Sid Stein Gets Slapped While Singing Snoop Dogg during a Snowstorm

1981 wasn’t just the year my sister moved to New Orleans as you learned in a previous story. It was also the year she got married and the year my then 16 year old brother fell off a cliff in Israel. He survived but was severely head-injured and now resides in a local nursing home after being hospitalized in Israel for 13 months. He is 44 now. You may be wondering why this fact is relevant to my story, but trust me, it is. Without that precedent event, I would not have been slapped while singing Snoop Dogg’s “Gin and Juice” on karaoke night at Maggie’s Sports Bar a few weeks ago, more than 27 years after his accident.

The future is difficult to predict and it’s nearly impossible to know what consequences await us following actions intentional or accidental. So it was with my brother’s odyssey. Before he fell, we thought he might go into broadcast journalism or law. After his fall, we hoped and prayed for a complete recovery. Now we just hope and pray he is as well as he can be in his current state.

And yes, there were consequences to my brother’s accident. I visited him in Israel while he was hospitalized there, fell in love with an Israeli woman, married her and stayed for a few years. While we lived in Jerusalem, she gave birth to a son, our first child. We had three others in the States when I returned to go to law school – lovely girls all. My life and the lives of my family members were forever transformed that day in July of 1981 when my brother stumbled.

Here I am, 27 years later and divorced. My ex moved back to Israel where she lives with my youngest daughter and our son, who is now fulfilling his mandatory military service there. Two daughters remain here, one living with me and one in college in New York City. Somehow, we make it all work.

My parents’ lives were affected the most. In an instant, their lives were forever transformed; their hopes, dreams and plans for the future thrown into turmoil and chaos. With time, and to their credit, they have adjusted to the many challenges they confront in caring for my brother, Jon. And, despite the fact that almost 28 years have passed since his fall, there continue to be medical and nursing home issues. Often, it seems like endless aggravation. That’s not to say there are never any rewards. It’s easy to love my brother who is generous with hugs and smiles. He is unable to walk or talk, but he knows who we are and can communicate in his own way. He responds to yes and no questions by waving or banging with his one good arm. Through all his medical problems, he has a full range of emotions and it’s deeply satisfying to make him happy and see him smile.

To the extent possible, my parents have settled into a routine with his care. My mother usually goes to see him at night during the week and my father visits him on the weekends. Their devotion to him is remarkable, and without it, I cannot imagine what condition he would be in.
As for me, I see him on occasion during the year, but not as often as I feel I should. To be honest, and my parents understand this, it’s heartbreaking to see my little brother, six years my junior, in the state he’s in. Once a year though, every January (I call it Jon-uary), I get my opportunity to be his caretaker. For quite a few years now, my parents have been going to Aruba for the month. It’s their well-earned and deserved respite from a life they did not choose. So, for one month per year, I go visit my brother almost every day to make sure he is being properly cared for and to bring him some cheer.

So it was this past Jon-uary. And, although my visits with my brother come in one big block each year, I too have developed my own coping routines. I try to get to him by seven o’clock in the evening, about a half hour after his afternoon nap, giving time to the staff to get him out of bed and into his wheelchair. I usually take him downstairs to watch television. He likes when I do “play by play” for basketball or football, and loves “Jeopardy,” waving his arm in approval whenever I get the correct answer (in the form of a question, of course.) His nursing home is about a half hour north from my house and I drive past Albany’s downtown on my way and way back. Since I am already “out,” and am driving back towards Albany anyway, part of my routine has been to stop off at my usual haunts.

It was one Saturday night when I decided to set out to see my brother despite the fact that the snow was coming down quite heavily in big fat flakes. The weather here in Albany is quite unpredictable and one never knows for sure how long the snow will last. Since my brother has no alternative but to wait for me to arrive, I don’t like skipping days, no matter what the driving conditions happen to be. I probably should have stayed home. The snow continued to come down and my car was covered with about two inches of powder when I finally left my brother. Now it was just a matter of navigating the way home safely. Ring! My cellphone! Two friends of mine were having a drink at Barcelona’s, a great Italian restaurant with a Spanish name where my father often hangs out with his friends. They invited me to stop by and have a drink with them. I thought, why not? I had to get back to Albany anyway, and although Barcelona’s wasn’t on my usual route home, it was still on an alternative route to Albany. Six of one, half a dozen of another. I told them I would be there in about a half hour. I cleared the snow off my car and set out. Route 7 West to 87 South. It was slow-going. The roads were not plowed and the visibility was poor.

