Sid Stein Needs A Cup Of Coffee And Cashes In Another Of His Nine Lives

Some time ago, my daughter told me she had joined a group on Facebook called “What would Larry David do?” If you have never seen “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” his television show on HBO, you may not get the reference. Larry David was one of the creators of “Seinfeld.” He was also the one who made “Seinfeld” funny. The premise of the Facebook group is fairly simple. In his show, “Curb,” Larry is known for reacting to situations in a way no other person would. For example, instead of sidestepping confrontations the way most people do, Larry exacerbates them. In those situations when it would be politic to keep quiet, Larry never does. I am a little like Larry in that regard and this is my story.

As you may have read in my story “Sid Stein – Crimefighter and Criminal,” I have a soft spot in my heart for women of Latin extraction. Not too long after I was to appear in court for the loitering ticket I received while on a date with my first Dominican girlfriend (I broke up with her), I met yet another one on J-Date, the Jewish online dating service. Somehow, despite the fact that I am on a Jewish dating site, I meet all the Dominican women. Go figure.

Rosa was quite delightful and we hit it off well. Although she lived in Manhattan, we saw each other on weekends. Either she would come here or I would go there. And, I must add. After years of not spending any time in the city, I was enjoying my visits to the Big Apple.

One night, Rosa made reservations for us at the Carnegie Club to see Cary Hoffman, a Sinatra impersonator backed by an 11-piece orchestra. http://www.hospitalityholdings.com/ The club is a swank cigar bar and jazz venue, so I wore my Sunday best. Although I was having some trouble reading the cocktail menu because I had forgotten my reading glasses, I eventually settled on a Havana Fizz. Here is the recipe for this delicious cocktail:

Havana Fizz
Specialty of The Carnegie Club
Created by Kenneth McClure
Cocktail glass, chilled
Pour ingredients into an empty mixing glass
6-8 sprigs of fresh mint
1/2 oz. fresh lime juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
Muddle contents
Add ice
2 oz. Bacardi 8 Rum
Shake and strain
Fill with Champagne
Garnish with a mint sprig

After a few Havana Fizz’s, I was really enjoying the Carnegie Club. The singer was great and really evoked a Frank Sinatra show in Vegas. Ring-a-ding! The cocktail waitresses were classic and cute. They wore pearls. The other patrons were fun too. We met couples from Oklahoma, Texas, and yes, even New York. I was having a grand time but Rosa was a bit upset with where we were seated by the hostess. Something went awry with our reservation and although we had a small table, it wasn’t located in the spot she wanted. As we were leaving to go to a music club, Rosa decided to have a few words about the mix-up with the maitre-d’. Her conversation took place by the door while I waited outside. As she complained about the seating arrangements, I wasn’t left alone to shiver in the cold. Instead, I was stranded outside with three young women who were discussing their evening plans. They were all quite attractive, and in my somewhat inebriated state, I had no problem striking up a conversation with them. I may have even offered them a party favor. Whatever the case, at least I had something to do while I waited.

As unhappy as Rosa was with the maitre-d’, she was even more unhappy when she stepped outside to find me engaged in conversation with three women. I made a mental note – she gets jealous quite easily. As she sneered at me, I feebly defended myself. I explained that: (1) I like to chat with random people, which is absolutely true, and (2) if she hadn’t felt the need to complain to the maitre-d,’ I never would have started the conversation with them in the first place. As you might well imagine, the second part of my defense was not very well received. Like I said, it was a feeble defense.

Despite this minor incident, we hopped into a cab and went to a music club where Rosa knew one of the members of the funk band playing there. We both enjoy music and were soon drinking martinis and bopping along to the beats being thrown out by the band. We were even having a good time. The difficulties encountered at the Carnegie Club were soon forgotten.

Before I get to the next part of the story, I need to fill you in on a few points. Consider this an aside. Like many other women of Latin descent, Rosa has what can only be described as a classic Latin butt. It’s big. Big butts are part of what you get when you date Latinas. If you don’t like them, then don’t date them. Personally, I have not always dated women with big butts. My ex-wife did not have one. Nevertheless, I do have some instinctual attraction to them. Although I wouldn’t describe the attraction as a preference, I do appreciate an ample butt. To be honest, I have no idea when or how I acquired this appreciation, but it may have something to do with what might possibly be described as a condition akin to a midlife crisis, although I don’t think it’s quite that drastic.

Let me elaborate. At some point when my kids were in high school, I started to listen to rap music. They were listening to it so I heard it often. Wanting to be the cool dad, since I was always the cool dad, I grew to enjoy it. Before I knew it, I was listening to rap quite often and even purchased a number of New Era 5950 caps. http://www.neweracap.com/ Those are the caps you see rappers wearing all the time. Part of the hip/hop culture. They are ubiquitous on the heads of today’s youth. I even sing a couple of rap songs at karaoke. In one way, you could say that I embraced hip/hop culture. An acquaintance of mine from karaoke once remarked that he was impressed that I continued wearing my caps and hoodies long after I first sported them in public. He added that he was comforted by the fact that I didn’t turn out to be a “wigger” for a day. I took it as a compliment. I think he meant it as one. Mostly, anyway. If you don’t know what a “hoodie” or a “wigger” is, look it up.
There is something else you need to know before I continue. I should describe what it’s like walking around Manhattan with an ample- butted woman while wearing a 5950 cap on my head. Although some of you white liberals with no black friends (and I don’t mean polite acquaintances like the kind you have at work) might think this is a racist stereotype, black men really do like big butts. There are even songs about it. I even put together a CD with just ass songs. So, while walking around Manhattan, I discovered that many black men would be checking out Rosa. Fair enough. I look too. We’re guys. We do that. With Rosa, though, there was an added twist. They would look at me too – quizzically, skeptically. As this scene repeated itself a number of times, I finally figured out why these black men were looking at me this way. Silently and in a state of disbelief, they were challenging me. I fancy that the question they were asking with their eyes was this: “Are you sure you can handle all that, white boy?” Once I figured it out, I just nodded my head in the affirmative with a wry smile on my face. To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed earning the respect of men who appreciated the origin of ass in asset.

I need to tell you one more thing before I get back to my narrative. It’s important because it affected how Rosa related to me and the world around her. It’s my theory about a particular genetic code embedded in the DNA of all Latina women. Let’s call it the Latina Spice Denominator or LSD for short. All Latina women have it. Some people might call it Latin passion or simply a quick temper, but after dating two Latina women in succession, I truly believe it is a condition passed down from generation to generation. Genetically. Think Rosie Perez in the movie “White Men Can’t Jump” as she’s screaming at Woody Harrelson. Although I submit that all Latina women have this trait, some control it better than others. Whereas Rosie Perez didn’t exhibit much control, at least in the movie, Rosa seemed to manage her LSD much better, at least most of the time. Clearly, after a couple of martinis and some confusion at the Carnegie Club compounded by what she described as flirting with those three women while I waited for her outside, she lost some of that control.

I am finally ready to return to my story. As I said, Rosa and I were having a great time bopping to the music and drinking martinis. We were feeling good. When the show ended, we hung around so Rosa could chat with her drummer friend and a couple of other people she knew at the club. In a friendly mood, I was chatting with people too. To be honest, I was in more than just a happy mood. I was drunk off my rocker. We were cabbing it, so why exercise any discretion with intoxicating beverages?

Of course, there is always some reason to exercise discretion and I was about to find out as soon as we left the club. Apparently, while I was engaged in some chatter at the club, some older black man was busy hitting on Rosa. I had seen him sitting there at some point but didn’t pay him much attention. He was on the scrawny side and seemed harmless. Harmless or not, Rosa lost control of her LSD again simply because I wasn’t paying attention to her while some guy was moving in on my “territory.” She gave me an earful about it even while I implored her that the man was completely harmless and not a threat. It didn’t matter to her. Whoever the suitor is, she emphatically explained that it was my absolute duty to step in and break it up.

I was finally beginning to get it after committing two major transgressions. Don’t talk to other women and defend my woman to the death. So long as I abided by those two rules, my life with Rosa would be full of bliss. It sounded simple enough. To her credit, Rosa regained control over her LSD and we hopped into a cab to get a bite to eat. And, some coffee. I really needed some caffeine.

