A Word about Taxicabs in Albany

In one of my previous posts, I touched upon the taxicab situation in Albany. It's really more of an inconvenience than a major problem. Except for the downtown entertainment district, it's not always easy to get a cab at night, especially during the week. We have four cab companies and a few gypsy cabs which mostly work weekend nights when there is money to be made. I rarely see Capitaland taxis in the city. Apparently, they prefer not to deal with drunken college kids and urban dwellers. Blatant racism, but I can only do what I can to change society. Keep dreaming, Martin! No one seems to like to call a Yellow cab. They have a reputation of ripping people off. In Albany, we have a zone system instead of meters. Unscrupulous cab drivers will tell you that they crossed into another zone and will charge extra. By the time you find the map and figure out whether or not they are telling the truth, it's not worth the extra buck. Still, that's the perception. Yellow cabs, therefore, are a cab of last resort. That leaves two cab companies which are popular with bar patrons and bartenders - Duffy's and Buzzy's. Their cabs aren't as nice as Capitaland's, but they are more reliable if you want to get home late at night. Plus, you don't feel like they are trying to rip you off like Yellow. Unfortunately, there are problems with both. Despite the lucky shamrock adorning the green Duffy cabs, they are obviously an Irish company. The Irish are renown for their drinking. What does that say about the drivers? Are they all Irish drinkers? How many pints and shots do they have before they get behind the wheel? Not only that, but there is an Irish pub in Albany called Duffy's, and many times, even though I give the driver my address, I get dropped off at Duffy's anyway. When I try to explain that I only ordered a Duffy's cab, not that I wanted to go to Duffy's, the response is always the same. "Hey, I take you where my dispatcher tells me to go." At least Duffy's is a friendly bar with a pretty bartender. That leaves Buzzy's. As far as I am concerned, anyone who gets into a cab named Buzzy has got to be crazy. As a lawyer, I know what they would call that in court. Assumption of the risk. http://www.thecityofalbany.us/taxi/index.html

The Paradox of the Wedding Ring

Did you ever wonder why wives want their husbands to wear wedding rings? In reality, it works against their marital interests. As many married men already know, wedding rings are chick magnets. I never really understood the basis of this phenomenon until I stopped wearing mine. You would think that wives would know this because at one time they were chicks. It’s almost like they forget everything they know once they walk down the aisle. I still can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

When I married, my ex-wife and I exchanged wedding rings, among other things. Bodily fluids may have been involved. I weighed in at about 155 pounds when I made the plunge. Over time, and I blame her good cooking for this, I gained weight. Too much weight. I simply couldn’t resist the food. And, she seemed genuinely pleased that I enjoyed her cooking. Well, as good as the food was, that token of eternal love was strangling my finger. So, out of respect and love, and a deep, abiding sense of what is right, I had the ring resized. Besides, I had a cousin in the jewelry business.

Life is not static, and at some point in my marriage, I decided to stop wearing my ring. Years later, I can only speculate on why I unceremoniously ended this aspect of commitment. I can’t even remember when it was or the exact circumstances under which I made my decision. Maybe I had an argument with my ex-wife. The ring may have been a little tight. Again. Ordinarily, that is not a significant problem, but I lived in a traditional Jewish household. On Friday night (the start of our Sabbath), we make blessings over wine and bread. It’s that scrumptious braided, challah bread, by the way. Yummy! However, before we partake, we first wash our hands and say a blessing. The point is spiritual purification rather than mere fear of germs. That’s my mother’s phobia. When we wash, we are not supposed to be wearing any rings. According to Jewish Law, metal absorbs spiritual impurity. Viewed sarcastically, we are contaminated by our wedding rings, and by extension, marriage. Whatever the reasons, taking my ring off each time became a hassle. I put on some more weight, okay? In any case, it’s off now. Permanently, now that I got divorced. In further support of my decision not to wear the ring, I relied in part on some old adages - like father, like son and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, etc. etc. My father never wore a ring. According to my mother, because my father never confirmed this, he has an allergic reaction to his ring.

