is more confusing.

I wasn’t there for more than 15 minutes when Jen, a young, chubby blonde lesbian walked in. Jen is very sweet and does a good job singing. She’s cute and friendly and always gives me a big hug. This time, however, I didn’t get a hug. She looked concerned.

"Are you ok?" she asked.
"Sure," I replied. Noticing her worried look, I inquired why she asked.
"Well, you weren’t doing so good last night."
Eyebrows raised, I tried to figure out what she was referring to. "What do you mean? I felt fine last night." And really, I did.
"Well, didn’t you have a friend who died at your house?"

No way was I going to spoil the moment. I didn’t even crack a smile. Jen had taken me seriously. As stoic as I tried to be, I knew I wouldn’t be able to last long. I had to walk away before I started laughing. And, as I walked away from her, I pleaded: "But it wasn’t my fault! Really! She never told me she was allergic to peanuts!"

I raced over to Greg, the deejay. I had to tell someone who was there the night before about what just transpired. We laughed about it, but it wasn’t over. I had yet to get up and sing.

Some background will help here. I started going to Pinto and Hobbs a number of years ago when it was still called the Bleecker. At the time, a woman named Sue was the bartender. Sue was special. She was blonde, busty and beautiful, and man oh man, could she run a bar. Not only was she quick, but she knew how to take care of her good customers, and she packed them in. She had a sultry, deep voice and wore sexy tops which featured her major asset - great cleavage. And, she had a devilish sense of humor. She was great. At some point during the night, Greg would dedicate the song "Brickhouse" to her. No one would sing it. It just played in honor of Sue.

All the men and lesbians loved Sue. I was no different. Still, I wanted to distinguish myself from among Sue’s other adoring followers. I decided the best way would be with a song. I chose the Carpenter’s classic hit, "Close to You." It would be easy to change the lyrics to "Close to Sue."

I invented an adlib for the song. I transformed this simple, melodic love tune into a stalker song. During instrumental breaks, I would go on and on about how Sue had to get an Order of Protection against me because I was always following her around, just wanting to be "Close to Sue." One night, when the readers’ poll of Metroland magazine came out (Albany’s version of the Village Voice), I added that Sue was voted "most stalkable woman" in the Capital District for the 5th year in a row. Sue always rewarded me with a big smile and a drink. I would have done it for just the smile.

Well, last Thursday was different. Sue is long gone from the P & H, but I knew I had to sing the song. I got up, started to sing, and at my first opportunity, adlibbed:

"As many of you already know, my date from the other night died at my house because she was allergic to peanuts. I would like to dedicate this song to her memory. Her funeral is tomorrow, Friday at 11, and it would be greatly appreciated if you could come. It just so happens that tomorrow is also the birthday of the late and great Karen Carpenter, who died tragically at the tender age of 32 from anorexia, and who sang this beautiful love song." (FYI - I missed the actual date of her birthday by only one week!)

Toward the end of the song, I added:

"Some of you here might know that I used to dedicate this song to Sue, who tended bar here back in the day when it was still the Bleecker. It just so happens that the Metroland readers’ poll came out today. You’ll notice that Metroland no longer has a vote for "Most Stalkable Woman." There is a little note though. They decided to retire the category after Sue left the bar. One last thing. Please don’t forget. My friend's funeral is tomorrow at 11. If you want to make a charitable donation in her memory, please consider making a contribution to the Anorexia Foundation of America. And please, don’t forget to eat. Just make sure you’re not allergic to peanuts before you eat Asian food. At least at my house, anyway. Goodnight!"

Sid Stein's Unlucky Blind Date

Sid Stein’s Unlucky Blind Date

Without a doubt, the most adventurous form of dating is the blind date. I recently had one. Remarkably, it was just my second blind date ever. The first was many years ago when I was about 20, and I only went out with the girl as a favor to my mother. At the time, I thought it would be my last. Never say never.