Since we were in the Village, Rosa settled on a late night place to eat, called simply, The Coffee Shop, conveniently located at Union Square. http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/coffee-shop/ Check out the review from New York Magazine. It’s very hip, plays extremely cool music, serves great drinks and is full of very pretty people who need something to eat after partying all night long. We arrived just before 4 a.m. and the place was packed. There was at least a 20 minute wait for a table. We got in line.

Rosa thought she could finesse the maitre-d’ and maybe get us seated sooner. Apparently, she has a way with maitre-d’s. Feel free to ask the one at the Carnegie Club for a reference. Curious about a new place in the big city, I morphed into a tourist and spent my time in line looking around the room and absorbing the sights and sounds. In other words, I took my eyes off Rosa. That was a mistake. In the short time I was busy checking out the scene at The Coffee Shop, some guy got busy hitting on Rosa. This time, however, it wasn’t some scrawny, harmless-looking black man. This time, it was a very muscular, mean-looking black man over six feet tall who reminded me more of a gangsta rapper than Nat King Cole. I am 5’9” in shoes. And he wasn’t just talking to her. He was hassling her. I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath, walked right up to him, and in a stern but steady voice, said: “If you don’t leave my girlfriend alone, I will fuck you up.” I wish someone had a camera to get a picture of his face. He was shocked and confused. I could tell what he was thinking. “Is this white guy crazy? I could tear his head off.” He got right up into my grill (face) and incredulously asked: “Did you just say you were going to fuck me up?” Did I tell you how mean he looked? By the way, he looked even meaner from only two inches away. You may be thinking that I couldn’t have chosen a more stupid course of action so late at night when I knew damn well that this guy had also been out partying his ass off. Well, what you don’t know is that there was this huge bouncer standing right next to us. And I mean huge. If he wasn’t a former defensive lineman for the New York Giants, he could have been. Black, bald, about 6’7,” and like I said, huge. A mountain. With my antagonist still glaring at me, I glanced up at the bouncer with the few seconds I had to respond before getting my ass whipped or being branded a coward and then getting my ass whipped. The bouncer was stoic. Then, he cracked a little smile and wordlessly reassured me that he had my back. I turned toward this freaking asshole, looked him straight in the eye and said: “Yeah, I said that I was going to fuck you up.” I emphasized the word “fuck.” Just as I was finishing my last word, the bouncer stepped between the two of us. He never said a word. He just became an impenetrable barrier between me and the guy who probably could have killed me.

I felt like a king. Indestructible. Without a doubt, I had never done anything braver in my life. Or more stupid, if you prefer. And, I had done the right thing by Rosa, who at this point, was watching the scenario unfold. I puffed up my chest and smiled at her. No way was her Latina Spice Denominator going to rear its ferocious head now. This time, she was going to pin a medal on me. “Are you fucking nuts?” she screamed at me. I think she was more scared than mad, but I couldn’t be sure. “That guy could have killed you!” “Don’t ever do that again!” Sometimes, you just can’t win. The Latina Spice Denominator is mysterious, and apparently, not always logical.

In any event, we soon got a table and enjoyed some good late night food. And coffee!

One other thing. Perhaps a month later, Rosa and I were sitting somewhere and struck up a conversation with a black man at an adjacent table. At some point, he said to me: “Don’t ever take your eyes off your woman.” Sound advice if a little too late.

Sid Stein Preps For His Colonoscopy and Grosses Everyone Out

I turned 50 this past year. And, when I went for my annual physical, my doctor recommended what I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear. He wanted me to get a colonoscopy. So it goes.

I made an appointment with the colorectal surgeon who was recommended by my doctor. The appointment was unremarkable but I did get to meet the man who would be examining the inside of my ass. Nice guy too. They also scheduled me for the procedure for the Friday morning before Thanksgiving. Assuming all went well, I would have something additional to be thankful for.

In case you are unfamiliar with colonoscopies, those who have undergone one will tell you that the “prep” in advance of the actual procedure is the worst part. In contrast, the people who have never had one usually suffer a lot of anxiety over the thought of a scope being inserted far up their butt. What they don’t realize is that the anesthesia is so powerful, that during the procedure, they won’t even realize or remember that some guy they probably met only once is looking up their ass for polyps, gerbil skeletons and toy cars. As it turns out, the “prep” really is the worst part. It goes like this. If you are scheduled for a Friday morning colonoscopy, you have your last real meal on Wednesday night. After midnight, you are restricted to liquids and a concoction of laxatives, followed by about seven hours of shitting your brains out.

Faced with the prospect of a last supper followed by a day of just liquids, I decided I should make my last meal a good one. I decided to go to Barcelona’s where I knew my father would be hanging out with his friends. I also thought it would be a good place to get some sympathy since most of the patrons are well older than I am and probably have all had colonoscopies themselves. http://www.barcelona-albany.com/

As I sauntered in and greeted the people I knew, I espied my father at the far end of the bar talking to a couple I have known for quite a few years. After catching up a bit with Dad, I announced that I had come for my last solid food before my colonoscopy. I was soon treated to the medical histories of my father and the couple he was talking with. I thought to myself – Awesome! After worrying about it by myself, or talking about it with my daughter or others who had never undergone a colonoscopy, I suddenly no longer felt alone in the world. How very refreshing, I thought. I even told them how good it was to be able to discuss my impending procedure with other people experienced in the way of colon invasions. They all immediately understood and emphasized the importance of spending time with old people, even though they didn’t phrase it quite that way.

There’s something you should know about Sid Stein and the way he interacts with Albany area residents. After publishing my book, “A Little on the Side – The Married Man’s Ultimate Guide to Cheating or How to Save Your Marriage,” people expect me to be somewhat outrageous with my humor. I wouldn’t exactly call it a burden, but when I am out and about, I always get the feeling that people expect me to make them laugh and roll their eyes at the same time. So, I do my best to indulge them, especially when I have the proper fodder for the humor mill.
While everyone was laughing at my colon jokes, my father took credit for my sense of humor. I commented that it had skipped a generation. It was fairly easy making a few jokes about colonoscopies, gerbil skeletons and the like. You can find some of the jokes on Google. They are a bit half-assed, but some are cute. Then, just as I was running out of material, Patty walked over. Patty is a sweet and petite Irish gal (my father likes to call them gals) who is about my age.

Patty is a quiet and reserved woman who never seems to have a steady boyfriend. As far as I can tell, the only constant in her life is her friendship with Max, a short, cute old man in his eighties. Max is quite remarkable. Sometime after he was widowed, he took up skydiving and was even featured in the local newspaper. He has over 100 jumps. Max likes to go out, chat with people and drink wine. He especially enjoys the company of Patty, who escorts him around town to various bars. Although I am quite convinced that there is no sexual component to their relationship, it is pretty clear that Max adores Patty and cherishes their friendship. And why shouldn’t he?

It’s clear that Patty enjoys Max’s company as well. He is the definition of a gentleman. No doubt he also buys her drinks, at least now and then. However, if there is one liability to Patty’s friendship with Max, it’s that some people, at least in jest, ask her if she is romantically connected to Max. I didn’t actually learn about this kink in Patty’s life until that very night at Barcelona’s. A while after Patty had joined us, I commented that Max looked lonely at the other end of the bar and must be missing his girlfriend. Patty’s reaction was immediate and took me by surprise. Indignantly, she forcefully denied that there was anything between her and Max. “I am not his girlfriend!” WHOA! Who knew?

Well, after getting such a strong reaction, there was no way I could drop it. I had already enjoyed a plate of chicken vodka and a few vodkas to wash it down. So, I said to Patty, “Come on, Patty, everyone knows that Max is in love with you. He adores you, not to mention you two are inseparable.” Patty was turning red, half from embarrassment and half from getting her Irish up. “There is nothing between me and Max,” she insisted. “We are just good friends!” “Who are you kidding?” I continued. “I can tell when someone is in love, and Max is clearly in love. Look how he is pining for you at the other end of the bar.” Patty glared at me. “Max is not in love with me. We are just good friends.” “Be serious, Patty,” I said. “No doubt Max hires some guy to masturbate for him while he fantasizes about you.”