One more thing you need to know about me before I get to the heart of this ring controversy. I like to go out. Out and about that is. To bars. I like the atmosphere, even if it’s no longer smoky here in New York. And, I don’t even smoke! I enjoy listening to live music in clubs. Most of all, I love talking to people. After a few drinks, people open up and reveal amazing things. Sometimes, I hear a story that is worthy of being included in a book.

Let me backtrack. When I first got married, I didn’t go out by myself. I stayed home like a dutiful husband. If I went out at all, it was only with my wife. That changed one Thursday night. Not quite revelatory, but close. My ex-wife, if you recall, is a great cook. I mean really fantastic. People often went so far as to ask me to invite them for dinner because they heard about her culinary skills. As I mentioned, we had big Friday night Sabbath meals. Since Judaism dictates that we are not allowed to cook on the Sabbath, all foods have to be prepared before sunset. So, in order to put on a dinner of grand proportions and portions, my ex-wife started her cooking on Thursday night. Normally, I would come home from work, eat dinner and plunk myself in front of the television. My ex-wife would be in the kitchen all evening. Over time, however, I came to hate the nerve-grating, loud whir of the mixmaster. Something in me snapped. I lost all ability to tolerate it. Like mosquitoes at dusk, it annoyed me to no end. Why, you ask? After all, I did enjoy the end result. Well, I just couldn’t stand to hear the process anymore. For starters, it interfered with whatever I was doing. It was a sound which I could not escape in my then modest dwelling. It also was a stark reminder that I was basically alone for the night while my ex-wife toiled in the kitchen. Toiled or reveled, I am not sure which. Alternatively, I could have helped cook, but if you tasted her food, you would understand. My contributions, if any, would have been minor and may have even detracted. In essence, the mixmaster became of symbol of alienation. I wanted the company of my ex-wife, but it was denied to me.

I know, big deal. It was only one night out of seven. Well, for whatever reason I had, it became a big deal to me. That’s how metaphors and symbols work. So, I came up with my own solution. I started hanging out on Thursday nights after work. There were a couple of nice bars near the office which attracted a professional crowd. As a new lawyer, I convinced myself that it was important to go out and meet new people - maybe drum up some business while having a few drinks. At home, the mixmaster could whir away to my wife’s ex-heart’s content. And so, the concept of "Thursday nights out" was born.

Let’s make this clear. Crystal clear. My purpose in going out on Thursday nights had nothing to do with picking up women. In a way, just the opposite. I was getting away from one (and her noise). Notwithstanding, women do go out. Unless you are hanging out at a gay bar (and even there you can run into women), then you will have some kind of contact with the opposite sex. If you are not a total asshole or an uncompromising dork, you will be talking to women at some point. Why wouldn’t you? She could be a bartender, or a friend of a friend. She might be someone you know from work. She might just happen to be the person you sat down next to at the bar because it was the only seat left (especially if she was pretty).

Even though you may resist believing me, I really wasn’t going out with any agenda except to relax. To escape. I always wore my wedding ring. I expected it to act like a magic shield to keep women at bay. It often worked, especially with younger women. I am not sure if it was their tender age or the fact that they weren’t married. They simply weren’t interested in me. I think they were looking for husbands, or at least long-term relationships, more than they were seeking married lovers.

I said it often worked. I admit it. As much as I thought I understood women, I was baffled by the reaction of some to my wedding ring. It really did seem to attract them. If not attract, then at least it didn’t discourage them from initiating a conversation. Oh, I bet you thought I was going to admit that I actually had an affair with one of them. Ha! I am talking about the psyches of women, not sex. And wedding rings, of course.

Let me break this down for you, just in case you never get out of the house. It works like this. You have a favorite bar that you go to after work. Over time, you get to know the bartenders, they get to know what you like. You get to know the regulars. When you walk in, people say hello, how’s it going, Sid? You sit down and have a drink. You chat with the regulars and the bartender. You talk a little sports. You might even comment on the blonde and her friend who just walked in. What happens when your single buddy decides to buy them a drink? Sometimes, they come over and say thank you. Sometimes they even stay to chat. For the sake of this essay, let’s say one happens to sit down next to you. Innocent enough - so far.