I don’t want to say that Albany, New York is a dating wasteland. I like it here most of the time. However, if you are looking to date a Jewish woman, they are not easy to come by. Age appropriate women around Albany who subscribe to Jdate, the Jewish dating site, are few and far between. So, if one comes along, you might take a chance on her. Whether or not you should, is another question entirely.

One night, as I was logged onto Jdate, I was contacted by a local woman who had not posted a picture. Although there are any number of reasons why a person would want to remain totally anonymous on an internet dating site, it often means that the person is less than physically desirable. That being said, it’s not the only reason, especially for women. Who wants a stalker? Not everyone is photogenic. Typically, I don’t bother browsing through the members who won’t post a picture. I am a man. We are a visually-oriented gender, even if I have purchased Playboy only for the articles.

The woman sounded nice enough as we chatted by instant messenger. Personality, or inner beauty, counts too. At some point, I did ask her about her physical appearance. She replied that people tell her she is attractive. I don’t know about you, but I don’t always trust what other people say. Often, they are just being polite. When I ask a direct question about a person’s looks, I hope for a direct answer. Telling me that other people think you are attractive is not very direct. "I have been told that I am attractive" is the typical response. What’s the matter? You don’t own a mirror? It’s the kind of answer I would expect from a blind woman. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t expect to find many blind women on a computer dating site. How the hell are they supposed to read my messages? Now, you might attribute her response to modesty, but that’s a long shot. At the very least, it seems to indicate a lack of self-confidence which could be an entirely different problem with which to cope. Still, I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and hope that I am not kidding myself. Since I have four pictures posted, I asked her if she thought we would make a good-looking couple. She responded affirmatively.

With this particular woman, however, I did have a lingering doubt in my mind. She claimed she didn’t have a picture because she didn’t own a digital camera. This, from a person who allegedly worked at a photography studio. Of all people, wouldn’t someone in the photography field have a digital camera? Besides, how hard is it to digitize a photo? You can do it at almost any drug store nowadays.

Despite my doubts, I arranged to meet this mystery woman on a Thursday night, my usual karaoke night. I didn’t mind because she wanted me to pick her up at 8. Karaoke doesn’t really get rolling until 11, so I would have three hours to kill. If it didn’t work out, I could still make it to the bar. If it did, I could bring her along. Or, who knows what?

I found it highly unusual for a first date to request that I pick her up. In the interest of internet safety, it is highly recommended to meet someone at a neutral, public place, just in case the person turns out to be some kind of psycho. My date apparently had no choice in the matter. Her car was in the shop.

I walked into the photography studio at 8 sharp. Okay, maybe I was a few minutes late. No one was at the front desk, so I took a seat and opened a magazine. My date peered from behind a door and advised that she would only be a few more minutes. She was still helping some clients choose photos. My heart sank. She was not very pretty. She looked much older than I. Tired, too. I guess the people who told her she was attractive were long dead. She could have been a very cute baby. Who knows?

I couldn’t exactly duck out of the place, although after 20 minutes of waiting, I certainly felt like doing just that. My date finally emerged from her office. She was nearly a full half hour late. She apologized for the delay. Apparently, her clients had trouble picking out which photos they wanted. They were in there so long, you would think it was a Versace shoot. Three old, fat ladies. Oh, Donatella, what has happened to your spring line? So, I thought, the date is off to a roaring start.

My date locked up the studio, set the alarm and we got into my car. We hadn’t made any real plans about where to go, so I asked her what she wanted to do. Since the studio was in a suburb of Albany, I didn’t know what was around there. She mentioned coffee, but wasn’t sure what was open. No way was I going to Dunkin’ Donuts. It’s too bright and she wasn’t pretty enough. What if someone saw me?

