Having My Baby

Well, it finally happened. After weeks of trying, Samantha, the cute, short, pudgy young lesbian adorned with a Chinese "lucky cat" tattoo on the right side of her torso, is finally "having my baby." No, she’s not pregnant. I didn’t sleep with her. She’s a lesbian. We did something even better. We sang a duet at Bomber’s on Wednesday night. "Having My Baby" by Paul Anka. It was a thing of extraordinary beauty and mirth.

I know. Most people familiar with the song simply groan when they remember the lyrics. In our modern society of legalized abortion protected constitutionally by the U.S. Supreme Court’s ruling in Roe v. Wade, "Having My Baby" is anathema. Consider the following:

[Paul:]
The need inside you
I see it showin'
Whoa, the seed inside ya
Baby, do you feel it growin'
Are you happy you know it
That you're

[Both:]
Havin' my baby

And don’t forget this verse:

[Paul:]
Didn't have to keep it
Wouldn't put ya through it
You could have swept it from you life
But you wouldn't do it
No, you wouldn't do it

[Both:]
And you're havin' my baby

You may be wondering why I was so anxious for Samantha to "have my baby." The answer is quite simple. As some of you are already aware if you have been reading my blog, the stage at Bomber’s, located on the second floor of the building, overlooks Lark Street in Albany. There is a big window behind the singers. Really, it’s the entire wall. That’s a big window! And what is across the street from Bomber’s? Planned Parenthood! America’s original eugenics laboratory. http://www.plannedparenthood.org/get-involved/donate.htm

Samantha readily agreed to sing with me even though she was only somewhat familiar with the song. She’s just 21, after all. I told her that the female part wasn’t that big, that she would nail it as soon as she heard the song and that I would help her in any case.

I waited and waited for our turn. Greg, the deejay, hates the song. He told me so. I knew he would let me sing it though. That’s what friends are for.

Finally, I hear Greg announce - Samantha and Sid. We got up on stage and I was blissful. I had wanted to sing this song for weeks, but Samantha hadn’t been around. Last night, the stars were properly aligned.

We sang to each other as if we were deeply in love. Samantha likes drama as much as I do. That’s why I waited for her before performing the song at Bomber’s in front of a bevy of young, beautiful girls and their boyfriends. It was even funnier that I am so much older than Samantha. 28 years separate us. It was awfully nice of this young lesbian to accommodate me with my parenting aspirations. I was in good voice. I knew I would be. No way was I going to ruin this once in a lifetime opportunity. And as I hoped, Samantha sang her part to perfection. We gazed into each other’s eyes as we sang. It was so beautiful. And as I said before, little Samantha is a bit pudgy. She has somewhat of a belly. So, at the proper moment, as our eyes met, I reached out and touched her belly as I sang:

The need inside you
I see it showin'
Whoa, the seed inside ya
Baby, do you feel it growin'

I felt like I was in heaven. My dreams of parenting realized as I stood singing across the street from Planned Parenthood.

The song ended but I continued. I couldn’t help myself. I was caught up in the beauty of the moment. Of course, what came out of my mouth was typical Sid Stein.

"I really didn’t want her to keep it. I tried to get her across the street to Planned Parenthood but she just wouldn’t go. No doubt I will have Family Court to look forward to. I’m sure she’ll file a petition for child support. What a pain this is going to be! Let this be a lesson to you, kids."

As an aside, I feel I should tell you a little bit about Samantha. You may find it cute. She was at Pinto and Hobbs some time ago, standing near me at the bar. All of a sudden, she screamed with delight as she noticed a plastic Chinese "lucky cat" sitting among the bottles at the bar. A Chinese "lucky cat" is some sort of Buddhist good luck charm. Basically, it’s a gold colored chubby cat molded in a sitting up position. One of its paws is raised and can wave if you give it a little push. You can find them in any Asian store. They are made of cheap plastic. No doubt, they are made in China. Samantha screamed when she saw it because she has the exact same cat tattooed on the side of her torso. She lifted her shirt up high enough for everyone to see. It’s not an elaborate tattoo. It’s just a minimal drawing of the cat. It looks like something a kid might do. On Samantha, it occupied a lot of space on her small body. After she wandered off, a friend and I discussed what her cat might look like in 20 years. We came up with two possibilities. One - a roadmap. Two - varicose veins. What the hell was Samantha thinking? Whatever she was thinking, she is sweet and I am in her debt for helping me with the song.