Before I discuss what happens next, let me just say this. It’s common for women to complain that men stare and are too obvious. I agree. We do have that bad habit of ogling and gawking. For the most part, women can look at anything they want without being noticed. They are extremely discreet when checking out a man’s ass. In one area, however, women are deficient. I always knew when they were looking at my wedding ring. Even if I didn’t notice right away, they would give themselves away with their first question. "Oh, you’re married?" When it happens, you expect them to get up and leave. But no. They stay. They talk. They flirt.

Don’t forget. I was happily married when I first decided to go out. It’s not that I didn’t like the flirting. It was flattering. It was even fun. Especially if the woman was attractive. And it passed the time until the mixmaster would be put away for one more week.

Maybe this would be a good time to discuss the dilemma a married man might face. The dilemma I faced on some Thursday nights out. Should I cheat or not? Getting a little on the side was not my purpose in going out. I just wanted to have a few drinks and some laughs. I loved my wife. I just hated her mixmaster.

To be honest, some of the women were quite tempting. They never actually solicited me directly. No one ever came out and said - "Sid, take me." Still, it was obvious that all I needed to do was ask.

I will let you in on a dirty little secret. Years ago, the bar I frequented the most after work was T.G.I.Friday’s. I know. It's a bit lame, but it was the most popular place in my office park. On a positive note, there is one very good thing about going to T.G.I.Friday’s when you are married, especially if you want to remain faithful. It’s a fishbowl. A cold shower. Everyone passes through there at some point, at least in my city. Talk about paranoia. You never knew who was watching. You might as well have had your wife looking over your shoulder. Spies, everywhere!

Even in this threatening atmosphere, women would still flirt. Either they were too naive to appreciate the fundamental difficulties of courting at T.G.I.Friday’s or they simply didn’t care. Maybe they were even trying to cause marital problems between unsuspecting husbands and their wives. You could never be sure. Or too careful.

What have I established so far? You can be a married man, wear you wedding ring, and pick up chicks at Friday’s. Oh yeah. And people will rat you out to your wife.

If this is what happens when you wear your wedding ring, then it must be worse when you aren’t. Right? Wrong! Why? Who the hell knows for sure? However, I can speculate for you.

It goes like this and it pisses me off even while I sit here thinking about it for you. If you are wearing your ring, you are putting the world on notice that you are married. You are not trying to hide anything.

Now, consider what used to happen to me after I stopped wearing my ring. I would start a conversation with a woman at the bar, or vice versa. During the preliminaries, the "where are you from, what do you do" phase, I would mention that I was married. Right up front in the very first minute of the conversation. Pretty damn honest if you ask me. So, what is always the first question that pops out of their lip-sticked mouths? "So, why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring?" I am thinking, who cares? I was honest about my marriage. I just told you for crying out loud.

It never matters. Sometimes it even spells the end of the conversation. But why? It makes no sense. Think about it. If I am wearing a ring, then she knows I am married without asking me, but she might sleep with me anyway. In other words, she is ready to commit adultery. On the other hand, if I don’t have the ring on, she won’t sleep with me even though I was completely honest about my marital status from the very first minute of our conversation. Talk about a paradox.

Adding insult to injury, it doesn’t even matter if the woman totally agrees with me after I point out the folly of her logic. She gets even more upset with me. Yikes!

To complicate matters even more, there is yet another level to this lunacy because not all women are alike. If you wear your wedding ring at the bar, you risk being subjected to sneers and looks of disgust just for being there. The mere fact that you would even consider going to a bar without your wife is grounds for scorn. Yes, there are women who don’t want to date married men. Imagine that.

On the other hand, if you aren’t wearing your ring, those same women will smile approvingly. Maybe one will even want you to initiate a conversation or buy a drink. Until they discover you are married, that is. So, if you are married and want to pick up chicks, wear your chick magnet.
I have only one explanation for this behavior. More than anything else, women do not like being deceived, not at any point, and not even if you admit to being married. The mere fact that you walked into a bar without your wedding ring is a form of deception, no matter how soon you might correct the misperception. Apparently, whether they are the kind of woman who will sleep with a married man, or the kind who won't, women simply can't abide a man who has any potential for being deceptive. In other words, the ones who will sleep with a married man want to know of the marriage without having to ask or without being advised of the nuptials. The ones who won't sleep with a married man just think you are a shmuck. And in the end, maybe they are right.