I suggested we go get a cocktail, but she told me she didn’t drink. Great! How the hell was I going to get through this date without a drink? Not even a shot to take the edge off her bad looks? She did, however, provide me with an excellent reason why she didn’t drink. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to, she just couldn’t. Why not? Well, it turned out she had to wear some kind of narcotic patch. She claimed it was more powerful than morphine. If she had a drink, it would totally knock her out. I agreed that she shouldn’t drink. The last thing I needed was a comatose date, or even worse, a dead ugly body in my car. I wonder if you have to put them in the recycling bin.

You might be wondering why she needed the narcotic patch. I know I was. She volunteered the information. I didn’t have to ask. I am sure she has told this story many times before. It sounded well rehearsed. Before I start this sad story of misfortune, brace yourself. My date must be one of the unluckiest people on the planet. And yes, by the way, part of the story included time she spent wearing a brace.

We drove in an easterly direction towards Albany, and I began to worry. The closer I get to Albany, the more likely I might run into someone I know. I didn’t want anyone to see me with this woman. Evelyn, by the way. Sid Stein has a reputation to protect, even if it is notorious. Perhaps because it is notorious.

Evelyn suggested a restaurant on route and I pulled into the parking lot. I had heard that this recently renovated establishment wasn’t doing great business, so I felt comfortable with her choice. Just my luck, the parking lot was full. I better reevaluate my intelligence sources. Without even one open parking spot in the lot (thank my lucky stars), it was on to the next place. I remembered there was an Asian restaurant close by, so I suggested that. She offered that she loves sushi. Great. And, the parking lot was not very crowded.

I had never been to this particular restaurant because it offers both Chinese and Japanese food on the menu. I never understood why natural born enemies would team up to open a restaurant. Asian restaurants should either be Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai or Vietnamese. The only combos should include chicken and broccoli, fried rice and an egg roll. There is also an Indian/Pakistani restaurant in Albany. On the subcontinent, they are threatening to blow each other up in a nuclear holocaust. In Albany, they serve 10 different kinds of nan. Go figure.

We were seated at a booth. I didn’t see anyone I knew. I felt relieved. Apparently, I was on Buddha’s good side that day. All the employees, including those behind the sushi bar, were Chinese. Those Chinese were smart to cash in on the boom in Asian cuisine other than Chinese. I ordered some sake. To my surprise, so did my date.

I imagine that most people would find it unusual for someone to wear a narcotic patch. I didn’t even realize they existed until Evelyn told me she wore one. "Didn’t you say you aren’t supposed to drink when wearing your patch?" I inquired. She told me she would only have a few sips. I could drink the rest. Oh no, I thought. She wants to get me drunk. Smart girl. After I asked her where I could get one of these patches, she told me why she needed it.

Apparently, Evelyn was walking along her merry way one day and caught her foot under a rocky protrusion. She fell forward, smashed her face and broke the C1 vertebra. That is the one at the top of your spine, the one in which the brain stem sits. Most people who break the C1 vertebra die. Not my date. I suppose you could call it good luck, but you still haven’t heard the rest of the story. After a few operations and spending a considerable amount of time in a back brace, my date survived with some limited mobility and a lot of pain. Hence the patch. Due to its narcotic nature, she is required to get new prescriptions for it on a frequent basis. The patch only lasts for a few days at a time. For the rest of her life, Evelyn will be engaged in a delicate dance of running between doctor and pharmacy so that she is never without her patch. She told me that withdrawal is a bitch. Don’t forget her car was in the shop at the time.