Oops! I guess I went a little too far. I looked at my father who was now as red as Patty. Totally embarrassed. Poor guy. He commented to his other friends listening to the exchange between Patty and me that I get my sense of humor from my mother’s side of the family. Disavowed by my own father!

Oh, by the way. The colonoscopy went fine.

Sid Stein's Dog Has A Date

When my wife and I split up, she got the kids and I got the dog. Granted, the dog is a beautiful golden retriever, but she is not the best conversationalist. You might think that my ex-wife had the greater custodial burden, but in reality, such was not the case. My eldest, a son, was graduating from college, a daughter was in her sophomore year, another daughter was completing high school and heading to Israel for a year abroad, and the youngest had decided to go to high school there and was living with her aunt in Jerusalem. The dog, on the other hand, was going nowhere.

Everyone knows that dogs are a man’s best friend, and in one sense, this is true. My dog, Buffy, is a loyal and trusted friend (in case you are wondering, she really was named after Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a popular show when we got her. Besides, Sarah Michelle Gellar, who played Buffy in the series, is blonde and Jewish, like my dog, and I wanted to provide my three daughters with a strong female role model). My Buffy is very affectionate and enthusiastically bestows upon all my friends extremely warm welcomes whenever they come visit. She has skills too. She is an accomplished Frisbee canine. At the ripe old age of eight, her spectacular catches could still make a highlight reel on Sportscenter. And, as I am writing this, she is using her Frisbee as a pillow. That’s true commitment.

As good a friend as Buffy is, at times, she can be a burden. Unlike my grown children, I cannot leave Buffy alone for the weekend. And no, it’s not because I am afraid she’ll throw a big, loud party. Friends have asked me to consider putting her in a kennel, but if you knew Buffy, you couldn’t imprison her like that either. On occasion, I have left her with my parents, but they don’t always have the patience for her. Other times, when one of my kids is home, I can set off for the weekend with a clear conscience.

So, it happened one Thursday when on was on J-Date, the Jewish dating site, that I had a conversation with a woman named Anna who lived in Manhattan. She seemed very nice and the conversation went well. No doubt there was a little flirting and we ended our chat on good terms with the intention of chatting again.

The follow up chat came soon - the day after. Based on the tenor of the conversation, Anna was clearly anxious to meet me, even overanxious, in retrospect. Although she was at work, she apparently had plenty of time to chat with me. It makes me wonder how much American productivity is lost because people are pursuing romance at their desks on their computers. That, however, is not my problem. Before too long, Anna proposed that I visit her in Manhattan. And, here is Part I of just how overanxious Anna was. She wanted me to come down that very evening. How desperate was she for male companionship? Even though she wasn’t a great beauty, she was nice looking. Why couldn’t she find someone in New York City? I mean, how many millions of men live there? On the other hand, what would prevent me from taking the 2 ½ hour trip? In a word - Buffy.

I considered the possibility that I was using Buffy as an excuse not to go. After all, parents commonly use their kids as excuses to get out of all kinds of sticky situations. I could have asked my parents if they could watch Buffy for the weekend, but I didn’t. I might have felt that Anna was just too anxious to invite me to stay at her place after only two conversations with me. On the other hand, what was wrong with a woman wanting so much to meet me? That level of enthusiasm usually meant one thing. Sex. And what’s wrong with sex?

I explained to Anna that I would love to visit her but was saddled with a golden retriever for the weekend. I figured that would end the issue but Anna suggested a solution. Bring Buffy! Bring Buffy? Was she kidding me? This woman really wanted me to bring my dog on a date? Apparently. She also had a dog, Bongo, and thought it would be nice for all four of us. In case you’re counting, that’s twelve legs altogether.

I weighed Anna’s proposal. On the one hand, I had never taken Buffy away from home (except once) unless it was to my parents’ house. More importantly, Buffy is scared of other dogs, even little ones. There is a story, or rather a theory, with that too. When Buffy was still very young, we left her for about a week with a veterinarian who was a parent at my children’s school. The vet lived on a farm of sorts, so we thought Buffy would be safe and secure. Well, ever since that time on the farm, Buffy has been afraid of dogs. My theory? Buffy was molested by the veterinarian’s dog, Joe. I know. Paw and Order – Special Victims’ Unit. Since Buffy isn’t talking, which is often the case with rape victims, I don’t absolutely know for sure. I told Anna about Buffy’s fear of dogs, but Anna reassured me that Bongo was a very social, easygoing small dog. She added that she lived on the Upper West Side near Riverside Park which has a great dog park. And, if we got there before 9:00 a.m., we could let the dogs off the leash. To make it even nicer, she said we could even take the dogs for a stroll in Central Park. It sounded like a dog-friendly invitation with the potential for sex for me, so I thought about it some more and said – why not? It might even be fun. I accepted.

Since the date was going to involve dogs, I didn’t think it was necessary to make complicated clothing decisions. I would wear nice, clean clothes. I already had everything I needed for Buffy and just had to make arrangements for someone to check in on Monk, my cat, or rather, the cat my son left me when he no longer could care for him. In case you are wondering, Buffy and Monk get along together quite well. So, I called my Dad who agreed to stop in just to make sure Monk was fine. In short order, I packed the car with my clothes and Buffy’s food and accessories, and off we went.

The trip down to Manhattan was uneventful. Buffy and I stopped at the Ramapo rest area for well, a rest stop. It wasn’t long before we made our way across the George Washington Bridge onto the West Side Highway and into the City. Buffy was in New York! As might be expected, it took a while to find a parking spot near Anna’s apartment building, but find one I did. If you are familiar with New York, then you know that most streets and avenues are one-way. For car enthusiasts, it means that, like me that night, you might be parking on the left side of the street. Why is that important? Well, I own a two-door car, so when parking on the left side of the street, the passenger door opens onto the street side of the car rather than the sidewalk. And, as it goes, that’s the door I have to use to get Buffy out of the back seat. So, as cars are whizzing by, I opened the door and fastened the leash to the collar of a dog who was very anxious to get out for some fresh air (I know, fresh air?) And how anxious was Buffy to indulge in all the news smells of the Big Apple? Well, as soon as she could, she bolted out of the car right into traffic. Whoa, Buffy! I yanked her to safety in the nick of time. Buffy in New York was getting off to a great start.
Anna lived in the West 70’s and I gave her a call as soon as Buffy settled down a bit. Although I had Anna’s address, I had to park around the corner and felt lucky that I found a parking space as close as I did. Anna met us at the car and immediately pointed out that my parking space was only good until 7 a.m. The three of us hopped into the car and searched for another spot. After about 20 minutes, voila! At least the additional time gave me a chance to chat with Anna. She seemed very sweet.

Unfamiliar with all the sights, sounds and smells of the city, Buffy was pulling me all over the place, so Anna offered to help with my bag and dog supplies. Polite too! I suspected Buffy needed to pee but she apparently was too distracted to consider the needs of her bladder. We entered Anna’s building and entered the elevator. Buffy’s first elevator ride! I worried that Buffy would pee in the elevator but she maintained bladder control. Good dog!

I was most worried about the next part in Buffy’s New York City adventure – meeting Bongo. Anna reassured me that Bongo was very friendly and would welcome Buffy with open paws. In fact, Bongo was exuberant and chased Buffy around Anna’s apartment. Fortunately, the dogs settled down within a few minutes giving Anna and I a chance to get to know one another. It also gave me a good chance to finally get a look at her. She was pleasant looking if not a real beauty. I was thinking a couple of glasses of wine would improve the picture considerably.
And wine was served! After we straightened out the confusion between the dog food (Bongo was eating from Buffy’s bowl), Anna and I sat down to a lovely dinner. She didn’t cook it herself, but had it delivered. Delivery is big in Manhattan. You can get anything you want from just about anywhere.

After dinner, Anna and I took our dogs for a walk. We went to Central Park where Buffy enjoyed sniffing around the fallen leaves in the nippy winter air. She relieved herself and I was relieved. Who knew you could stroll around Central Park at night?

