Sid Stein Confronts Black Thought of The Roots at Jazzfest in New Orleans

In 1981, my sister moved to New Orleans for law school. She never left. I moved to Israel in 1982 and visited her once when I came home briefly in 1983. I returned to the United States in 1985 and went to law school myself, settling with my family in Albany, New York, back to where I was born. It wasn’t until sometime in 1992 when I considered returning to New Orleans for a visit. I was at my office and received an announcement for a legal seminar in New Orleans. I thought it might be a good opportunity for me to visit my sister. Tax-deductible too! I called her up and asked her what she thought. She was quick with a probing question. Did I really want to go to a legal seminar or did I just want to have fun in New Orleans? I was equally as quick with an answer. I just wanted to have fun. So, instead of going to the seminar, she suggested I come down for the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival which takes places over two weekends in late April and early May. And so I did. I had a fantastic time and have been going every year since. I thoroughly recommend it and look forward to my annual pilgrimage to one of the great meccas for music in America.

Years after my first Jazzfest, it was with measurable trepidation that I sent my then 18 year old daughter to the Crescent City with her best friend for spring break. As fun as New Orleans is, it can be dangerous. Once, when I was strolling down Bourbon Street taking in the sights and sounds, I had to be rescued from two prostitutes by a cop. Seriously! They were grabbing me and wouldn’t leave me alone. So, the thought of my very pretty daughter running around Bourbon Street with her equally pretty friend was scary, to say the least. My sister, absolutely trustworthy, vowed to look out for their safety. Despite my fears, off they went.

Thanks to modern technology, I was able to get regular updates from my daughter by cell phone. She and her friend were having a great time and seemed to be taking adequate safety precautions. I think it was sometime on Sunday when my daughter called to tell me that she was going to try to see the rap group The Roots at the House of Blues. She said she would “try” because (1) she thought the show might be sold out; and (2) it was a 21 and over show. The House of Blues is a great venue for music and I was excited for her even though I had no idea who the Roots were or if she could even get in. As much as I try to always be the cool dad, four years ago, I had no knowledge about the Roots. I told her to be careful and have fun.

The next contact I received from my daughter was just noise. Apparently, she had made it into the club and called me so I could hear the music. I don’t know if anyone has ever tried to call you from inside a music club, but if they have, then you know that you just hear noise, not much music. In any event, I was happy for my daughter and her friend. That was until the next day when my daughter called me to report on her evening escapade.

I was sitting at my computer when the call came. From the tone in her voice, my daughter was obviously excited to talk to me. “We got in! What a great show! I love the Roots!” I was so relieved to hear from her. She had her adventure at the House of Blues and made it back to my sister’s house in one piece. “And guess what, Dad?” she continued. “During the show, I made eye contact with one of the Roots and they invited us back to the hotel for their after-party! So, we were smoking blunts and doing shots of Patron with the Roots!” The Roots? My baby was smoking blunts and doing shots of tequila with a rap group? I immediately googled the Roots. This is what I found.

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Every stereotype I had ever heard about rappers flooded my brain. What the fuck was my daughter thinking? “They were so nice, Dad! We had a great time!” “You went with them to their hotel?” I could barely breathe. “Who else was there?” I was hoping it was a big party, thinking there would have been safety in numbers. “Well,” she replied, “their manager was there.” All I could imagine is that these rappers had somehow ravaged my daughter. “Are you ok, honey? Did anything happen to you?” “Nothing happened, Dad. Don’t worry. They were very nice.” I found that hard to believe. Why would these gangsta rappers invite two young girls back to their hotel if they only had good intentions? Smoking blunts and doing shots of Patron? I was ready to call 911. I was afraid I would never start breathing again. By the way, the guy with the big afro is Questlove, although he spells it ?uestlove. He is scary looking enough to strike fear in the heart of any father of a teenage daughter.

When I caught my breath, I was able to calm down. After all, it was already the day after and my daughter was safe and sound. I was thankful and made a mental note to discuss nightclub safety with my daughter when she returned home. There was little point in lecturing her over the phone.