I continued to drink my sake and made a conscious decision to listen to what this woman had to say. Although she was divorced, it sounded like she would have preferred to have been a widow. Did I tell you her mother died when Evelyn was just a small child? She ended up in a succession of boarding schools. Anyway, I got to hear about her husband. During my career as a divorce lawyer, I encountered many women who divorced their husbands because they were publicly humiliated after the husband’s adultery became widely known. My client wasn’t merely humiliated. Her ex was in jail. Front page news. Extortion? Murder? Grand larceny? Try child pornography and rape. Did he rape a crack whore? No. Evelyn didn’t get off that easy. Her ex raped one of his son’s teenage friends. Although I didn’t ask, I believe the son’s relationship with his father became somewhat strained after that. It was a case that probably inspired a "Law and Order - Special Victims Unit" episode. That had to be extremely humiliating for Evelyn. If her husband was "into" children, I can’t imagine that her sex life was so wonderful either. I commented that it was one thing to read "Lolita," but quite another to have acted it out in real life. What do you say to someone who was married to a convicted pedophile? At least he liked children?

As a brief aside, I wouldn’t recommend taking a blind date to an Asian restaurant. The temptation to poke your eyes out with the chopsticks is too strong.

I, for one, don’t know how you can live without knowing your spouse is a pedophile. They must not have had a very close relationship. Nevertheless, my date’s recounting of her troubles was hardly over.

It could not have been easy recovering from such a scandal. Although she didn’t go into detail about her life once her ex was arrested and convicted, I used my imagination to fill in the blanks of her traumatic story. At this point, and thanks in part to my intake of sake, I actually started to feel sorry for her. I also noticed that she kept refilling my cup with the cruse of sake she had ordered.

As much as my date suffered personally, her sorrows were compounded by her love for her son, who not only lost his father to shame and prison, but had to live with the fact that his high school friends were some of the victims. What mother doesn’t weep for her son’s pain?

Her now 19 year old son was another source of trouble for Evelyn. He moved back in with her after a brief time out of the condo. Evelyn confided in me that she wished he would move out again. Apparently, although she loved him, he was a slob. He left his clothes all over the place. I am sure that Evelyn hesitated to put her foot down because of the trauma he suffered at the hands of his father. Her son also had a big appetite and was constantly eating her out of house and home. And the car was in the shop.

You might be thinking, so what if he was a slob and ate a lot? That’s not untypical for a boy of his age. Well, you haven’t heard what he did.

If being married to a convicted pedophile and rapist wasn’t enough, if spending a year in a back brace and destined to spend the rest of your life wearing a narcotic patch wasn’t enough agony, Evelyn’s son burned down their condo. He left a candle burning. So my date unwittingly explained to the fire marshal. Statements made are statements used, so her ex-landlord is suing her for damage to three units. She isn’t too worried. She has few assets and will file for bankruptcy protection if it comes down to that. So, I guess her son reminds her of a lot of trouble. Son of Pedophile and enemy of Smokey the Bear.

I did tell you that my Evelyn’s car was in the shop. There was a reason. Apparently, her car slipped out of park in the condo lot and rolled backwards, hitting and causing damage to two unoccupied, parked cars. For some reason, the town police were called to the scene. One would think that this would just be an insurance matter. Evelyn wasn’t so lucky. The police gave her seven tickets for various infractions. They even took away and suspended her driver’s license. She told me she hired a lawyer to take care of the tickets. He asked for a $4,000.00 retainer. Whoa! Talk about taking advantage of someone’s misfortune. So, she was out 4,000.00, would probably get dropped by her insurance company and had to rely on strangers to drive her around.

How could I not feel sorry for this woman? And after two orders of sake? It came time to leave. She had finished her miso soup and eel appetizer. I was ready to go myself. I was afraid what she might tell me next. It was clear from her demeanor that she didn’t want our date to end. It was also clear from her question regarding what we should do next.

My mind was already thinking Pinto and Hobbs, where I go on Thursday nights to sing karaoke. My friends would be there. I would be able to put this date behind me. But, my conscience got the better of me. You’re laughing? Yes, even Sid Stein has a conscience.

I certainly didn’t want to take Evelyn to Pinto and Hobbs. No way would I live that down. I still had about an hour before I wanted to be at the bar. Hmmm, I thought. She did say her car was in the shop and that her son ate her out of house and home. How about if I take her to the grocery store? I thought, what the hell? She can pick up a few necessities. She thought I was kidding at first. I told her that I was serious and she seemed happy to go. So, we stopped at her local Price Chopper supermarket.