Anna, Bongo, Buffy and I made our way back to the apartment. Anna brought out some more wine which we enjoyed on her sofa. The dogs were quiet, the lights were dim and soon enough, Anna became amorous. I responded positively.

It wasn’t long before Anna led me to her bedroom. Even though it was already clear to me that my relationship with Anna wasn’t going to last long, she was nice but not intriguing in any way, pleasant –looking but not pretty, I still had no problem accepting her invitation. Hey, I’m a guy and guys are dogs, right? And it was, in part, anyway, a dog event.

Whether she just hadn’t been with a man in a while, or whether she simply was sexually enthusiastic, Anna’s approach to lovemaking was energetic. So there I am, in bed with Anna, thinking that my trip to New York was turning out okay. I don’t think either of us had much hope for the future of our relationship, but at least we were doing our best to have a good time with each other.

As a person who enjoys metaphors and looks for themes in life, I flipped Anna over and made love to her doggy-style. It made sense to me at the time. And in keeping with the spirit of the evening, I thought it would be nice to pay Anna a compliment during coitus. I commented that she had a nice ass. After all, that’s what I was faced with. To be honest, it wasn’t the best ass I have ever seen, but it was within the parameters of nice asses as asses go. I thought that would be the end of it, but Anna’s response surprised me.

I know, at this point I should be ready for just about anything, especially if you have read my story about why I think women should come with warning labels. Notwithstanding my prior experience with sexual surprises, I still wasn’t ready for the words which flowed effortlessly from Anna’s mouth. She said: “It should look good considering all the plastic surgery I had after my bariatric procedure.”

Bariatric procedure? What the hell was that? As smart as I think I am, dear readers, I just didn’t know. Clueless! My etymological instincts kicked in as I racked my brain for a definition. The only thing that came to mind was a barium enema. We were doing it doggy-style, after all. But why would she be talking about enemas during sex? And, as much as I knew that a barium enema is not the same as your friendly neighborhood Fleet enema, it still conjured up images of feces flooding out her ass. What kind of dirty talk was that? (For any woman reading this, the purpose of talking dirty in bed is to turn a guy on, not off.) So, with thoughts of shit invading my mind, I quickly lost interest in any more sex. I know. It was a doggy weekend and dogs love smelling shit. Perhaps, but that still doesn’t make me a canine, even if I am a dog.

Somehow, I recovered sufficiently to finish the act and we soon went to sleep. At least I did. I actually had a good reason to get some shut-eye, above and beyond recovering from my psychic trauma. Anna wanted to wake up early so that we could take the dogs to Riverside Park before 9 a.m. so that we could let our dogs run free.

Saturday morning came and off we went to the park, dogs in tow. We arrived to discover lots of dogs running around having fun. I let Buffy off the leash, threw her Frisbee and Buffy was transformed. She was finally having fun in the Big Apple. Fortunately, Bongo was not a Frisbee dog, so Buffy didn’t have to worry about some Upper West Side pooch stealing her favorite toy.

After about an hour and a half, it was time to return home, and return home I did. I manufactured some lame excuse about why I had to get back to Albany (probably using my kids as an excuse) and after a polite goodbye and a sincere thank you, I loaded Buffy into the car and returned to Albany. As soon as I got in, I googled bariatric procedures. Anna had her stomach stapled. At some point, she must have been a very big girl. At least she wasn’t a dog.

And, although things didn’t work out for me and Anna, Buffy ended up having one great date.

(Buffy visits the Guggenheim)

Sid Stein's Greek Tragedy

I recently visited an Italian restaurant with a Spanish name owned by Mexicans so I could hang out with my Jewish father who is a friend of the Irish bartender. It’s a very good restaurant and has a lively bar crowd even if most of the patrons are older than I. The “colonoscopied” crowd can have fun too. So, I am sitting at the bar, catching up with my father, when I asked him if he heard that Dino, owner of the Gateway, one of Albany’s better known Greek diners, had passed away the day before. Surprisingly, my father, who I thought knew every notable person in Albany, had never heard of him. I had met Dino years earlier through a friend who managed one of the city’s premier discos. Dino, who wore his hair like Elvis, had financed the disco. Greek diner money, apparently. http://www.gatewaydiner.com/

As fate would have it, my father pointed out that another Greek diner owner was having dinner in the restaurant. I had been to his diner a few months earlier and had the worst egg salad sandwich I had ever been served. My father advised that I should tell him about my poor dining, or should I say diner, experience.

I continued chatting with my father. Before long, Nick, the Gateway’s competitor, came over to say hello. However, rather than bring up the egg salad sandwich, I mentioned that I had read that Dino had passed away. I know that the Greek community in Albany is very tight-knit and figured that Nick was an acquaintance of Dino. Nick noted it was sad that Dino had died and told me that he offered to sing at the funeral service. Apparently, Nick is quite a good singer, at least in Greek. The family declined Nick’s offer for reasons I can only guess. Maybe some resentment exists among the various Greek diner families. Whatever the reason was, Nick continued and told me in his heavy Greek accent that a number of people had already approached him and asked if he would be taking over the Gateway. Nick then looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and in complete innocence, asked me why anyone would think that he might take over the Gateway Diner. Sensing an opportunity, I looked Nick in the eye and responded: “Hey Nick, maybe because you’re Greek and you already own a diner.” I never brought up the egg salad sandwich.

Sid Stein's Condom Cat

I love to cook. It engages my artistic nature and releases my creative energies. For the most part, I prepare my meals on the stove rather than in the oven. I enjoy adjusting the flavors and spices as I go along and love being able to watch how my dish progresses. On the other hand, baking or preparing dinner in the oven is primarily a “wait until it’s done” affair. Once the food is in the oven, there is little to do except listen for the timer to buzz me when it’s done. However, in spite of my cooking preferences, there are simply some things that require a working oven. Making Thanksgiving is one of them. I mean, have you ever tried cooking a 15 pound turkey in a skillet? It takes forever. I assume it does anyway.

During my marriage to my Israeli-born wife, Thanksgiving became my responsibility. To her credit, she prepared all the meals for the Jewish holidays, of which there are many throughout the year. For a time, she even made Thanksgiving but ceded the meal to me at some point. I embraced the challenge and was soon making turkey, ginger chestnut stuffing, black bean soup, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and apple and pumpkin pies. Before long, we had a family tradition.

Life changed after my wife and I split up but Thanksgiving was still mine. It says so in my agreement. After all, I was the American in the household and had a natural duty to protect the integrity of this national holiday.

The first Thanksgiving in my new home went well even though we were missing one daughter who was studying in Israel. Even my ex-wife came. The food was delicious and it was a happy event. Last year, however, I was unable to make Thanksgiving. At some point during the year before the holiday, the thermostat in my oven broke. Without a way to control the temperature, there was no way I could roast a turkey or make an apple pie. It didn’t matter too much because most of my children were in Israel anyway. So, instead of a big dinner at my house, my parents and I, accompanied by my one daughter who was still in the country, ate our Thanksgiving dinner at Jack’s, one of Albany’s oldest and finest restaurants. http://www.jacksoysterhouse.com/

For a long time, not having an oven didn’t bother me. I made my meals on the stove and was content with that. This year, however, I wanted Thanksgiving back in my house. I needed to have it here. My 18 year old daughter would be in town and she keeps kosher. Besides, her long-time boyfriend, also kosher, was coming and planning to ask my permission for her hand in marriage. I had two choices. Get my oven repaired or get a new oven. I went with the second option. The house I live in was a rental property for a long time and only had a cheap, simple oven. It was time to upgrade to a respectable cooking machine. So off I went to the local appliance store. http://coccasappliancestv.com/

Mike, an appliance salesman with a friendly face and a very big belly, showed me around the store. He pointed out a scratch and dent model which had been marked down from $1,000.00 to $500.00.
The scratch was on the side of the oven and wouldn’t be seen once installed, so, recognizing a good buy, I bought it. Mike told me that his delivery people wouldn’t be able to install it because it was a gas oven and they no longer carried insurance for installing gas appliances. He suggested I contact a plumber, which I did once the oven was delivered. Although part of my deal with the appliance store included removal of the old oven, the delivery men wouldn’t touch it until it was disconnected from the gas line. I would have to wait for the plumber.