I was doing my best to stay calm and drive safely, as much as the trip was nerve-wracking. I was making steady if slow progress west on Route 7 as I neared the ramp to 87 South. That’s when my troubles really started. As I tried to merge left to get onto 87, I was confronted by a phalanx of three huge snowplows which were attempting the same maneuver. I could barely see as the snow built up on my windshield. No way was my Honda going to make it through those plows. I had no choice but to continue straight and access the highway from a different point. At this point, I could barely see through my windshield at all and still had a few miles to go. I opened my window and peeked out, hoping to be able to see more clearly. It didn’t really help. My windshield wiper fluid was no help either, just adding to the problem, freezing as it hit my windshield. I managed to get onto 87 and was hoping that the snow plows had cleared a good path. Hopes were dashed as the snow continued to come down heavily. It was impossible to see the lines differentiating the three lanes on the highway. I did my best to follow the lights of the cars ahead of me but my windshield kept icing up. As some four-wheel drive vehicles sped past, I was praying that I would make it to Barcelona’s in one piece.

Necessity is the mother of invention, so I invented a novel way to navigate. I remembered that the sides of the highway were grooved to create vibrations for sleepy drivers who drifted off the road. I used those grooves to navigate, harried as I was. After what seemed like forever, I reached the end of the highway and turned left onto Western Avenue in Albany. From there, it was only a couple of minutes to the restaurant and the traveling was much easier on the city streets. And to my delight, my friends were still there. I enjoyed a well-earned cocktail.

True to Sid Stein, one of my friends was someone I had once dated. However, also true to Sid Stein, I flirted with a woman from Colombia who was friends with the owner, Minerva, from Mexico. They had the Spanish thing going between themselves. And by now, you should know my soft spot for Latinas. This one happened to be very pretty too. I could sense that the woman I had once dated wasn’t very happy, so I came up with a Plan B. Right or wrong, I was going to sing karaoke at Maggie’s Sports Bar, just one block away. And off I went.

Other than knowing it was a sports bar which featured karaoke on the weekends, I knew little about Maggie’s. Years ago, before Maggie and her partner bought the building, it was Son’s Tavern, where I would go once a year around Christmas time and get royally drunk with a friend from New York City who came up to spend holiday time with his family. Before I started going to Maggie’s on a regular basis, it was not a destination that would come to mind when I thought about going out and about. I am more of a downtown Albany person and Maggie’s is on the other side of town. And, although I have lived in Albany most of my life, I didn’t know anyone who went to Maggie’s. Still, I knew it had karaoke.

One night, quite a few months ago, I took my daughter and her boyfriend to Maggie’s to get a bite to eat. There was some game we wanted to watch but needed to eat too. I didn’t feel like cooking for them, so off we went. We watched the game and enjoyed our meal. One thing I noticed. Although I had not been introduced to her at the time, Maggie came over to check up on us to make sure everything was okay. I like that kind of personal touch and it made an impression on me.

So, it was one Saturday night a couple of months ago when I had nothing to do when I first decided to go to Maggie’s to sing karaoke. I thought I would give it a try. As I walked in, I wasn’t sure what to think about the crowd. I didn’t know anyone there so had no way to gauge what kind of people frequented Maggie’s on a Saturday night. I looked around and saw an assortment of people who looked like honest working class folk, most likely blue collar together with a smattering of state workers. Since Albany is the capital of New York, the State is our largest employer. To be frank, it didn’t look like a crowd which would welcome Sid Stein with open arms, or so I thought at first glance. Still, I had a hankering to sing some karaoke, and since I didn’t feel like going anywhere else, I decided to stay and give it a shot. Besides, the bartenders were really cute.

I should explain what I mean by saying it didn’t look like a “Sid Stein crowd.” First of all, there were people my age and older. Except for when I am hanging out with my father, I am usually among the older patrons of any place I go. Still, there were quite a few young people, and a lot of guys who looked liked dedicated sports fans. After all, it was a sports bar. Most of the younger women there were either with a boyfriend or part of some group of girls looking to meet a like-minded group of guys. In other words, I had no idea with whom I could flirt because I do like to flirt. On the other hand, I do like to sing for the sake of singing, and as I said, the bartenders were cute. There was one major factor about which I was concerned. Would this crowd embrace Sid Stein singing rap songs?