I expected Evelyn to pick up a basket big enough to hold a few things - eggs, bread, milk, etc. Oh no. She took a shopping cart. Much to my surprise, she set out to do a complete supermarket shopping. She was tossing items into the cart as if she was planning for Armageddon. How many fat,lazy, good-for-nothing sons did she have at home? How many frozen dinners fit into a shopping cart? Apparently, the woman doesn’t like to cook.

As we maneuvered through the aisles, I wondered if she was going to need a second cart. I kept checking the time. How long was she going to take? This was no time for comparison shopping. Yo, lady, I am doing you a favor. Have some mercy! No mercy was shown. Evelyn decided to buy firewood. She tried to explain that her son used a lot of it, but I was suspicious. No way was I going to her place to sit in front of a romantic fire. 60 pounds of firewood! Of course, I had to shlep it into the cart. No way was my date going to manage that with her bad spine and all.

Apparently, Evelyn remembered that I keep a kosher home. She didn’t say anything, but while she was looking through the array of meats, I noticed she was checking out the pork products, and then checking out me. It seemed like she definitely would have added a few pork chops to her cart if I had not been present. Oh well. Too bad for her.

Finally, she was done shopping and we arrived at the check-out. She said hello to the cashier in a very friendly tone, as if the two of them were old friends. "Hi, Stacy, good to see you again," she said. Stacy barely acknowledged her. Evelyn may have been through Stacy’s line many times before, but it didn’t seem like Stacy cared very much. She was probably tired.

Stacy was definitely a 70’s girl. She was my age or a little older and not bad looking for someone who had probably been around the block a few times. In order to alleviate my frustration about the shopping venture, I gave Stacy the once-over and declared: "Stacy, is that you? It’s me, Sid. Don’t you remember? I would always askeyou to dance at Sneaky Pete’s (THE local disco at the time) and you always told me to get lost! You haven’t changed a bit. You look great" Evelyn, who is not originally from the Albany area, was in shock. Stacy responded: "Well, I don’t remember you. Besides, I didn’t go to Sneaky Pete’s that often. I usually went to the Rafter’s." I did not relent. "Oh yeah! You’re right. It was the Rafter’s. And, by the way, I don’t hold any grudges." Of course, I never saw Stacy before in my life. If I did, I certainly didn’t remember her. To Stacy’s credit, probably because she is usually bored checking people out of the supermarket, she played right along. "Those were great times. I loved the disco scene." Stacy and I hit it off great. We waxed nostalgic about all the Albany area clubs in the heyday of the disco era. Evelyn didn’t know what to think. She stood there totally confounded as she packed groceries in plastic bags. I was not going to help her. I was busy flirting with Stacy. Stacy and I got along so well that it sure did seem like I had met her years earlier. And Stacy was smiling like a teenager. Almost giddy. My poor date. There she was, trying to show me how well she got along with the cashier, and I was stealing her thunder. As we were leaving, I said one last thing to Stacy. "Hey, if I see you out at a club again, you better not tell me to get lost." Stacy smiled and laughed. She may have even tossed her hair back.

I barely managed to fit all the groceries in the trunk of my car. To make matters worse, freezing rain made the parking lot slippery. What a night!

Evelyn directed me to her condo. She was "hoping" that her son would be home to help bring in the groceries and the firewood. No such luck. I brought the groceries and firewood into Evelyn’s home. Nice place. And yes, her son’s clothes, etc were strewn all over the place. Evelyn was kidding. The kid is a big slob. Okay, but his father was a convicted pedophile and rapist. Give the kid a break.

Evelyn wanted me to stay for coffee. I politely declined her offer. She probably would have started a fire too if I had stayed. At least I had the inclement weather as an excuse. With that, I said goodnight and rode off into the east to the comfort of Pinto and Hobbs, for a night of karaoke.