Sid Stein Considers Hiring a Bodyguard

While I was still writing my book, "A Little on the Side," I made a decision to self-publish after consulting with an English professor I met from the University of Chicago. She explained that more and more people were doing it because the process had become much simpler during the computer age. She felt that the subject matter of my book lent itself well to the idea of self-publishing. Heeding her advice, I attended a seminar about self-publishing. I learned a few key things at the seminar. Publishing houses leave the majority of the publicity work to the author, especially to new authors. Also, by self-publishing, the author retains complete rights to the book which enables him or her to make more money per book. I was sold.

The seminar I attended was actually quite helpful. The materials provided a step by step guide about how to self-publish. I supplemented that information with a book I purchased separately. Self-publishing turned out to be a little harder than I anticipated, but it was an interesting process. For the most part, even though I was learning as I was going, the process went smoothly, except for one thing. The cover. Operating on a shoestring budget, I didn’t have thousands to spend to hire a graphic artist with years of experience in preparing computer-ready art for book covers. So I asked around town and settled on a relatively new graphic arts firm. I had a vision for the book cover. The firm told me it wouldn’t be a problem. They could do it. A couple of weeks later, they emailed a mock up of the cover to me. It didn’t look anything like what I wanted and incorporated copyrighted images stolen from the Internet. Not good, I thought. Idiots!

I had to find someone else. I did fairly quickly. The sister of an accountant who worked for my father was a graphic artist. I met with her at Starbuck’s and gave her an idea of what I wanted. After several attempts over the course of two months, it was clear that this woman had no business being in the graphics art field. She was clueless about what a printer needed. One evening, after I hadn’t heard from her in over a week, I called her from a bar where I was about to see some friends perform. As I was asking about the status of the cover, she gave me the dimensions she used. Totally wrong! Another idiot! After two months, I was back to square one. In the back of my mind, I felt that she didn’t have her heart in the project anyway. I don’t think she liked the subject matter of my book. Not too many young women do.

I was pretty frustrated at this point. I couldn’t do the book cover myself. Indeed, it was the only aspect of the project with which I needed someone else’s help. I explained my sad tale to an acquaintance of mine. He’s a musician who is the sound director for a local theater repertoire company. He said he knew someone who could do the cover. Someone with whom he had worked in the past. He warned me about one thing. The guy was very shy.

And that’s how I met Joe at the Daily Grind on Lark Street. My friend was right. Joe was shy. Still, he seemed to know what he was talking about and quickly said he had a few ideas. He asked me to meet with him a couple of weeks later.

We met at the Daily Grind again. They make a good cup of coffee there. Joe didn’t order any. He’s not a coffee drinker. He suggested it for a meeting because he doesn’t drive and it’s in the neighborhood. By the way, even though I think it’s a good place to get a cup of coffee, I was not very impressed by the coffee beans I bought there for home use. Go and figure.

Joe presented me with four possible covers. I liked them all except for one. WOW! I had a choice. I wasn’t able to choose on the spot, so I told him I would think about which one I liked the best and would get back to him soon. Finally, it seemed like my cover would get done.

I walked out of the Daily Grind happy. It was a sunny day and I had three possible covers to choose from. How to decide? Although there was one design I favored, it was an important decision and I wanted an impartial opinion. As I walked down Lark Street to my car, an impartial opinion presented itself in the form of a funky looking young woman standing outside a used bookstore. She looked very artsy and was adorned in tattoos.

I approached this young woman of about 30, introduced myself and asked her if she wouldn’t mind offering her opinion. She was hardly taken aback by this request from a complete stranger and agreed to look at the covers. She liked the same one I did! Very good, I thought. Affirmation!