The next call came from my sister. Apparently, my daughter called her after the show from the hotel and told her she was attending the “after-party.” My sister related that she had the same reaction as I did. Panic! She went on and on about stress she endured, worrying not only about my daughter, but also about the daughter of two parents she hadn’t even met. My sister learned a quick lesson about parental responsibility and what it means to worry about your kids. At the time, her son was just turning five, so she had no experience with teenagers. I offered some feeble apology for all her worrying and wished her years of good luck as my nephew grows up. She muttered something about never inviting my kids down to New Orleans again, but I knew she didn’t really mean it.

Afterwards, I decided to learn more about The Roots. First of all, they are not gangsta rappers. They are actually quite cool, play their own instruments and are very good. I listened to some of their music online. I easily understood why my daughter was so excited to see them. And now, not only did she have a great story to tell her friends, but she had a picture as proof of her evening with The Roots. When all was said and done, I was happy for her. Still, I had lingering doubts as to The Roots’ motivation in inviting my beautiful daughter and her beautiful friend back to their hotel.

As it turned out, I was inspired to listen to more rap music and have learned to appreciate and enjoy the genre. Like most other kinds of music, there is good, bad and mediocre. Since then, I have been to a number of rap shows myself.

Three years after my daughter’s encounter with The Roots, I had the opportunity to see them myself. And, in New Orleans, no less, at the Jazz and Heritage Festival this past May. Now, I have my own Roots story, and here it is.

For most of the years I have been going, I have attended Jazzfest by myself. I always looked forward to spending some quality time with my sister. We both love it. When she adopted my nephew, the dynamic changed somewhat. Although she still went to the festival during the day, she didn’t go out at night to the clubs very often. Going to the music clubs at night is one of the highlights of my annual visit, so I missed being able to go with my sister as much. Still, the music is always great. Then, a few years ago, our father decided to join us. He had so much fun that he now goes every year. Besides the music, he has the additional attraction of spending time with his grandchild, my nephew. It actually turned out to be quite nice. My father and I hit the clubs and have seen some great shows together. He doesn’t go to the fairgrounds every day, spending time with my nephew instead. That allows my sister to have a stress-free time at the festival with me.

This past year, I changed the dynamic even more. My musically-inclined girlfriend flew down and joined us. Not wanting to burden my sister, she got a hotel room near the French Quarter. Although I technically was at my sister’s house, I spent more time sleeping at the hotel. Surprise!

As it turned out, The Roots were set to perform at the festival. The day before, I noticed that they would be signing autographs at the CD tent prior to their 3:00 p.m. show, at about 1:15. I hatched a plan.

I enjoyed the remainder of the festival that day and went back to my sister’s house to get ready to hit the town that night to see Buddy Guy at the House of Blues. Before I left, I sent a text message to my daughter. I asked her to send the picture of her with Black Thought, the lead singer of The Roots, to my Verizon cell phone. He was the one in the Pennsylvania t-shirt in the picture of the group (see link above). I noticed that the battery power was low, so I plugged it in to recharge. I also had a Sprint cell phone, so I took that and went out for the night.

Well, we had a great time. Buddy Guy was terrific and very entertaining. Since we were in the French Quarter, we decided to take a stroll down Bourbon Street. I wanted to give my girlfriend a taste of New Orleans. Drunken revelry all around! Surprise again! We ended up at Club Ozz and danced and drank the night away before returning to her hotel.

It was a late night of partying and after a bit of sleep, we needed to get to my sister’s house so we could get a ride to the fairgrounds for the next day of Jazzfest – and The Roots. When we arrived at my sister’s house uptown, she was not happy. Apparently, she decided not to go the festival that day, opting to join my father and her son on a trip to the New Orleans Aquarium or something like that. Still, because she always looks out for my better interests, and knowing how hard it is to get a cab to the fairgrounds from her house, she had arranged for a friend to transport us. As considerate as that was, her friends were leaving within fifteen minutes of my arrival. No way! I needed to shower – and this and that. And no way did my sister want to go out of her way and drop us off at the festival. So, my sister and I had our annual confrontation. We have one every year, so chose to use this dilemma as a platform for whatever we needed to get out and relieve our sibling psyches. Since we only see each other a couple of times a year, emotions build up. So, we have a little argument each year and then get back to the business of being brother and sister. It works for us. Still, when she took her dog out for a short walk, I was fuming and ranting that I would never return to Jazzfest again. Then I thought. My father had rented a car, so my sister didn’t need hers. I knew the way to Jazzfest and even know where the lady lives on whose lawn we park. We have been parking there for years. Here’s a picture of her with my father and sister. 