A Karaoke Tale

Tales of Karaoke

Dateline: Wednesday night at Bomber’s

I told this tall tale before I sang my song. I didn’t have to change anyone’s name because it is entirely fictional. Here goes.

So, I invited this woman to my house for dinner, because women seem to love to watch a man cook for them. Many find it to be a highly erotic experience. I like to cook Asian style. Maybe you read my blog post about my wok. Anyway, we sat down to the stir-fry I had made and enjoyed a good meal.

Sure enough, the cooking magic worked and we found ourselves in my comfortable bed. My dinner guest wasn’t moving, but at first, I just thought that she must be like my ex-wife, who also did not move much in bed.

(Side note to ex-wife in case she is reading this. The "not moving" joke is just a joke I stole from an old Woody Allen routine.)

Well, as it turned out, there was a reason she wasn’t moving. She was dead! Of course, I called 911, but it was too late. I also had to call my date’s parents. The family should always be notified and I thought it was my responsibility to call, especially since their daughter and sister died at my house. The call went like this.

Me: Hello, Mr. Calvano?
Mr. C: Yes, this is he.
Me: Hi, you don’t know me. My name is Sid Stein. Your daughter, Denise, came to my house for dinner. She died.
Mr. C: You didn’t give her peanuts, did you?
Me: I am pretty sure there were peanuts in the Thai marinade I used in my stir-fry.
Mr. C: She’s allergic to peanuts!
Me: Oh my G-d. She never said anything. Maybe she thought I was making a teriyaki dish.
Mr. C: Where is she now?
Me: They took her to the morgue.
Mr. C: Stein did you say? Are you Jewish? I told Denise not to trust the Jews.
Me: Hey, no need for that. I was just making her dinner. Geez!
Mr. C: Just so you know, Mr. Stein. There will be a complete investigation.
Me: Whatever!

With that, Mr. Calvano hung up on me with a bang, kind of the same way his daughter departed the world. I guess I won’t be making anymore Thai food. Not without a signed waiver anyway.

Then I sang my song. "Sex and Candy" by Marcy Playground. I nailed it.

Random Thoughts - Identity Crisis

In case you didn't already know, Sid Stein is just my pen name. I adopted it before I went on the radio the first time to discuss my as yet unpublished book, "A Little on the Side." I wanted to give my children plausible deniability. I didn't want them to have to deal with a father who wrote a book about how to get away with cheating. Anyway, it's not bad having two identities. There are even people who know me only as Sid Stein. The other day, however, I woke up, looked into the mirror and wasn't happy with what I saw. In my real life, I have all sorts of problems. Bills to pay, an ex-wife to deal with, crazy women. The list goes on and on. On the other hand, I love being Sid Stein. Only one problem. Sid Stein is a fictional character.

Sid Stein's Random Thoughts

Last Wednesday night, after a bit of salsa dancing, I headed up to Bomber's on Lark Street to debut a new karaoke song. The Lark Street area is similar to New York's Greenwich Village, just a lot smaller. Even though most of the crowd is 20 years my junior, or more, I still like to go there because my friend is the dj. And, I am friendly with the owners. I also like to sing. Let's be real. As one of the oldest people there, I try to sing appropriate songs. A few times, I sang "Young Girl" by Gary Puckett. Last Wednesday, however, I wanted to sing "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon" by Neil Diamond. I like the cover by Urge Overkill, which, if you recall, appears on the soundtrack to Pulp Fiction. Are you sensing a theme here?

Anyway, Bomber's occupies a second floor space and has a large window which overlooks Lark Street. The small stage is adjacent to the window. As I looked out over Lark Street, I saw the Planned Parenthood building across the street. I wondered how many of the young girls in the bar, who would soon be women, had been there before. Then I wondered why they don't call it Unplanned Parenthood. Isn't that what it really is?