Since I was new to Maggie’s and had just arrived (meaning I was completely sober), I decided it would be prudent to assess the karaoke scene before I submitted any songs. So, I ordered a drink and found a strategic place to stand, watch and listen. It was easy to pick out the regular karaoke singers. They are usually the better singers and display learned confidence when they sing. The casual karaoke singers, on the other hand, need liquid courage before they sing and are often quite giddy when they get up and hold the microphone. Although some sing quite well, most are just there to have some fun with their friends. It’s one of the things I enjoy about karaoke. It’s democratic and the point is just to have a good time. None of the singers, however, were singing anything close to rap or hip/hop. The regulars, who were a bit older, were singing oldies and classics from the seventies. The younger singers primarily sang karaoke favorites like “Don’t Stop Believing’” by Journey or “Love Shack” by the B-52’s. I wasn’t sure that Sid Stein would fit in with this particular crowd, so I approached the DJ and sought some counsel. Johnny was quick with an answer. He told me that anything goes. Good news for Sid. I was ready to find out if Johnny was right.

Johnny handed me the microphone. The recognizable intro to “Gin and Juice” by Snoop Dogg began. I slipped into Sid Stein karaoke mode, turned my back to the television screen because I know the words, and began to rap. After just a few bars, I had everyone’s attention. The look in the eyes of Maggie’s patrons was familiar to me – wonderment. Can a fifty year old white man really pull off Snoop Dogg? Without looking at the lyrics? With my customary swagger, I wandered around the room winning over the hearts and minds of the people there. I was an unqualified hit.

As I returned to the drink I had left at the bar, I received a few high fives and was then greeted by two beautiful smiling faces. The bartenders loved me too. They wanted more. With such a positive reception, I was willing to give it to them too. I mean I would be happy to rap some more. Keep your minds out of my gutter! And stay away from the bartenders, Corinne and Kristen.

I returned to Maggie’s in the following weeks and started to get to know some of the regulars. And, although it wasn’t the “regular” crowd I was accustomed to, everyone was very nice and accepting. I felt comfortable and enjoyed the change of pace. Maggie’s has the atmosphere of a family place, which I found out wasn’t surprising. Her brother and two sisters are always there. One night, there was a different bartender – an absolutely beautiful girl. Before I was able to flirt with her at all, Maggie, who was sitting at the bar near me, was quick to remark that the bartender, Jen, was her niece. Now that’s what I call a family place.

The more I got to know the place, the more I learned about it. Maggie has a very interesting story. Her brother Joe told it to me. Maggie was a lifelong waitress until she went to the track in Saratoga one day to bet on the horses. In case you are unfamiliar with Saratoga Racetrack, it is one of the finest thoroughbred tracks in the country. http://www.saratoga.com/HotSpot_SaratogaRacetrack.cfm Maggie, and her partner in the bar to be, Joe, went one day and hit the Pick Six. That means they picked the winners in six straight races and won a ton of money. With that stash, they opened Maggie’s Sports Bar and Café. It may sound like a cliché, but it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. Maggie really is great, loves and cares about her customers, and quite simply, runs a wonderful place. Check out her site and the complete story online - http://maggiessportsbaralbany.com/about.htm

Most of all, Maggie seemed tolerant of my rap songs, which admittedly, are the only songs sung at the bar which include questionable lyrics. And, the majority of the people there loved hearing me sing “Gin and Juice” by Snoop Dogg and “Big Poppa” by the one and only Notorious B.I.G. The other important person, the DJ, Johnny, also embraced the rap performances of Sid Stein. In fact, that’s all he ever wants me to sing there! So be it – he’s the boss.

So there I was that Saturday night after navigating through the snow. A little to my surprise, there were quite a few people at the bar despite the inclement weather. The more the merrier! I walked over to Johnny the DJ and asked him to put me in for “Gin and Juice.” Johnny was happy to oblige.

I said hello to everyone and ordered a drink from Corinne – or maybe Kristen. They are both terrific bartenders. And both are pretty. You can’t really lose at Maggie’s. You can, however, cause some trouble, especially if you are Sid Stein.