Perhaps you are wondering what this story has to do with a cat or condoms. I’m getting to that. Maybe a few words about my cat are in order before I make the connection. When my eldest daughter graduated from the eighth grade, we bought a golden retriever. Her name is Buffy, after the television show, which was popular at the time. Buffy is a happy dog who likes to play Frisbee. She’s a good catch too. Years passed and my son went off to college. In his senior year, he bought a kitten and named him Monk after the jazz musician. As circumstances would have it, my son had to move into the dorms for his final semester because his friends with whom he shared an apartment had to move out. He asked me if I would take care of his cat. Buffy, who was about 6 ½ years old at this point, had never lived with any other animals and had never liked other dogs. I told him I would give it a try. At first, Buffy and Monk were like oil and water. In fact, I had to keep them separated. One morning, however, I woke up to find Buffy sitting by the door to the laundry room. I went to the kitchen to make coffee and realized that Buffy hadn’t budged. It seemed unusual to me, so I went over and asked her if she was okay. And no, I wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, I was curious as to why she was sitting there so patiently. So, I opened the door and out walked Monk. Apparently, I had locked Monk out of the house. As Monk sauntered into the house, he went over and rubbed up against Buffy, seeming to thank her for coming to his rescue. They became fast friends after that, and now, even play together.

Monk is a curious and sometimes naughty cat. He especially likes to knock things off counters and tables. Although he sometimes does this to get my attention when he is hungry, there are other times he does it for no apparent reason. My daughter thinks it’s his concept of feng shui because he usually knocks things off which don’t necessarily belong. He also loves to bat things around the kitchen floor.







So, it was no great surprise when the plumber pulled out the old stove revealing a number of things which Monk had batted underneath it. There was a toy car, a couple of caps from Snapple bottles, a red pen and two condoms. Actually, I was surprised to see the condoms. Momentarily, I thought about being embarrassed by this discovery, but hey, it was just the plumber and why should I care if he learned about my social life. Still, how did condoms get under my stove? And, they weren’t even my regular brand! I picked them up and examined them. I found two small pinpricks in one of them. Monk! Apparently, Monk snagged them out of my bedroom and brought them into the kitchen so he could bat them around the smooth kitchen floor. At some point, as with everything he plays with, they ended up under the stove.



















As easy as it was to figure out how the condoms got there, I was left with one mystery. These were Durex condoms, not Trojans. http://www.trojancondoms.com/For the life of me, I cannot remember ever buying Durex condoms. Was it possible I picked them up while out one night at a club? It would have had to have been a gay bar. If it was, what was I doing in a gay bar? And why would I need condoms there? I am still straight as I am sure you know by now if you have been reading my stories. It remains a mystery. I know one thing though. Monk didn’t buy them. But, there is no denying. He is the Condom Cat. Or should that be Condom Kitty? Prophylactic Feline? Maybe he heard about feline AIDS. Curious but cautious!

After I wrote this, a friend added that Monk's adventure gives a new meaning to Cat in the Hat!

Viva Viagra, I Think

I just saw yet another installment of the seemingly ubiquitous Viagra commercials. It's the one where the husband is watching television, glances at his magazine-reading wife, tosses away the remote control, leading her to toss aside her magazines, after which they make their way up to the bedroom. Both are mature adults over 50. The wife, importantly, is a very attractive woman. She easily could be a cover girl for AARP magazine. Her physical beauty leads me to believe that the husband must definitely have erectile dysfunction. Otherwise, how could he not but get aroused for this woman?

After digesting this commercial, it made me think. Do so many American men really suffer from erectile dysfunction? Based on the frequency that these commercials air on television, one would think so. On the other hand, has anyone considered that the true underlying reason why American men have so much difficulty getting an erection is simply that they find their wives unattractive? The actual reason behind erectile dysfunction, then, may be nothing more complicated than the very real possibility that men are not turned on by their wives anymore. Looking around, very few women are actually as attractive as the television version presented by Viagra.

This possibility, of course, leads to another problem. How does a man, even with the assistance of his doctor, actually discern whether he suffers from erectile dysfunction or whether he is just not turned on by his middle-aged wife who gave up trying on her wedding gown 30 years ago?

Before I would start any prescription regimen, I would want to know for sure. What kind of conversation does a man have with his wife when confronted by this dilemma? "Honey, I know our sex life hasn't been that great lately. I want it to improve. Still, before I start taking Viagra, a prescription drug with potential side effects, I want to make sure that I suffer from erectile dysfunction rather than just being turned off by your 50 pound weight gain over the years. So, I am going to try having sex with a woman I find very attractive just to make sure it's erectile dysfunction and not something else." My guess is that this conversation would not go over very well.

So, until the drug companies come out with a pill which makes all women look attractive, viva Viagra and viva the marketing people who get to take advantage of this very real dilemma.

Sid Stein Adds His Two Cents About A Stranger's Sense of Humor

The other day, I took my daughter to Borders because she wanted to purchase a few books for summer reading. Of course, it's always nice when your child not only can read, but actually enjoys reading. So off we went.

Within short order, my daughter was ready to check out. You have to love a kid who knows what she wants. As we were standing in line waiting for a register to open up, a man, about 50 years old and taller than I, stepped in front of me (that's called butting in line), and approached the register. As I assessed the situation and wondered if I should say, "hey, no butting," he merely asked the cashier a question. "Excuse me, but where is the humor section?"

If you know me at all, then you know that there was no way I could let that slide without making a comment, so I said: "Mister, that's not funny."

The man turned to me with an angry look and asked: "What did you say?" As I and everyone else in line, including my daughter and the cashier, rolled our eyes, I replied: "I said, Mister, that's not funny. It was a joke. You asked where the HUMOR section was; I said, that's not funny. Get it?"

He sneered at me and walked away. Naturally, I had something to add for the benefit of everyone within earshot. "I am so happy that this guy is looking for the humor section. He obviously is drastically in need of a sense of humor."

And that's Sid Stein's two cents on a sense of humor!

A Classic Moment in Karaoke

As you should already know, karaoke is my guilty pleasure. Although I am not convinced that it’s anything to feel guilty about, some people do not exactly look at it as an art form or even as esteemed a bar activity as playing pool, shooting darts or harassing women. I, of course, disagree. It’s at least as worthy as harassing women at bars. Okay, just kidding, but it does seem that when I tell some people I sing karaoke every week, they look at me with at least a bit of disdain. Maybe they are just afraid of singing in front of people. Perhaps they have bad voices. After all, jealousy can breed contempt.

Admittedly, I enjoy the attention I receive when I sing a song well. And, why not? Sometimes, though, that need for attention can lead some karaoke singers into a singing rut of sorts. Let me explain. For example, I like to sing “Moondance” by Van Morrison and do a good job with it. For my efforts, I get a lot of positive reinforcement from the other bar patrons. So, why not receive that same reinforcement the following week? Well, that sometimes leads to singing the same songs week after week. And that, my friends, translates into a singing rut. I had been in one of these ruts, so decided to try some new songs.

I sat down with my iTunes and came up with two new songs to debut on Thursday night at Pinto and Hobbs, conveniently located at the corner of State and Dove in the Center Square neighborhood of the capital of New York, Albany. The first song I tried was “Smiling Faces Sometimes” by the Undisputed Truth, one of my all-time favorite soul classics. The other was a song I thought would be fun for the crowd – “Kung Fu Fighting” by Carl Douglas. Here are some of the lyrics:

Everybody was kung-fu fighting

Those cats were fast as lightning

In fact it was a little bit frightening

But they fought with expert timing

They were funky China men from funky Chinatown

They were chopping them up and they were chopping them down

It's an ancient Chinese art and everybody knew their part

From a feint into a slip, and kicking from the hip

Although it’s not exactly the most politically-correct song, who cares? Everyone loved it. As you all know, many great songs have been written in the English language. It would stand to reason that the greatest songs would be the greatest at karaoke as well. However, that is not always the case. Some great songs are boring at karaoke because they are too slow or too depressing. Others are so hard to sing, that when someone attempts one, the song gets ruined for all time. It’s not unusual to hear people saying something like – I am never going to be able to listen to that song again. Some songs, however, even though they are not all-time classics, or cannot be considered great, are still lots of fun at karaoke. “Kung Fu Fighting” is definitely one of them. Unfortunately, a lot of people think Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” is also one. It is way too long and usually butchered by the people singing it.