A Sid Stein Flashback - Ave Maria

Although I generally want to blog events in the post-divorce life of Sid Stein, I thought it might be interesting for my readers to hear some anecdotal tales from my past which helped shape the mind of Sid Stein. I will present them on occasion as Sid Stein Flashbacks. Here’s one from the early days.

I was all of 19 at the time, so we are talking about the summer of 1977. Summers are a lot of fun in Albany. There is always plenty to do. Concerts, clubs, swimming, partying. And since the drinking age was still 18, there was never a problem getting into a bar. I was legal! This story starts in a neighborhood bar which, although it has changed hands and names many times over the years, still exists and still does a robust business. That said, it’ll never relive its late 1970’s halcyon days when I was a young force with which to be reckoned.

I had returned from Tel Aviv University mid-semester. Wait until you read those stories! It was April. Apparently, the administration there expected their students to attend class if they were to stay in the dormitories. Since my normal bedtime was sunrise, I didn’t make it to many classes that first semester. Most of the courses offered for the overseas students were "Intro to This" and Intro to That," so they didn’t hold much interest for me. I do remember I always tried to make it to my "Romantic Poetry" class, which was part of the regular university. Anyway, at the end of the first semester, I was asked to leave to make way for "serious" students. At least I learned the language. I hung on for another two months in Israel living a gypsy lifestyle, before I finally returned home to the good ol’ U.S. of A. where I planned to return to school in the fall.

I remember it was a nice summer evening. My friend Jeff and I decided to go to the Little Horn, that neighborhood bar I mentioned. The Little Horn did a great business back then. Flattened brass instruments adorned the walls. If memory serves, they had an Asteroids machine. I used to love that game. As we walked in, we noticed an old acquaintance from Hebrew School, Ivy, sitting at a booth. Although we didn’t like Ivy that much, she was sitting with a very pretty girl neither of us had seen before. So, as any red-blooded Americans would do, we overcame our distaste for Ivy and asked to join them. They consented.

Ivy’s friend was named Marie. She was a lovely girl with raven hair, blue eyes and a very nice figure. Her looks certainly made up for the fact that she wasn’t that bright and not very Jewish. She was Catholic of Italian and Polish ancestry. Although my parents always stressed their wish that I date only Jewish girls, hot is hot. I didn’t have to marry her.

As the conversation progressed, Marie started to play footsies with me. I took that as a positive sign. I enjoyed the fact that Marie was secretly flirting with me. I was also happy that I knew Ivy from Hebrew School. You never know when girls you never liked can help you out. I am sure there is a lesson in there somewhere, but that’s not what this story is about. When it was time to go, I offered to walk Marie home. It wasn’t that I was concerned about drinking and driving. It was a neighborhood bar, remember? She agreed and off we went.

I can’t recollect what Marie and I talked about on the way to her house. I was too busy checking her out. Most likely, I did most of the talking. I usually do. I have a deep, well modulated, resonant tone. I like to hear the sound of my own voice.

I would not be surprised if I kissed Marie goodnight. I think I probably did. After all, I do remember asking her out on a date. I might not have without some positive sexual feedback.

I took Marie out and discovered, to my dismay, that she was still a virgin. Even though I was still 19, I had a policy against sleeping with virgins. I realize that is pretty bold for a 19 year old, but I was cute and did not doubt my ability to get laid. Why the policy? Well, who needs the headache of some girl falling in love with you? I realize it might sound harsh, but by the same token, it wouldn’t be fair to the girl if I slept with her. Virgins almost always fall in love with the guy who deflowers them. I am sure you will agree that the first time should be special, and, if you can’t or are unwilling to deliver what you know the girl needs, you shouldn’t sleep with her. Marie had other ideas. She wanted me to be her first. It was quite a battle between my brain and my hormones. On the one hand, she was quite adorable, even sexy. On the other hand, I knew it wouldn’t be fair to her. We went out a few times as I wrestled with this problem. Finally, and in the gentlest terms possible, I explained my policy to her. To her credit, Marie took the news well. She was disappointed, of course, but so was I.