At some point, Johnny called me up to sing. I started “Gin and Juice” like I always do, head down, not looking at anyone or anything until the lyrics started. As I began to rap, I started to roam around the center of the room, addressing the customers at Maggie’s. Behind me was a table of young people I hadn’t seen before. One of the young women at the table surprised me, which, if you have been following my stories, isn’t easy. She stood up at her table and started shouting at me. “You freak! What are you singing? Stop it! What is wrong with you?” Geez, I thought. I had no idea what irked this woman. I can only speculate that I made her feel uncomfortable because I am a 50 year old guy singing Snoop Dogg. Otherwise, I had no contact with her at all. I took it in stride and found her outburst quite amusing. Perhaps you have figured out that I don’t mind getting strong reactions from people. In any event, I turned away from her and continued singing “Gin and Juice.”

At this point, I have to make a confession of sorts. I sang karaoke for years before singing any rap. “Gin and Juice” was my first rap song, and to be honest, it didn’t go all that well the first time. Nevertheless, I was determined to make it a part of my repertoire, so practice I did. For quite a while, I would sing it as anyone usually sings a song. I got up, sang it, and sat down. One time, however, the song became more than just a song for me. I was singing at the Washington Tavern on a Wednesday night where a friend of mine is the DJ. It’s primarily a college crowd. They love Sid there. That particular night, however, there was a very pretty young girl who seemed to be laughing at me while I was singing. I thought I would teach her a couple of lessons – that I was in control and beauty is only skin deep. So, when I got to the end of the song, I walked over to her and sang right to her. Here are the lyrics at the end of the song:

Later on that day, my homey Dr. Dre came through with a gang of tanqueray
And a fat ass j, of some bubonic chronic that made me choke
Shit, this ain’t no joke
I had to back up off of it and sit my cup down
Tanqueray and chronic, yeah I’m fucked up now
But it ain’t no stoppin’, I’m still poppin’
Dre got some bitches from the city of Compton
To serve me, not with a cherry on top
Cause when I bust my nut, I’m raisin up off the cot
Don’t get upset girl, that’s just how it goes
I don’t love you hoes, I’m out the door
And I’ll be
Rollin’ down the street, smokin’ indo, sippin’ on gin and juice (beeotch!!)
Laid back [with my mind on my money and my money on my mind]
Rollin down the street, smokin’ indo, sippin’ on gin and juice (beeotch!!)
Laid back [with my mind on my money and my money on my mind]

I put the most important word in bold. Beeotch, or biatch, if you prefer. It’s an exaggerated form of the word bitch. So, at the Washington Tavern, I got right into the face of this girl and exclaimed: “Biatch!” The crowd went wild and the girl laughed. Before long, it became the thing to do. Girls at the Washington Tavern were hoping I would pick them to be the “biatch.”

Of course, I can’t do that wherever I go. Not everyone knows it’s just for fun. And at Maggie’s, considering the family nature of the establishment, I don’t pick any biatches out when I sing, even if there happens to be one there. I have to respect Maggie and her bar. However, as I was singing the song, I noticed that crazy girl standing closer to the bar in the middle of a group of her friends. When she saw me, she shook her head and said: “Not you again!” At least that’s what I think she said. I couldn’t really hear her.

Whoever this girl was, she left me with little choice. The chorus continued: “rollin’ down the street, smokin’ indo, sippin’ on gin and juice.” I looked in her direction and sang: “BIATCH!”
To be honest, I never saw her reaction, but as the song continued, a female friend of hers sneered at me and said: “I bet you thought that was funny.” I replied simply: “No, it was funny.” Then I looked at her right in the face and finished with a hearty “BIATCH!” That’s when she slapped my face. It didn’t hurt too much. I just laughed.

Before long, the incident became news at Maggie’s. I made it news when I asked the bartenders if they knew the identity of the woman who slapped me. Apparently that’s all I had to say for the news to spread. Everyone I talked to found it amusing. Even Maggie. A couple of weeks later, after I sang “Gin and Juice” again, I went over to say hello to Maggie and she asked: “Did you just say bitch?” Then she slapped me lightly. I just thought that was the cutest thing.

So, my friends, that’s the story of how Sid Stein got slapped while singing Snoop Dogg during a snowstorm. And we can all wonder. If my brother hadn’t fallen off a cliff ….

Sid Stein’s Small World – News Flash!

Back when I first went on JDate, the Jewish online dating site, I started chatting with a woman from Atlanta, Georgia. Let’s call her Cynthia. She was blonde and very pretty. All of the pictures she posted were lovely. Still, she lived in Atlanta, so I had few expectations about ever meeting her, let alone having a relationship with her.