For those of you who are interested, here is a link to a Wikipedia article about karaoke. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karaoke

As with many endeavors in life, there is karaoke etiquette at most places. As much as you might want to sing all night long to the exclusion of other singers, you have to be patient and wait your turn. No matter how bad a singer a person is, everyone deserves a chance to get up with the microphone. Of course, the order of singers is controlled by the DJ. Those who want to sing submit a slip to the DJ which lists their name and what song they want to sing. The DJ organizes the slips and usually tries to be as democratic about it as possible. It sounds simple – call the singers up in the order in which they submit the slip. Well, it’s not always so easy if you want to have a nice flow and be fair to all the singers. Some people put in a lot of slips, so you have to spread their songs out over the course of the night. Some people don’t arrive as soon as karaoke starts, so the DJ may want to bump up a newcomer in favor of someone who has already sung a few songs. The goal is to maximize crowd participation. The greater the number of people who get to sing translates into more happy people. That means the bar owner is happy because people buy more drinks, which in turn, is good for the DJ, because if the owner is happy, then that reflects positively on the DJ and his skills. A good DJ will also mess around with the karaoke addicts. Knowing that they won’t leave until they get to sing their song, the DJ will sometimes make them sweat for a while in favor of other singers who might be prone to leaving. Then there is always the no-brainer. If four young and pretty girls come in and want to sing “I Touch Myself” by the Divinyls [I don’t want anybody else, When I think about you I touch myself, Ooh I don’t want anybody else oh no, oh no, oh no] or “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard [Pour some sugar on me, Ooh, in the name of love, Pour some sugar on me, C'mon fire me up, Pour your sugar on me, Oh, I can't get enough. I'm hot, sticky sweet from my head to my feet yeah], get them up there as soon as possible.

The other night was night quite one of those moments, but I have to give Greg the DJ some credit for the song he put on after “Kung Fu Fighting.” In our politically-correct world, it was a gamble on his part. Considering I was verbally assaulted for singing a tribute to Anna Nicole Smith when she died, who knew what would happen with Greg’s next choice.

I have to back up for a paragraph. One of the things I love about karaoke is the crowd. All different kinds of people come in to sing. Karaoke has a cathartic aspect to it, and since everyone from any kind of walk of life needs an outlet now and then, karaoke attracts all kinds of people. One of my favorite patrons at Pinto and Hobbs is a Japanese student named Honda. Yes, Honda. He is named after a car company. I suppose that’s not too different from an American being named Ford. Honda is about 25 years old and loves to sing karaoke. Always has a smile on his face, too. Although he doesn’t come every week, he has come often enough so that I have been able to develop a friendship with him. He speaks broken English, doesn’t have a good voice, and for me, epitomizes what karaoke is all about. Sometimes, when I am up there singing, I point him out and announce that his grandfather invented karaoke. Who knows, maybe he did? Anyway, Honda loves the attention and plays the part well.

So, on the night I decided to sing an “Asian” song, Honda was in the house. That fact, of course, was not lost on Greg the DJ. As I was putting the final touches on “Kung Fu Fighting” and about to hand the microphone to Greg, I saw a sparkle in his eye. As Greg motioned to me to hang onto the microphone, I sensed what was coming. First of all, it’s highly unusual for someone to sing two songs in a row unless it’s their birthday or some other special occasion. I guess this would qualify as a special occasion. The stars were aligned correctly. Honda was at Pinto and Hobbs, I had just sung “Kung Fu Fighting,” and I, the notorious Sid Stein, who is willing to say anything over the PA, was still on stage. I guessed which song was coming. I’ll give you a hint. It was a minor hit which reached #36 on the Billboard charts in 1980 by a group called the Vapors. Yes, friends, Greg put on “Turning Japanese.”

Here are some of the lyrics:

No sex, no drugs, no wine, no women
No fun, no sin, no you, no wonder it's dark
Everyone around me is a total stranger
Everyone avoids me like a cyclone ranger
That's why I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so

In case you want to learn more about the history of the song, try: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turning_Japanese

For those of you who don’t remember it, it’s a fast-paced, fun song. As the music started, some of the people in the crowd let out a few soft cheers of acknowledgement. I immediately enlisted a pretty young Polish girl wearing shutter shades to sing with me. Shutter shades have been popularized by Kanye West. She was sitting right by the stage and looked perfect for the part. She even had a cute Polish accent. Don’t ask me what she was doing there, but I didn’t mind.

As the song progressed, there was really only one thing for me to do. Get Honda up on the stage with me. I could flirt with the Polish girl later. I motioned to Honda and he reluctantly joined me on the stage. I took the microphone from the Polish fashionista and handed it to Honda. When I first saw Honda’s reluctance, I felt a little bad and wondered if I had done the wrong thing, even though the Karaoke Gods seemed to be demanding it. After all, I like Honda. He’s a great kid who always has a smile. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt his feelings.

Well, my friends, Honda’s feelings did not get hurt. He came up on stage and sang along with me. He even adlibbed a part. While I was singing “I think I’m turning Japanese,” Honda shouted out: “I’m already Japanese! How can I turn Japanese?” Toward the end of the song, I faced Honda, bowed and said: “Arigato gozaimashita.” That’s thank you, very much. Of course, Honda bowed to me and the bowing went back and forth for a good thirty seconds. Loud applause. Exit stage right.

Sid Stein's Good Name is Saved by the Sex Scandal in the Catholic Church

You may be wondering how the sex scandal in the Catholic Church could possibly have saved me from extreme embarrassment, or even worse. I admit that the proposition is unusual, even for me. Nevertheless, the publicity surrounding the scandal rescued me from potentially severe problems in my writing career and life. I will say this. It pays to read the news.

Even before my book, “A Little on the Side,” was published, I knew that being Sid Stein was not going to be easy. Let me tell you how Sid was born. I recall a lovely summer day when I went with my ex-wife to a barbecue at the house of an Israeli woman she had befriended. My ex is Israeli and was quick to make friends with other Israelis who moved into the Albany, New York area where we lived. This particular Israeli woman was married to an American who was a stand-up comedian and part of a morning drive show on a local radio station. As he and I were chatting over beer, he asked me what I had been up to. Thinking that I should tell him something he might find humorous, I told him about my yet unfinished guide to cheating. His eyes lit up and said he had to get me on the radio. I protested mildly at first, but the prospect of being on the radio was exciting. Still, the book wasn’t finished yet and my ex didn’t even know that I was writing it. He told me all I needed was a pen name. Sid Stein was born.

Even though I had listened to my friend’s radio show many times and knew it to follow a typical morning drive show format, full of comedy, I had no idea what to expect when I went on air for the first time in my life. The show had all kinds of guests, including many authors hawking their books. By the same token, I never heard one who wrote about how to get away with cheating or even anything similar.

When I sat down in front of the microphone and put the headphones on, I was nervous. I wasn’t quite as nervous as I was went I first appeared in front of a judge as a new attorney, but I knew I was about to face a new court, the court of public opinion. There was also one additional wrinkle which added to my trepidation. My wife had no idea I was going to be on the radio. All she knew was that I went off to work a bit early. I hoped that no one would recognize my voice. The night before, I had even changed the station on our clock radio so there would be no chance of her hearing me in the morning. As my friend started his introduction of me to the radio audience, all I could think was “Am I fucking nuts?”

I wish I could play a recording of the show for you. It was hysterical. I instantly became hooked on radio. The absolute funniest aspect of my hour and a half voyage over the airwaves had to be the reactions of the women who called the show to scream at me. “Disgusting!” “Scumbag!” For the first time since I started writing, I became Sid Stein. I loved the controversy. It was energizing.

So, in the course of one morning, I learned about the controversy I could expect down the road. Quite simply, there are a lot of people out there who don’t like Sid Stein. Still, no matter what people said to me on the radio, it was only on the radio. Sid Stein is a pen name and I was pretty secure with the idea that no one could discern my real name.