So, when my sister returned with the Lucy, her dog, I presented my proposal. Knowing that I don’t drink during the day, my sister had no real option but to let me use her car. Ha! Problem solved.

As I was milling about my sister’s living room, I noticed my Verizon cell phone which was still plugged into the wall from the day before. There was a picture message waiting for me from my daughter. Oh my G-d! I had totally forgotten about the autograph session with The Roots and my plan for the day. I looked at the message and there it was – a picture of my daughter with Black Thought. I looked at the time and realized that there was a good chance I would miss my opportunity to get an autograph and meet Black Thought. I raced upstairs to shower and left the house as quickly as I could. I set a new personal Jazzfest best for getting out of the house.
By the time we entered the fairgrounds, the autograph session had been underway for at least twenty minutes. I was praying I was not too late. It had rained the night before and the fairgrounds were very muddy. My girlfriend, however, had not worn shoes appropriate for the conditions. It was her first year there. On the other hand, like a girl scout, I was prepared. I tried dragging my girlfriend along but it was slow-going in the sloppy muck. I looked at her and said: “Look, I hate to leave you here, but I have to run. I can’t miss this. Meet me there.” And off I ran.

I splashed through mud puddles and oozing mud bogs and was huffing and puffing by the time I reached the CD tent. The Roots were still there! I rushed inside the tent to purchase their CD. Why are people so damn slow down South? Is it so hard to make change from a twenty? I rushed out of the CD tent to get in line for an autograph, doing my best to tear off the plastic from the CD case. And, who was the idiot who invented CD wrapping? Geez! Safely in line, I began to smile but still wondered exactly how I would execute my plan to confront Black Thought with the picture of him and my daughter. Here's the pic, by the way.  

As I waited in line and meandered around the barricades to get to the autograph table, I did what I always do in line. I talked with the other people there. This time, however, I had a good reason. I wasn’t sure which Root was Black Thought. And to be honest, I didn’t even know his name at that point. I just had a cell phone picture of him. So I took out the phone and approached a young black kid, figuring he could tell me who was in the picture. I thought he said Black Thor. The kid had a pretty heavy southern drawl. Black Thor? Thor? Like the Norse god of Thunder? That’s who my daughter was hanging out with? Thor? I asked the kid to repeat the name. After three tries, I finally understood that his name was Black Thought. Ok, now I had the name. I asked the kid to point him out to me. He was the first one at the end of the table. The moment of truth was approaching. My adrenalin was pumping.

Well, it was almost my turn in line. There was only one kid in front of me before I would get my opportunity to confront Black Thought himself. I readied my cell phone so that the picture of him and my daughter was on the screen. I still didn’t know what I was going to say. By this time, my girlfriend made it and got in line with me. She expressed her concern. Would Black Thought appreciate what was about to unfold? Would he get mad? Would he kill me? Thanks, honey. Make me more nervous.

Then, dear readers - a gift from heaven. The kid in front of me was quizzing Black Thought about the relative virtues of outdoor versus indoor venues. I listened as Black Thought gave him a perfunctory answer about how he liked indoor venues because of the acoustics but equally enjoyed performing outdoors to a large, fun crowd. That was my cue. I interrupted and interjected: “Excuse me, but do you remember playing an indoor venue here in New Orleans, about three years ago, at the House of Blues?” Black Thought looked at me and answered: “Sure, were you there?” I looked at him right in the eye, shoved the picture of him and my daughter right in his face, and said: “No, I wasn’t, but my daughter was!” Black Thought pulled back in his chair, put his hands up like he was under arrest and earnestly exclaimed: “Nothing happened!” I can only imagine what thoughts were running through the mind of Black Thought. Is some irate father going to shoot me? He looked nervous. The other Roots were listening and laughing their asses off. Of course, they all had to see the picture, so my cell phone got passed down the line.