From chatting online, we moved to the phone, and enjoyed talking to each other. One day, she told me that she would be coming to New York City with a couple of friends for a visit and wondered if I could meet her there. I said I would be happy to. And, to be honest, I was happy. In her pictures, she looked hot, and on the phone, had a sweet southern drawl.

I took the train down and met her in the lobby of her hotel, somewhere in midtown. Let’s say this – she was not exactly the same person I had envisioned from her pictures. She looked older and quite a bit bigger. She wore a white sundress which was far from flattering. It must have been a couple of sizes too small. She was spilling out of it. We spent the afternoon together but I felt lucky when I found out my son was in town and wanted to meet me at Grand Central. It’s always great to have a Plan B fall into your lap.

As you can well imagine, all contact between Cynthia and myself ceased. So it goes.

Shoot forward to today, a good year and a half since I met her. I woke up in a good mood, made some coffee, turned on my laptop and then the television. Before I had a chance to see what was on, I saw a picture of Cynthia, one of the same pictures she had posted on JDate. My television was tuned to “The Morning Show with Mike and Juliet.” Although I had no idea who Mike and Juliet are, I clearly recognized Cynthia. Apparently, Cynthia’s daughter felt her mother is generally outlandishly dressed and wears too much makeup. Duh! Cynthia was on the show to get what they called a “make-under,” as opposed to the more traditional makeover. http://www.mandjshow.com/

If you have ever seen a makeover on television, then you know what I am talking about. They showed her as she usually dresses and had a sad little bio about her self-esteem problems. If she actually had any issues when I met her, she did a great job at covering them up. From everything she told me, she was a successful businesswoman who had lots of friends, including some very high-profile ones. On the show, they mentioned she felt a little down when her ex-husband first cheated on her. Apparently, he either never read my book or just wanted to escape. Some men want to get caught - sometimes for good reason. At some point, they trotted her out wearing more conservative clothes and more appropriate makeup. All I can say, is – thank you, Mike and Juliet.

Sid Stein Gets Sick But Still Manages To Have Some Sick Fun at the Supermarket Before It Started Snowing

When I turned fifty, I went to my doctor for an annual physical. Although I felt fine, he made me feel bad when he said I was now old enough to be eligible for a winter flu shot. That was on top of the colonoscopy news about which I already wrote. As the winter approached, I made an appointment and went in for a flu shot. So, when I took ill mid-February, I was feeling the unexpected.

Not knowing what my unpleasant symptoms meant, and wanting to nip whatever I had in the bud, I called the doctor and went in to obtain an expert opinion. I got the physician’s assistant. So it goes. As it turned out, I was diagnosed with a viral upper respiratory infection so did not need antibiotics. Great, I thought. I didn’t need to make a stop at the pharmacy. As a Jew, though, I figured some homemade chicken soup would be in order, so I went to the supermarket to buy what I needed for my great Jewish remedy.

I grabbed a cart and wheeled it inside. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a man about 30 years old with a puppet on his hand. He looked a bit weird to me. Creepy, in fact. Who wears a puppet on his hand to the supermarket? Not wanting to waste time investigating because I really wasn’t feeling well, I headed first to the produce section to get what I needed for a nice soup. Then, after picking up some chicken thighs and a few other items, I headed to the check-out aisle. I also picked up a copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Couldn’t resist. There’s an Israeli on the cover – Bar Rafaeli. http://justjared.buzznet.com/gallery/photos.php?yr=2009&mon=02&evt=refaeli-sports&pic=bar-refaeli-sports-illustrated-cover-01.jpg Don’t you just love the way men justify their purchases?

While I was packing my groceries, I asked Donna, the checkout girl, if she had noticed the guy with the puppet on his hand. She hadn’t but I made some joke about it anyway. After I paid, I made my way to the door.

As I got to the door, there was more than one person with a hand puppet. There were two. A young woman was the perp’s partner. They were standing by a display table full of booklets and other items. Although I didn’t notice which organization they represented, it was one of those outfits dedicated to stopping kidnapping by having kids fingerprinted. I am sure there were many other safety tips for parents, but I didn’t get too close to the table to see what they had except for a large banner which clearly mentioned fingerprints. I had two new playmates to tease, wasn’t feeling all that well, so didn’t feel like reading their literature.