It was very fortuitous that I met Karen at all. She was only standing outside at the time because the bookstore she wanted to visit hadn’t opened yet. She was waiting. I wasn’t in a big rush myself, so I stayed to chat with her a while. As it turned out, not only was Karen able to render an impartial opinion, she also was able to give me an educated one. She was an artist. I checked her out a bit. She was cute, but too young for me. Too young for me means that, most likely, she wouldn’t be interested in dating an older man. I later learned how right I was. She liked younger men. We had a very pleasant conversation. She told me that she was in the process of opening a flower shop and invited me to stop by when she did. I thanked her for her help and off I went.

Now that I had a cover, I became consumed with getting my book printed. Joe not only did the cover, but he also formatted the text for the printers. Things went smoothly at this point and my book became a reality soon after.

In the course of my travels through Albany, I noticed that Karen had opened up flower shop. Curious about her shop, and even more curious about Karen, I stopped in. Gone was her funky attire. Nary a tattoo showed. Maybe none at all. Karen looked sweet and sophisticated in her new shop. In her new role as a florist, Karen was transformed. She was conscious of the fact that her street kid friends would not be represented well among her new clientele. With added responsibilities and a business to promote, Karen was suddenly much more mature. I liked the new Karen. She seemed calmer and looked much softer than her street persona.

I discovered that Karen loved to chat. She was even amenable to debating the pros and cons of my book, "A Little on the Side." Not only that, but she offered to sell copies on consignment. A business relationship was forged. And a friendship.

Karen’s shop was on my way downtown, so I would stop in every now and then to chat and check up on my book sales. I also learned a few untidy details about her personal life. Karen liked to discuss them. And discuss them. And discuss them. Her life was in turmoil. Her husband was a brute and she wanted a divorce. Apparently, those truck-driving men lose their appeal at some point. To complicate matters, she was in love with a college student ten years her junior. And if that wasn’t enough, her husband suspected her of having an affair. She was! He was right about that. The only problem was that he suspected she was having an affair with an older man, not a college kid. So what, you ask? Well, for whatever reason, Karen’s husband was convinced that she was having an affair with the same guy who wrote "A Little on the Side - The Married Man’s Ultimate Guide to Cheating or How to Save Your Marriage." He had seen my book displayed at the store and that was enough evidence for him, despite her denials. I told you he was a brutish truck driver, right? To be honest, it’s not like I wouldn’t sleep with her. She is young and cute. But as I said before, she liked younger guys. Karen suggested that I use the name Stuart if her husband ever popped into the store while I was there. Stuart? Where did she come up with that? Hell, if it would save my neck, she could introduce me as Osama bin Laden.

As you might imagine, I didn’t stop into the store without calling in advance. I wanted to make sure that the guy who might know the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa’s body wasn’t going to come around. No way did I want to end up in the swamps of Jersey for a crime I didn’t commit.

Some time passed. Karen’s husband didn’t seem like he would pose any problem. I was Stuart now. Karen and I were clear on that.

It was February and I was planning on having a book signing at Noche, the new hip, swank lounge in downtown Albany. In conjunction with the book signing, I made arrangements to appear on the radio on Valentine’s Day. I thought it would be funny to discuss my book on the Hallmark holiday of love. It was easy to get the radio gig because a friend was one of the show’s hosts. He told me they would cut a promo and run it during the day before my appearance on his show. I was grateful. Publicity is important when you are trying to sell a book.

Everything was set. Monday night, the day before my spot, my friend emailed me. Actually, he forwarded an email to me. Not everyone was happy about the fact that I was to appear on the radio, least of all, Karen’s husband. Although he didn’t sign the email, it was apparent that he sent it. I don’t think it’s necessary to share the expletive laden details of his missive, but I can summarize it for you. Basically, he couldn’t believe that "The Wolf" (the show’s primary host) would have someone like me on his show. He even included that I was f%#&ing his wife. The tone of the email was irate and moralistic. I found the moralistic aspect quite humorous because "The Wolf" is a typical shock jock in the mold of Howard Stern. The angry tone of the letter was a cause of some concern to me and my friend. After all, it’s not hard to find the radio station. That’s public information. I emailed my friend that Sid Stein could not and would not be intimidated. Yeah, right.