I told them the story about my daughter’s adventure with them (because how would they remember two white girls from three years earlier – at least I hoped they didn’t remember). Anyway, we all had a good laugh. Black Thought autographed the CD I had bought for my daughter and included a very nice inscription to her. It began: “To the daughter of this guy I don’t know” or something like that. My girlfriend even purchased another CD so that I could have my own autographed copy. Sweet!

And to top things off, this is me with Black Thought and ?uestlove. I am the white guy in the back with the shit-eating grin on his face.

And the cropped version for good measure!

Posted by Sid Stein's Diariesat 10:10 AM

Sexting with Sid Stein - Two Cautionary Tales of Caveat Emptor

Just because governmental protections are in place, it doesn’t mean that we should relax our vigilance when making purchases. Unscrupulous businessmen have existed since the beginning of commerce and there is no indication that anything will ever change. A major part of my book, “A Little on the Side,” is devoted to being careful and knowing what you are getting into when you undertake having an affair. It’s why I developed the concept of the “Adultery Quotient,” a tool to help you determine the safest and most discreet lover. Still, human nature is what it is, and very often, people rush headlong into situations without considering the ramifications or consequences of their actions. Here are two such tales. Caveat Emptor!

Tale #1 –

Sometime ago, a married man I knew quite well was having an affair. No doubt he and his lover were quite careful at the beginning of their relationship. However, as is often the case after an extended period of cavorting without getting caught, they became complacent and less cautious. Certain people in the community became suspicious, but most probably, didn’t want to think the worst. And without glaring evidence, that’s the way it should be. In my book, I even recommend taking advantage of that quirk of human nature, the inclination to give people the benefit of the doubt. Inevitably, since he wasn’t being too careful, it became apparent that the man was having an affair. When confronted, he even admitted it, claiming he was in love with the woman, a defense his wife probably would have had a problem with, had she known. Despite his proclamation of love, however, he never left his wife. So much for love.

Time passed and it seemed like the affair was over. The woman in the relationship had moved on and was living with someone else. The sordid affair became a distant memory. That was, until one day, I logged onto my computer to find that the wife of this adulterous man had purchased my book on Amazon. Not only did she purchase it, but she was sending it to the “other woman.” I was baffled. First, I never thought she knew about the affair (the wife is always the last to know). Second, it was totally out of character for her to do such a thing. So, after some investigation on my part, a person who knew them well speculated that the man was probably using his wife’s credit card without her knowledge. No doubt he had an additional copy of her credit card and simply put the purchase on it. He may have even been the one who regularly paid the bill so never thought his wife would see the transaction.

He did make one mistake. He assumed that when purchasing the book from Amazon, it would be shipped from some giant Amazon warehouse. Oops! Little did he know that I was the shipper. And let that be a lesson for those of you who shop online. Make sure you know the identity of the shipper when making your “discreet” purchases. It should say right on the site.

Although I have seen this guy since he made the purchase for his former lover, I haven’t told him that I know. On the other hand, I do snicker whenever I see him. He should be careful never to piss me off. And just in case you were wondering, I did autograph the book.

Tale #2 –

So you may have been wondering why I called this story “Sexting with Sid Stein.” Thanks for getting this far. You’re going to find out now.

Before I get started with this tale, there may be a few of you who don’t know what sexting is. When I wrote my book, it didn’t even exist. Back in the day, and I am not even going too far back, it was called cybersex. People availed themselves of the Internet to have sexually-charged conversations with their online buddies via Instant Messenger services or in chat rooms. This caused a great deal of consternation in many marriages when one spouse or the other discovered that their husband or wife was “carrying on” online. I purposely did not use the word cheating because various opinions exist as to whether this behavior qualifies as marital infidelity. I am not here to judge, but I don’t care if you do. I will say this, however. If you discover that your partner is having cybersex, then it might be a clue that something is amiss with your sex life at home. Just saying. Anyway, sexting is just cybersex on a cell phone, although besides just sexy texting, it could include sending dirty picture messages. Now that is settled, let’s get on with the story.