I said hello and asked what the puppets were for. The young woman started to explain the campaign to me while her male partner just stood there, looking a bit embarrassed. After all, he was hanging around a supermarket with a puppet on his hand. Friends, I just couldn’t help myself and will do my best to transmit my monologue to you to the best of my memory.
“Puppets? I used to use puppets along with a puppy to attract kids. Most kids can’t resist a cute puppy. So what are you guys doing here? Trying to ruin my social life? Don’t think I am giving you my fingerprints. And forget about getting my D.N.A. Actually, (speaking to the woman), I would be happy to give you my D.N.A., just not using a method traditionally accepted for your purposes.” She was kind of cute.

They figured I was joking and good for them. I was. They asked me if I would be interested in purchasing one of their t-shirts. I decided to wipe the smiles off their faces and replied: “Listen, kids, I am a level three sex offender and I am not buying one of your t-shirts. Have a nice day. Gotta go!” That seemed to make them wonder. And, just in case you are wondering, I am not a child molester. How could you even think that? Because I have a dog who was once a puppy? Shame on you.

Sid Stein Reinvents Charitable Giving

I was invited to a Valentine’s Day party this year. As you might be able to deduce from my stories, Valentine’s Day is not one of my favorite holidays. It’s restrictive by forcing one to choose between many candidates. And, even though it’s considered a “Hallmark Holiday,” women seemingly attach great significance and importance to the day. There are even financial considerations. Just how many Valentine’s Day gifts can one person purchase? On top of that, there are logistical considerations. Can one invite a woman to a Valentine’s Day breakfast without her knowing that she didn’t rate high enough to be invited to dinner? Probably not. So, in Sid Stein’s scheme of things, it’s just easier not to have a date at all. Besides, there are 364 other days in the year. So, the prospect of a party appealed to me. It was also a benefit for the American Heart Association, making it a good cause as well. And, when a pretty friend of mine asked me to give her a lift, I decided I would go.

I am glad I went to the party. Not only did I meet some very nice people, but I also saw some old friends I hadn’t seen in quite a while. One of these old acquaintances was Alex, someone I used to see regularly at karaoke at the Bleecker, now known as Pinto and Hobbs. He got married and moved to Troy, New York, just a short ride north from Albany. Since finding marital bliss, Alex apparently doesn’t get out in Albany very much anymore. If he does, he doesn’t get to Pinto and Hobbs. That’s a shame because he is a very entertaining karaoke singer.

Alex was standing with another friend as the two of us began reminiscing about old times. They were funny times too. As much as I still love karaoke at Pinto and Hobbs, I consider those the “Classic Karaoke” years, the time when I was a bit out of control and far more confrontational. In fact, Alex reminded me of the time when he and another friend “saved” my life. They intervened in a situation. Someone was apparently angry enough with me that he wanted to beat my brains out. I remember the incident well and was certainly grateful when Alex intervened. He is quite tall, which always helps with intimidating shorter bullies.

Alex, however, added a new story to the Sid Stein lore, one about which I have absolutely no recollection. The story convinced me that I should reconsider hiring a scribe to follow me around to record the events of my life I don’t remember.

It’s a short story, but adds a new wrinkle to the nature of charitable giving which might appeal to some people who normally don’t like to give or who need more fun when giving. Alex told me that he would never forget the time when he spotted me in an open window on the second or third story of a Lark Street brownstone throwing coins to a panhandler. Since I have no memory of the incident, I have no idea whose apartment I was in. Thinking back, I can’t even remember anyone I know who even lives on the particular block of Lark Street Alex identified. I asked him if he was positive about the location because there is someone I know who had an apartment which overlooks the street. He was adamant, but who knows for sure? Not I.

You might think that this form of charitable giving is demeaning to the recipient. A valid argument could be made that I was mocking this poor person who needed money, even if I was inebriated at the time. By the same token, I could argue that even if such were the case, at least I was helping someone in need. And, think about all the people who pass by beggars without giving them anything at all. Alex, though, added a twist that made me feel better about the incident. He noted that not only was I enjoying myself, but so was the panhandler. Apparently, we made a little game out of it.

Is there a moral to this story? Not really. On the other hand, there are many people who need help. Some even overcome their own sense of dignity and beg for help. So, if you are a person who has a problem giving to them, try to have some fun with it. You’ll be doing a good deed while helping a person in need.