The radio show went great. It was very funny and we all had a good time. Callers were up in arms about my book, but that’s what made the show so funny. At the end of the show, "The Wolf" thanked me for coming, even though he thought I was "despicable." Still on the air, the female host suggested that I should consider hiring a bodyguard before going to my car. I joked that I already had one. I didn’t, of course. I don’t even know where you hire them. I live in Albany. Who has bodyguards here except for maybe the Governor, and I had already pissed them off. (see my post entitled "Sid Stein vs. The State Police)

My friend offered to walk me to my car but I declined. However, I clearly remember the moment I had to leave the building. I got to the glass door, looked around as much as I could and spotted my car in the lot. I knew that once I was outside, no one could help me. They were all busy on the radio. If Karen’s husband was out there, I was a goner. Be brave, I told myself. And RUN to your car. I opened the door and made a beeline for my getaway vehicle. No one was outside. I guess the truck driver was out trucking around. Sid Stein was safe for another day.

Sid Stein Takes On The Irish Republican Army

I wasn’t looking for a fight at all. Somehow the fight found me that night at the Bleecker. This sad tale is one from long ago when Sue was still the bartender and before my karaoke dedication to George, who went off to war. He came back. Too bad, really. He can’t sing to save his life. Good thing they gave him a gun in Iraq. Just kidding, George. We love you.

It was quite a lively karaoke crowd that night. The bar was packed and everyone was having a great time. Maybe not everyone, but we had achieved a critical mass of fun. If Sue was a blur behind the bar, and Greg, the deejay, was sweating, you knew things were going well for the karaoke faithful.

I remember that it was a long wait before Greg called me up to sing. That’s the tradeoff when there is a good crowd. Karaoke is always better with a crowd. The downside is that it takes much longer to get your shot at stardom. So, when I finally got my call, I was going to take full advantage of the time I had. As everyone familiar with Thursday night karaoke already knows, I love to ad lib. I have a limited vocal range. To compensate, I try to make people laugh. Most times, I succeed in bringing smiles to the faces of my singing friends. Most times, anyway. I admit there are times when they just roll their eyes. Whether I succeeded or failed at eliciting joy with my ad libs, I never inspired anger until this night.

Finally, it was my turn at the microphone. I decided to sing one of my favorites - the faster Shirelles’ cover of Carole King’s "Will You Love Me Tomorrow." I started well and was hitting my notes. At least I thought I was anyway. Let’s not forget. It’s just karaoke. The purpose is entertainment. Besides, it’s not like I had a monitor so I could hear myself. And the best aspect of it all, no one really cares! I waited for the extended instrumental break to start my ad lib. Usually, I pick a friend in the crowd as the object of my affection and attention. The ad lib is well-known by the crowd and follows the same basic pattern. Greg, the deejay, starts shaking his head in dismay as I launch my tirade about how I don’t give a shit if (fill in name) loves me in the morning. All I really want is for (fill in name) to be out of my bed when I wake up in the morning. Since the Bleecker always has one of the most sexually diverse crowds in Albany, anyone, male, female or other, might be my chosen victim on any given night. It’s all in good fun and no one minds. I am among friends, after all.

A new wrinkle disturbed my performance on this particular night. Right before my ad lib, strange newcomers walked into the Bleecker. I recognized a couple of them from McGeary’s, an Irish pub I formerly frequented. McGeary’s was fun for quite a while, but had grown stale after one of the owners left. Unfortunately for McGeary’s, he was the owner in charge of booking bands and making the place fun. To put it another way, McGeary’s no longer attracted a big crowd. They were down to their Irish core. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Irish. Some of my best friends are Irish. I love the sing-a-longs, the story-telling, but too much of a good Irish thing can drive a Jewish boy nuts. It was members from this cadre of the McGeary’s faithful who walked into the Bleecker this night. I say that they looked strange because they looked so out of place. If the Bleecker is the standard for diversity in Albany, then McGeary’s is at the other end of the spectrum. I was surprised to see them but immediately figured out what drew them to the Bleecker. They were acquaintances of Maureen, a lovely Irish girl with a sweet voice who liked to sing "Crazy" by Patsy Cline. I used to see Maureen at McGeary’s and knew she tended bar at another Irish pub. Apparently, they came to see Maureen sing. It’s always nice to be supported by your friends.