Sid Stein vs. the State Police

Although I am not exactly proud of the circumstances which led to my confrontation with the New York State Police (the actual confrontation was quite exhilarating), and just as I am not proud of what occurred after, neither will I shy away from sharing this incident. Just be prepared. Have some mercy. Even Sid Stein is susceptible to making mistakes. I had just gone through a divorce, don’t forget. The irony of my present journalistic integrity will soon become apparent to you. The truth of the matter is that a lapse of my personal integrity, impaired as it was by personal frustration and alcohol, fueled this melodrama. I was prepared to apologize to the aggrieved party, but she refused to believe that it actually occurred. Oh well. One other thing. If you were hoping for another humorous tale, this is not it.

Even though I have handled many divorce cases, I was not immune to certain behaviors common to men who suddenly find themselves living alone after many years of marriage. As is typical in most scenarios, the mother retains primary physical custody of the children. My case was no different, especially since my ex remained in the marital residence and our only child still at home was our high school daughter, who naturally wanted to stay with her mother most of the time. They have female issues to share, after all.

One such behavior engaged in by men is diving head first into the dating pool. And why shouldn’t we? We suddenly find ourselves living alone. Why not meet some new women?

Soon after I found myself out on my own, I started dating. I like company.

Anyway, I met a nice woman and started seeing her on a regular basis. She was pretty and smart. We got along very well, with a few caveats. One stumbling block was her political orientation. She worked for Republicans. Not just any Republican. She worked for the governor of New York, George Pataki. Ugh! Even though I may be sexually bipartisan, her party affiliation did rankle me at times. Most times, however, her long legs helped me forget that she voted for George Bush.

I mentioned that there were a few caveats. Another was that she was very kind-hearted. Normally, this would not be an impediment in a relationship. This woman, however, was so nice that she always felt compelled to help those less socially fortunate than she was. That included her supervisor, Louise. In other words, if something was going on around town, like an outdoor concert, my friend, Elizabeth, would drag Louise along. Louise made atrocious company. She was socially inept and physically unkempt. She laughed at her own jokes but really did not have a sense of humor. In a word, the woman was bizarre. As far as I knew, she was still a virgin at age 45. Although I fear sounding like a complete snob ( I really am not), Louise once asked a bartender at one of Albany’s most upscale restaurants if he had a chilled cabernet. More likely, she just asked for chilled red wine. As magnanimous as I tried to be, as accommodating to Louise’s plight that I was, there were times I wished I had Elizabeth to myself. Like 99% of the time and especially this particular time. Why did I need to be embarrassed by Louise at my hangout? I didn’t want to feel regret for inviting Elizabeth out. I still remember the look the bartender gave me. He was very gracious and suggested an ice cube, but I could tell what he was really thinking. "What the hell is wrong with this woman? Doesn’t she know how to drink red wine?"

Elizabeth was a busy person. She worked long hours for the Republican governor. As a result, I didn’t see her as often as I would like. Adding Louise into the mix only served to increase my mounting frustration. When I asked her why she always had to drag Louise around, she would explain that even as a child, she always took in strays. Did she have to perform her humanitarian functions on my time?

There was one other minor problem. Even though we generally planned to be together on Thursdays, Elizabeth sometimes canceled because something had come up. And what was that usually? If it had to do with her kids or something like that, it wouldn’t have bothered me. Instead, it involved my other pet peeve with her. No matter what impact it may have had on our relationship, Elizabeth always seemed to have time for the many Republican fundraisers which take place here in the capital of New York. I thought she should be spending time with me instead of raising dollars for corrupt public officials. Call me selfish.

As much as I enjoyed her company, my relationship with Elizabeth began to sour. I don’t mean to say anything bad about her. I attribute our problems more to circumstances than anything else. She needed her job more than she needed me. I understood that. She was estranged from a husband who didn’t pay child support. She lived in fear of being fired if she didn’t tow the party line or attend their functions. Still, I was unhappy with the situation.