Things changed after my book was published. I needed and wanted publicity and decided to host a book release party at a bar in downtown Albany. At this point, my ex knew about the book. There was no real reason to hide my identity except to the extent that I wanted to give my children plausible deniability. I really wanted them to be able to say. “Sid Stein? Who is that?” I didn’t give up my pen name, but people in Albany, New York who knew me certainly learned that I was Sid Stein, especially after I was interviewed on local television. It’s hard to deny face-recognition.

Most local people I encountered thought my book was funny. My only real critics were young women who still hoped to marry and live happily ever after. I would tell them to talk to me when they were in their forties after real life had beaten them down. For the most part, I found living as an author to be quite enjoyable. Some people knew me only as Sid Stein. Some couldn’t remember my name at all and would just stop me and ask - “Hey, aren’t you the guy who wrote that book?”

Still, there were detractors. I enjoyed jousting with them as well. After all, without them, there would be no controversy. And who doesn’t need a little controversy? Controversy is essential to creating interest and helps to foster sales.

I fondly remember one confrontation which occurred at the local offices of the American Red Cross where I was donating blood one day. In case you never donated blood before, and I encourage you to do so, the Red Cross has a protocol for donors. They ask you many screening questions to make sure that your blood is safe. Of course, they test every donation for HIV, etc., but it makes sense to eliminate a potential unsafe donor before expending their limited resources testing his or her blood. If you are interested in donating blood and doing at least one good thing in your life, check out the website for the Red Cross. http://www.redcross.org/

So, there I was, about to donate blood. The phlebotomist was ready as I hopped up onto the stretcher and lay down. Now, before they get started with inserting the needle into your arm, they show you the chart they have for you and then ask you to state your name again. I don’t know why they ask for your name yet again, but they do. I can’t imagine why anyone would attempt to give blood as another person. After all, they don’t pay you for it. When the woman asked for my name, I responded by saying that I was Sid Stein. Of course, I made it clear that I was only kidding, and the phlebotomist had no problem with me joking around. I wasn’t prepared for what I heard next though. “Sid Stein! You’re Sid Stein? I hate you. My husband bought your book. You disgust me!” The tirade came from another donor who was lying on a nearby stretcher and was about to give blood herself. “I don’t want to give blood if he is going to be here!” Admittedly, I was caught off guard and was sincerely sorry to hear that someone wouldn’t give blood if I was in the room. Then, the woman started laughing and explained that her husband, a friend of my father, had bought a book at my local book signing. She added that her husband was there to donate blood as well. I immediately recognized him and we all had a good laugh. I admire people who can tease me so well. Still, I don’t think that she liked my book all that much.

As a new author, I was enjoying the attention and the controversy my book brought. It was fun debating the premises in my book with people I met. One day, however, my enjoyment soured as I was going through the mail at my law office. As you all know much too well, the world abounds with junk mail. Your mailbox at home is inundated by it on a daily basis. It’s no different at an office. I assume you do what I do with mail. I prioritize it as it comes in. It’s easy to identify bills. We all know to whom we owe money. Mail I received from law offices was equally easy to identify. Each has a prominent return address with the name of the lawyer or firm and a local address. Although I had cases in other cities besides just Albany, they were still local. On this particular day, one envelope caught my attention because the return address was a post office box from New York City. I never practiced in New York City, so knew it didn’t require my immediate attention. And, as you can see, it certainly didn’t look like a bill. Since I was busy with other things, I put it aside to open later. Here’s a picture of the envelope.

I wish I had opened the letter immediately. I was shocked and disturbed by what I found inside it. Here is a copy of the letter.

The letter itself doesn’t offer much information. It is on NAMBLA letterhead and requests that I confirm my application for membership in the organization. Maybe you are wondering what NAMBLA is. I wasn’t. I already knew. And if you already know, then you can imagine my shock and surprise. For those of you not in the know, NAMBLA is an acronym for the North American Man/Boy Love Association. And, no, Sid Stein is not into little boys. That fact is well documented.

You might be wondering how I knew about NAMBLA. Well, that’s thanks to the sex scandal in the Catholic Church. I am not sure if thanks is the right word, but the publicity surrounding that tragic story included an item about NAMBLA. In February of 2005, defrocked priest Paul Shanley was convicted on charges of child molestation. As early as 2002, it came to light that Father Shanley attended the 1978 founding conference of NAMBLA. So, a mere six months after the conviction, while news of Father Shanley and NAMBLA were still relatively fresh in my mind, I received a letter from the organization.

Here is a link to a Wikipedia article about NAMBLA. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NAMBLA If you want more information, then try NAMBLA’s own website. http://www.nambla.org/

As it turns out, there was a local connection to NAMBLA which I just discovered from my Google research for this story. In 1991, a local child psychologist, Alan Horowitz, was convicted on 34 counts of child molestation. He lived in nearby Schenectady County. Making matters worse, he was an ordained rabbi even though he didn’t serve in that capacity. According to the Wikipedia article, he wrote for NAMBLA while he was in prison. Apparently, in some circles, he was known as the NAMBLA rabbi. After serving 13 years of a 20-year sentence, he violated his parole and fled to India. He was captured by U.S. Marshals and eventually returned to jail. Here is a website article about his capture. http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/07/09/child.molester/index.html He was even on the television show America’s Most Wanted. http://www.amw.com/fugitives/brief.cfm?id=41997 And no, I didn’t know him. I do remember the publicity surrounding his conviction and his subsequent capture.

DISCLAIMER: IN NO WAY DOES SID STEIN ENDORSE THE PHILOSOPHY OF NAMBLA. REALLY! I SWEAR!

Hey wait a minute! Didn’t I just write that I was sent a letter asking me to confirm my application for membership in NAMBLA? I suppose you want me to address that issue. I think it’s about time I did.

Together with the letter from NAMBLA was a copy of a letter which was sent to NAMBLA. Here is a copy of the notorious “application.”

Of course there is no way for you to know, but the handwriting is not mine. Not even close. And just in case you are thinking of sending anything to my address, I have news for you. I have moved. Nothing to do with this NAMBLA business though.

As you can see, someone sent $35.00 to NAMBLA in my name. Who would do such a thing? Was it just a practical joke? I tried to think which friend of mine might waste $35.00 to “punk” me. No one came to mind. Then I wondered how it was paid. Did someone steal a check from my office? Admittedly, I have never been the best accountant and it was conceivable that a check might be missing.

Of course, I wanted answers right away. There was no telephone number listed on the letterhead. I imagine the people at NAMBLA don’t want crank calls, even though I now see on their website that they have voicemail services in New York City. At the time, I didn’t even think about looking at their website. Peter Herman, the membership secretary, did include an email address on his letter. I immediately sent an email advising him that I did not send the “application” and told him emphatically that I did not want to be a member of NAMBLA. I also asked him how payment was made and told him that I feared that someone had stolen one of my checks.

Peter Herman left a message on my cell phone the following day advising me that I would not be listed as a member of NAMBLA and that the membership dues were paid for with a money order. My checkbook was safe! I wish I could replay his message for you, but after having saved the message for quite a long time on my cellphone, it was eventually deleted by Verizon. Just as well. Peter Herman had one of the creepiest voices I have ever heard. That’s not really surprising when you think about it.

Feeling secure now that I knew no one had stolen one of my checks, I waited to hear from the jokester. I was positive that someone was ready to have a big laugh at my expense. I waited and waited and waited. No call came. No letter. No one said anything to me personally when I was out and about. I asked my closest friends about it. Most hadn’t even heard of NAMBLA. That was reassuring. I mean, it was quite a relief that my closest friends were not pedophiles. At least not that they are willing to admit.

Months went by and not a word from anyone. That means there can only be one conclusion. Someone who knew I was Sid Stein wanted to and paid $35.00 to impugn my integrity. I know what you’re thinking. Sid Stein? Integrity? Okay, maybe that’s a stretch, but still, pedophilia isn’t even on my radar screen. There was a Sid Stein hater out there somewhere. I had a bona fide enemy!! I admit it; it’s kind of neat having an enemy. I still wish I knew who it was and why they chose NAMBLA as the potential engine for my demise.