If I had any doubts as to the heritage of this crew, they vanished as soon as I saw Meghan, one of McGeary’s longtime waitresses, still wearing her McGeary’s jersey. Apparently, McGeary’s had already closed for the night. At least Meghan’s shift was over. On the other hand, the fun was just beginning at the Bleecker. As I stood with the microphone in hand, I just couldn’t resist saying hello to this odd group. So I did. "Oh look, everybody, there’s a group here from McGeary’s! They must be Irish and drunk." That was all I said. Nothing more, nothing less. I continued on with the rest of "Will You Love Me Tomorrow" and walked offstage back to my place at the bar.

As I stood at the bar chatting, a man in his sixties approached me. I didn’t recognize him, but it looked like he knew who I was. I only say that because as he neared, he was looking directly into my eyes. Not another gay Irishman? My college professor was one too many, but that’s a story for another time. I wondered what was up with this guy. I am very friendly at the bar. I will talk to anyone. Still, it’s rare to have someone seek you out if you aren’t already acquainted. Besides, this guy didn’t look so friendly.

When you are at a bar, it always makes sense to profile the other patrons. Some people are friendly drunks, others not so much. It’s important to distinguish between them. You can save yourself a lot of trouble. Although this man didn’t look friendly, neither did he appear threatening.

"Excuse me," he offered.
"Yes? What can I do for you?"
"See those people over there? They aren’t happy with what you said about McGeary’s. Don’t ever say anything bad about McGeary’s again. I am just giving you a warning."
"Are you kidding me?" I was stunned. I didn’t remember saying anything bad about Mcgeary’s. "I love McGeary’s," I responded. "I have been there thousands of times. It’s one of my favorite bars. I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Listen, buddy," he continued. "Just don’t say anything else bad about McGeary’s!"
"Don’t threaten me."
"I am not threatening you, just giving you a warning," he said in a little softer manner.

Truly, I was offended. I really did like McGeary’s, even if I hadn’t been there much lately. It’s not my fault that people stopped going there like they used to. (Aside to the owner : Get some better entertainment, Kev, and I might come back!)

I had no idea who this guy was, but as I looked over to the group from McGeary’s, it was apparent that he was just a messenger. I was not in any mood to shoot the messenger. Hell, I don’t even own a gun. As I looked at the others members of the I.R.A., I became incensed. Meghan’s boyfriend was glaring at me and mouthing what I interpreted to be some kind of obscenities. If he was saying them out loud, I couldn’t hear him over the music. I moved toward him and shouted: Stop being such a baby!" What an asshole, I thought. Although my memory isn’t quite clear, I think I repeated myself once or twice. Meghan’s boyfriend only became more inflamed. What the hell is with those Irish guys anyway?

Before I could say "kiss my blarney stone," Meghan’s boyfriend was in my face.

"You have a problem?" He wanted to know.
"You’re my problem, asshole." I offered. "What the hell is wrong with you? Why don’t you go back to your own bar?"

We exchanged a few more pleasantries. Months later, I was informed by a fairly reliable source that I may have made a comment about Meghan which her boyfriend didn’t like. Until this point, I really haven’t painted a full picture of the scene. The bar was very crowded. There was not a lot of room to maneuver (run away). Meghan’s boyfriend was a good head taller than I was at 5’9". Still, I was feeling rather cocky.

"You want to take this outside?" Meghan’s boyfriend proposed.
I really didn’t want to fight the guy. Especially not outside. I probably would have lost. The Irish are known are being good brawlers and this guy was bigger than I.
"You know what?" I responded. "This is bullshit. I am just going to call the cops."
And out came my cellphone. I flipped it open and dialed 9-1-1. Before I hit send (which I am not sure I really would have done), Meghan’s boyfriend ripped the phone from my hand. I remember thinking that this confrontation was going downhill.

My "admirer" repeated his offer to take "it" outside. I was feeling cornered and started to really worry. Dear readers, right is stronger than might. Just then, in my darkest moment, my friend, Jeff, walked in. Jeff is the tallest person I know personally in Albany. He’s a mountain. The size of a grizzly bear. And, he loves me! Whenever he came into the Bleecker, he would always give me a big hug. Tonight was no different.