It was a Thursday night. Elizabeth called earlier in the day to tell me that she had to go to some mandatory party function. She wouldn’t be able to see me. I wasn’t happy. I started to seriously reevaluate my relationship with her. Maybe the disappointment wasn’t worth it. So I did what I usually do on Thursday nights. I went to Pinto and Hobbs to sing karaoke.

To be perfectly honest, I did more than sing and hang out with my karaoke friends that night. I drank. Ketel One on the rocks with a slice of lemon. I had more than a few. After all, I was feeling a little put out, so to speak. By midnight, I was feeling no pain.

If I was writing a novel, then I would have written that Elizabeth and her large entourage rolled into Pinto and Hobbs right at the stroke of midnight. In reality, it was about five minutes after.

Elizabeth swept in and brushed right by me. She was followed by Louise, two black men and few female co-workers. I felt as if my sanctuary had been violated. Pinto and Hobbs was not a place frequented by Elizabeth. She came there solely because she knew I would be there. I was at a loss to understand Elizabeth’s motivation for bringing her crew to the P & H. Did she want to show off the fact that she was accompanied not just by Louise, but by two tall, good-looking black men? So a couple of black men followed some older white women to a bar after a party. What else is new? I knew it had something to do with the displeasure I expressed about Louise tagging along everywhere and my disappointment over the fact that we didn’t spend much time alone. Thinking back, I may have put my feelings in the form of an ultimatum, as in: "Liz, you have to make a choice. Me or Louise." In other words, I could interpret her decision to descend upon my sweet bar as nothing less than rubbing salt into my perceived wounds. I shot her a dirty look without even saying hello. She just tossed her head back defiantly.

As I assessed the situation, because it was a situation as far as I was concerned, I continued sipping my vodka. I wasn’t sure how to react to this post midnight development. As it turned out, I didn’t have to do much. Elizabeth walked over to say hello. After exchanging uneasy pleasantries, Elizabeth told me that she had been to some party. Governor Pataki had been there as well. She said something about knowing that I would be at Pinto & Hobbs, but I already knew that. I can be predictable. If I am not at home on a Thursday after midnight, chances are I am at the P & H. And the two black men? State Police. They were assigned to the Governor as his body guards. One doubled as a helicopter pilot. I didn’t have much to say because I was somewhat nauseated by this police presence at a place I go to in order to escape from the daily grind. By the way, there is a coffee shop called the Daily Grind on Lark Street. They have a cute bumper sticker: "Friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks." Perceiving that I had nothing to say, Elizabeth went back to her friends.

So far, I have omitted one important detail about Elizabeth’s posse. It included a very pretty, busty blonde named Katie. I would place her in the Marilyn Monroe genre. I am not saying she was that beautiful. She was attractive, but Marilyn Monroe was Marilyn Monroe. Rather, she was a slightly ditzy and very curvy, not quite platinum blonde. She was employed as a secretary in Elizabeth’s office.

Katie is a staunch Republican and was blindly supportive of her boss, the Governor. I found out just how loyal she was to him during the summer of 2006 at an outdoor concert when I made a disparaging remark about how the Governor talks out of the side of this mouth. Although that is usually a metaphor, especially for a politician, Pataki actually talks that way. You should see him. It really looks weird. After the concert, I was admonished by Elizabeth for insulting the Governor. She told me that I had upset Katie. She also volunteered that Katie said I was an asshole. Oh well. She wasn’t really my type anyway.

That almost sounds like sour grapes. "She wasn’t really my type anyway." Well, things were different this particular Thursday night. Maybe there was a full moon. It might explain my subsequent behavior.

It was my turn to sing. I chose one of the first songs I had ever sung at karaoke. "Walk on the Wild Side" by Lou Reed. I always introduced the song with a nod to Lou Reed as the coolest Jew on the planet. As you might have guessed, I wanted to sing especially well considering the company at the bar. The song went well, but the attitude was dead on.