There is only one clue about the identity of my enemy. If you look at the envelope used by the perpetrator of this attempt to ruin me, you will notice that he or she used a stamp commemorating the Muslim festival of Eid, which marks the end of Ramadan. It's significant because in my other life, I was publicly vocal about my support for Israel during the second Intifada and wrote many letters to the editor at the Albany Times Union stating my views on the Israeli-Palestinian crisis. Over the period of three or four years, more than twenty letters of mine appeared in print. I even had running feuds with a few pro-Palestinian letter writers. To be fair, though, it is unlikely that any of those people knew that I was Sid Stein. Still, who buys Eid stamps? I assume that most Christians buy Christmas stamps and most Jews buy Chanukah stamps. Was my enemy devious enough to try to throw me off his trail by using an Eid stamp and hoping I would blame an Arab? Ironically, yours truly once bought a set of Eid stamps. I may be a supporter of Israel, but I am not anti-Arab. That being said, I cannot think of any Arab or Muslim I know who would want to enroll me as a member in NAMBLA. The mystery continues.

I must ask. What if this person had been successful in enrolling me as a member? What if I had never opened that envelope? Just what was this person’s plan? Was he or she going to expose me as a lover of little boys? Just how would that have been accomplished? Did this person have access to NAMBLA’s membership list? Even if the attempt had been successful, my gilded NAMBLA certificate of membership would have been sent to my office. Was it someone in the building? The postman? The identity of my enemy is still a mystery. I find that frustrating. What good is having an enemy if you don’t know who it is? There really isn’t any fun in that. After all, I do give this person a modicum of credit for the attempt. Membership in NAMBLA would be pretty damning and would dash any hopes I had for being appointed to the United States Supreme Court or for any elective office. On the other hand, wouldn’t the fact that I am the author of “A Little on the Side” also thwart any dreams I may have had for public service? Imagine the Senate confirmation hearings. No doubt some Senator from a state like Kansas would ask: Isn’t it true that you wrote a book about how to get away with cheating on your wife? Considering that Clarence Thomas survived the Anita Hill scandal, maybe it wouldn’t matter after all. Besides, what office would I be qualified for? Secretary of Homeland Security? I wouldn’t even qualify as Secretary of Bedroom Security, let alone the entire country. Is there a Department of Internal Affairs? Secretary of the Interior sounds good though. My book is about deception and how to get away with things. Maybe I could become Director of the C.I.A. Sid Stein – Supreme Spook!

Fortunately, I haven’t been troubled by any more NAMBLA issues. That’s not to say that I haven’t been embroiled in any other controversies as Sid Stein. There have been a number of good ones, and hopefully, you’ll read about them soon.

One last thing. Check out the stamps on the envelope. Notice the dinosaur? Don't little boys just love dinosaurs?! Hey little boy, want to go see the new Jurassic Park movie?

A Sid Stein Update

I recently appeared on the Coop and Tobin show on WPDH which broadcasts out of Poughkeepsie, New York. It was my second appearance on the show. The first time I discussed my book and had a rowdy good time fielding comments from irate callers. I was asked back to discuss my new adventures since my divorce. Hopefully, you have enjoyed reading about them.

I related tales of the various women I have dated since my divorce, including one about the woman who revealed to me that she survived breast cancer and had undergone reconstructive surgery. As you might already know, I was expecting to find some serious scarring from her surgery, but wasn't worried because I once had a college girlfriend who had undergone thoracic surgery which left a very long scar running the entire length of her torso. I figured that any scarring this woman had sustained could not be any worse. I was ready for anything. Ready for anything, that is, except what I eventually discovered. As I slipped off her bra, I learned that she was missing a nipple. One breast was entirely smooth! I was caught totally off-guard. I had never even heard of any such thing. Not even on Oprah, although to be honest, I don't watch Oprah that often. Sorry, Oprah. You are the queen of all media, but your show isn't on during a time when I regularly watch television.

Although I try to write as accurately as possible, I admit that on the radio, some things I say are not delivered quite as artfully. My actual words were, "As I slipped off her bra, I saw that she had only one nipple." Since the Coop and Tobin morning drive show is centered around comedy, one of the hosts asked if the sole nipple was located in the middle of her chest. There were probably a few chuckles heard over the radio waves after that question.

No one was making fun of breast cancer. I certainly wasn't and neither was the host who asked the question. In fact, Coop and Tobin raise money for a variety of causes as part of their show, and actually do a lot of good work. Unfortunately, not everyone saw it that way.

At some point in the show, a woman called up and began a ten minute rant condemning me and the show for making fun of breast cancer. She wouldn't let anyone get a word in edgewise, but Coop didn't want to cut her off for fear that listeners might think we really were making fun of breast cancer. Of course, we weren't. I know women in my own life who have been afflicted by breast cancer and I am sure everyone on the radio that day also know of women who have either survived cancer or even died.

At one point, the station manager called Coop, the main host. He was worried about the fallout from this woman's call and asked Coop to minimize the damage. I thought I was going to be asked to leave, but to the credit of Coop and his love of the first amendment, I wasn't.

One comment the caller made struck me because I do write about events in my life, including this woman with only one nipple. The woman wondered about the extent of the humiliation my date would endure if she was listening to the show. After all, the mere fact that this woman was forced to reveal her condition to me had to be very difficult in and of itself. And there I was, not only talking about it on the radio, but making fun of it too.

Honestly, I was not making fun of her condition. I was just telling the radio audience about the situations I have encountered since entering the dating scene after so many years. I simply feel that men need to know what kinds of things to expect after divorce. Besides, why aren't more people talking about the consequences of breast cancer. Sure, we know it's a horrible disease. We have heard about the horrors of cancer treatment. Still, there are many things which aren't talked about. Isn't knowledge a good thing?

I didn't have a chance to tell this on the radio, and I am not sure it would have been appropriate given the circumstances of the call, but I want to share it with you now. I actually dated this woman for some time after our first sexual encounter, one nipple and all. I considered her a good friend. However, I do know that she would not have suffered any humiliation from me talking about her on the radio. Why? She died. Car accident. Go figure. I hope she went quickly.

Sid Stein's Small World

Although I totally understand the idea behind "it's a small world," don't you think that the real magic is the fact that we live in a big world? If it was truly small, then all those small world stories wouldn't really mean that much. I mean, so what if you run into an old friend in a small world? Of course you would. It's why we call Albany, New York - Smalbany. You run into people you know all the time. It's just not that big a city. Still, one cannot discount the power of "it's a small world." I even talk about the "small world" syndrome in my book. I point out that a cheating spouse always needs to be careful no matter where he or she may be. You never know who you might run into. After all, it's a small world. I want to share one of my small world stories with you.

Some time after my divorce, I dated a woman from Bennington, Vermont, about 45 minutes from Albany. Not a bad ride, by the way, and Bennington is quite nice. Of course, she was curious about what I did for a living. I told her about my Sid Stein identity and the book I wrote. To my surprise, she had a Sid Stein story of her own.

She told me that a girlfriend of hers not only knew of Sid Stein, but hated his guts. This woman's husband apparently ordered my book and left it in the house where she then discovered it. It caused quite the domestic controversy. Why this idiot left my book where his wife could find it is beyond me and only proves my premise that men are stupid. After all, that's why I wrote the book in the first place. (Note to potential buyers of my book - Read it!)

Of course, my friend couldn't wait to tell her girlfriend that she not only met, but dated the infamous Sid Stein. From what I understand, her girlfriend was horrified at first. Later, she had second thoughts about me, or at least about the fact that her husband purchased my book. After all, had she not discovered the book, she might not have known exactly to what extent her husband was a treacherous scumbag. If you ask me, she probably knew that anyway, even if she was in denial about it.

I actually got to talk to this woman some time ago. She, and the woman I dated, were at lunch together when I called my friend. Intrigued, she asked to say hello to me. And she did. The conversation was brief, but I have to admit, it was a bit exciting to talk to her. According to my friend, the woman is quite cute. And if truth be told, I thought it would be wild if I took her out. Imagine dating the wife of a man who bought my book. Now, that would be quite the story.

So, for any of you out there who might be interested in cheating sometime, just remember - it's a Sid Stein small world. Be careful!