"Hey, Sid, how are you?" He bellowed.
"Jeff! Great to see you!" Boy, was I ever relieved.

Jeff gave me a big hug. Meghan’s boyfriend backed off immediately. Apparently, the cavalry was too much for him. I even got my cellphone back.

With Jeff at my side, towering over the crowd, the I.R.A. was in full retreat. In fact, they left the bar altogether. I made Jeff the president of the Sid Stein Preservation Society and bought him a drink.

You would have thought things would have ended there. They didn’t. My initial victory was short-lived. The following week, I paid a trip to McGeary’s. An old acquaintance of mine was sipping a Guinness by the front door. I hadn’t seen him in some time because he remained loyal to McGeary’s. As soon as he saw me, he told me that the I.R.A. returned to McGeary’s after their confrontation with me. They proceeded to tell everyone at the bar that I had slandered McGeary’s. In other words, I became persona non grata at McGeary’s. I protested that my words were twisted, but I knew that I would be unable to repair the collateral damage. I decided there would be no easy way to explain what really happened to the people there, especially to Kevin, the owner. So, I turned around and went elsewhere.

To be honest, I didn’t miss going to McGeary’s. It was too slow there anyway. Other bars had opened, I made new acquaintances, and my night life was as enjoyable as ever.

Part of my new night life included Noche’s, a swank, hip club patterned after clubs in Manhattan. It quickly became a new hangout. The crowd was lively, the owners accommodating, and the scene, fresh. It was a great place for Sid Stein to be Sid Stein. I was there at the bar one night, some months after the incident at the Bleecker, when Ed walked in with a few women. Ed was a silent partner at McGeary’s. He is older than I, overweight, introverted and a friend of my father. That’s not unusual though. My father is a friend to all. Ed was something else, too. Very rich. He’s a self-made millionaire and uses his money to buy company and friendship. He doesn’t flaunt his money like other nouveau riche, but uses it to compensate for his lack of a dynamic personality. In other words, he’s a nice guy who is lonely. Fortunately for him, he has money to buy drinks for people. That’s precisely what he was doing when he came to Noche. He had a small entourage of younger women with him, including Meghan, the waitress from McGeary’s, whose boyfriend and I exchanged some words.

Ed wanted to have a word with me. I wasn’t sure what he wanted. If he spoke to me at all, it was usually to chastise me for writing a letter to the editor criticizing the mayor of Albany. Ed is a good friend of the mayor. I am not. In fact, the mayor hates me. Maybe he should be a better administrator. Enough politics. On this night, Ed didn’t want to discuss the mayor. Instead, he offered to buy me a drink if I would only apologize to Meghan. According to Ed, during my scuffle with Meghan’s boyfriend, I apparently said something about the size of her ass, like: "Oh yeah? Well, your girlfriend has a big butt!" The irony of this taunt is clear to anyone who knows my taste in women, a taste which extends wholeheartedly to the Latin community of women, renown for their prominent posteriors. If you don’t believe me, please call 1-900-Sir-Mix-A-Lot. Ed told me that Meghan suffered from very low self-esteem and he would appreciate it greatly if I said something nice to her. Meghan is a pretty girl. I certainly had no intention of hurting her feelings while I was engaged in mortal (oral) combat with her boyfriend. In fact, except for the fact that she dated a complete moron, I thought she was a nice girl. There is no accounting for a woman’s taste in men. Ed didn’t have to buy me a drink to induce me into apologizing to Meghan. I would have been happy to say something to her anyway. Like I said, she’s a pretty girl. Okay, okay! I am not being completely honest. She has a nice ass too.

So, I walked over to Meghan and started a conversation. I told her I was sorry if I said anything to offend her. She was very sweet. She told me not to worry about it. However, she did more than offer to let bygones be bygones. She volunteered that she realized her now ex-boyfriend was an asshole. As I learned from talking to her, it was he who caused her low self-esteem in the first place. So, I did more than just apologize. I flirted with her. I wasn’t trying to pick her up. I was just trying to make her feel desirable, to make her feel like a woman. In fact, we ended up having a very lovely conversation. She even likes me now. Fancy that!

So, when all is said and done, I actually made peace with the I.R.A.