Life went on. The summer passed and I started school again in the Fall. I was commuting from my parents’ home as I didn’t want to stay in the dorms. Either that or my parents were so disgusted with the fact that I didn’t attend classes at Tel Aviv University, that they refused to take another chance on me until I straightened out. Either way, I had a great setup in the basement of the house, complete with a separate entrance and full bath. And a waterbed! Oh yeah, privacy and freedom to do what I wanted.

About six months passed from the time I last saw Marie when the phone rang. She had some news. She was no longer a virgin and wanted to see me. I was delighted and invited her over.

I wish I could tell you that we just had a couple of beers and great sex, but no. The story is almost too bizarre to believe.

Although no longer a virgin, Marie was still virginal. Based on the way she responded to my kisses and caresses, I could tell that she was not very experienced. She was, however, willing.

Things were getting hot and heavy. We were closing in on the moment of truth. Marie then said the strangest thing I had heard in the two and a half years since I had been having sex. She gave me a choice. She said I could take her shirt off or her pants off, but not both. Huh? It sounded a little like a trick question, but Marie wasn’t that quick-witted, and as for me, it was an easy choice. As much as I felt like laughing, I didn’t want to embarrass her. I wanted to get laid! Seriously, though, it was an easy choice for me.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how to approach this "dilemma" without Marie thinking I was not being thoughtful. I wanted her to think that I actually gave her offer some due consideration. I just didn’t know how. Suddenly, it hit me. I reached into my pocket and took out a quarter. I told her I would flip the coin in the air. Heads, off came her shirt. Tails, her pants. I deftly flicked the quarter high into the air as both our sets of eyes anxiously followed its trajectory. It landed square in my right palm. With a resounding smack, I flipped it over onto the back side of my other hand. I hesitated momentarily before revealing the outcome. I held my breath. Gee, I enjoy creating suspense! I kid you not, dear readers. I uncovered the coin! TAILS! I tried to appear somewhat disappointed as if I really wanted a different result. "Oh well," I remarked. "I guess I’ll have to take your pants off." And off they came.

Before long, I coaxed off the rest of Marie’s clothes and we were both naked. I won’t go into the actual details of our lovemaking - it’s not that kind of blog. I will tell you this, however. In the middle of sex, as I energetically pumped away, Marie started to cry. Tears were streaming down her face. And then, while I was still reeling from this lachrymose display, Marie stunned me like I had never been stunned before. She cried out to the Pope, "Please forgive me!"

The Pope? My mind was racing as I continued inside her. Hey, I was still just 19. Was she upset because she was having sex with a Jew? Was she still a virgin? I hadn’t noticed any blood. Do they always bleed the first time? What the hell did I know? More importantly, what the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t just pretend like nothing was happening. I had to do something. I had to finish, at least!

If I said a bright light and voices of angels filled my bedroom, I would be lying. Nevertheless, I felt the same kind of wonderment and awe when I suddenly knew what to do. Summoning up the most primal forces from deep inside my soul, I gave Marie four final thrusts as I called out in time with each one - "IN NOMINI PATRI, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI - AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN! And with that extended climax, I collapsed upon my gentle and sweet, sobbing Marie.

(For those of you unfamiliar with Latin, the translation is thus: In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I trust you know what Amen is.)

You may be wondering how a nice Jewish boy knew Latin at all. Hey, I live in a very Catholic town. What can I say?

Marie never explained to me why she started to cry. And, if truth be told, I didn’t really want an explanation. It was freaky enough without one. I saw her only once after that. By chance. She was out for a walk and happened by my house while I was standing in the driveway. We spoke for a few minutes, inquired about each other and off she went. Oh Marie, Marie! Ave Maria!