As I stepped off the stage enjoying the polite applause of the crowd, Katie was standing directly in front of me. She was smiling. She was drunk. She was flirting. I glanced quickly at Elizabeth and flirted back.

To be honest, while I am being honest here, I was caught off-guard by the level of Katie’s show of affection even though it was obvious she was hammered. After all, she did call me an asshole a few months earlier. Could alcohol change a person’s opinion about someone to such a degree? Whether it was the alcohol or a change of attitude, I didn’t let her flirting go to my head. I figured she was just drunk. By the same token, I had been drinking quite a bit myself. Maybe it went to my head just a little bit.

Anyone who knows me well, knows this about me. I am not one to pick up women at bars. That has never been my style. I was prepared, however, to make an exception in this case because I had been introduced to Katie outside the bar.

You may be thinking, what about Elizabeth? She was watching, of course. Intently. I caught her sneering at me. And to continue this stream of honesty pouring out of me, I admit that my primary motivation for flirting with Katie was not sexual. I just wanted to piss off Elizabeth. Shameful, I know. Taking advantage of a human being for a nefarious purpose. I proposed to Katie that we leave. She agreed. Boy, that was easy. Maybe I should rethink my policy about picking up women at bars.

With Katie in tow, I turned toward the door. I didn’t bother looking back at Elizabeth. We emerged into the cool, dark night. We were followed.

No, it wasn’t Elizabeth coming out to yell at me. In her place, she sent a representative. The Governor’s bodyguard. Oh no, I thought. I’m in trouble.



All kinds of thoughts raced through my mind. I was preparing to cower, but before my face even had time to turn pale, the bodyguard grabbed Katie’s arm and started talking to her, not me. He tried to convince her to go back into the bar. He didn’t want her to leave with me. Suddenly, I became indignant. What was wrong with leaving with Sid Stein? I can barely believe what happened next. I really don’t know what came over me. I walked up and faced the trooper. I stared him right in the eye and said: "Don’t interfere!" I used my best command voice. I immediately noticed something in his eyes and came to a startling realization. He can’t touch me! He works for the Governor. The Governor doesn’t want any bad publicity. How would that look in the paper? "Governor’s bodyguard beats the crap out of local Jewish lawyer." I became emboldened. I repeated my command: "Don’t interfere!" The trooper didn’t know what to say to me. I think he was in as much shock as I was. He continued trying to convince Katie not to leave with me, but I was too determined and she was too drunk. With one more "Don’t interfere," Katie and I were gone.

I don’t see any need to revisit the details of what happened next. I will, however, mention a few things. About three hours after Katie and I left Pinto & Hobbs, her cellphone started ringing. Apparently, someone missed her. Who? No one except her fiance. Well, my dear readers, you will have to believe me that I really didn’t know she was engaged. I can’t say at this moment if it would have mattered to me then, but I really didn’t know at the time. The frequent phone calls were a source of consternation for Katie. I could only shake my head. But wait! As the sun came up, Katie asked me to drive her to her car. One problem though. All she knew was that it was downtown somewhere. It would not be an exaggeration to say that we drove around for almost an hour looking for her car. We eventually found it and so ended my night with Katie.

My phone rang the next day. It was Elizabeth. Katie didn’t show up for work. Everyone was worried. I assured Elizabeth that Katie was fine, but no, I didn’t have any idea why she wasn’t answering her phone. Elizabeth shared something else with me. Katie’s co-workers and fiance weren’t the only ones who were worried about her. Her mother-in-law to be was also concerned. In fact, unbeknownst to me, Katie’s future in-law, the mother of her irate fiance, was at the P & H as a member of Elizabeth’s party. I was stunned. Katie was out with her future mother-in-law and still left with me. That’s incredible. Even for Sid Stein.

I don’t know if Katie ever got married. For her sake, I hope not. I don’t think she was ready. As for Elizabeth, our relationship tailed off. She never believed that I had sex that night. She thought it would be impossible for Katie to ever sleep with me. Katie hated me too much. After all, I am the guy who wrote the book about cheating. And I mocked the Governor. And who knows? Maybe I didn’t.