I was working a gig one night at a bar. Karaoke! I love karaoke. My ex-girlfriend was there with some of her friends, having drinks and taking turns singing. First, there is something you have to know about having your girlfriend at gigs, whether you are a dj or a musician. Two things, really. It’s an impediment to having a good time and a successful gig. Invariably, women will want to flirt with you. I certainly understand this phenomenon when a good musician is part of the scenario - the woman is attracted to talent. With a dj, however, the talent is admittedly less apparent, even though a good dj can make a good night better. I assume it has something to do with being the center of attention and the person in control. With karaoke, there is an additional twist. Some women will flirt with me because they want their songs bumped up in the rotation. Good luck with that, girls. You had better be smoking hot. For me, these flirtations and supplications are nothing more than distractions. I understand the underlying dynamics of the situation. For a girlfriend, however, these encounters can be interpreted as threats, depending upon how “smoking hot” the woman is and how far she is willing to carry her “flirtation.” If your girlfriend is at all insecure or jealous, this can become a headache which you would rather do without, especially while you are working, and especially if the offender is rubbing up against you. The other difficulty as the dj is that you don’t have much time to spend chatting with your girlfriend, which means that for most men, she will appear as unattached prey. If you are the kind of person who has a problem with that, then I don’t recommend you become a dj or a musician. It’s part of the territory, so deal with it.

So there I was at my gig, doing my thing. My girlfriend was at the bar with her friends drinking and having a good time. At some point, I noticed a guy chatting her up. Since it wasn’t her first time at a bar and certainly not the first time someone ever hit on her, I had no worries and went about my business as usual. Besides, I recognized the guy hitting on her. Although I didn’t know him very well, he was well-known as a local politician. Since I was confident that he didn’t know she was my girlfriend, I didn’t hold it against him. At some point, he apparently had enough of flirting and left the bar. No problems. That’s showbiz.

After he left, my girlfriend came over to tell me a bit of news. The politician in question had asked for her telephone number. She complied, sort of. She gave him my number. And, it wasn’t long before I started receiving text messages from him - dirty ones. The man was sending sex texts to me! When you ask a woman at a bar for her number, you proceed at your own peril.

My girlfriend thought it was pretty funny of her to give this poor guy my number. I say “poor guy” because he seems like an otherwise nice person, sexting aside. And, he was dealing with Sid Stein, who felt he had only one course of action available to him. I sexted him back. However, all I want to say about our exchanges is that we went back and forth quite a few times and things got hot and heavy. I am confident that I turned him on. Needless to say, my girlfriend and I had a few laughs.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to maintain this charade for too long. At some point, instead of a text, he called. I let it forward to voicemail where he no doubt heard my voice. Realizing he was duped, he never texted me again.

What struck me as the funniest aspect of this tale is that I forgot about it fairly quickly. That’s not really so funny, but because I forgot, I would always say hello to him whenever we ran into each other. “Hi, how’s it going? What’s new?” In retrospect, I must have made him feel excruciatingly uncomfortable because I never mentioned the sexting. He probably thought I was mocking him with each greeting but that wasn’t the case. Even I felt badly. It wasn’t until months later that my girlfriend reminded me about the sexting. Oh well.

By the way, in case you are wondering who the politician is, it’s none of your business! I never kiss and tell. Not with real names, anyway.

A Sid Stein Flashback – Life Imitates Art in a Biblical Sense

The year was 1976 and I had just completed my first year of college. For personal reasons that I don’t want to get into now (yes, even Sid Stein has secrets), I abruptly left high school after the 11th grade and was accepted to the State University of New York at Albany (SUNY) as a special admission because I was so damn smart – great grades and great SAT scores. Toot toot! It was not the college of my choice, but because I didn’t make my decision to leave high school until late in my junior year, I didn’t have time to apply to other schools. SUNY was willing to admit me despite the fact that I hadn’t fulfilled the New York State requirements for a high school diploma. My acceptance was conditioned on completing an English Composition and health course. So, when I finished my first year of college, I also obtained my high school diploma.

I was not happy at SUNY. Although I was from Albany, I lived in the dorms where I was the youngest among the other students. For any male contemplating an early graduation, I don’t recommend it. That extra year counts, especially with girls. And, even though the drinking age was 18 back then, I had to wait until March of my spring semester to be “legal.”

I eventually adjusted to dorm life but spent my year pining for a lost love. In other words, I was quite distracted. My studies were not at the forefront of my mind. And, for those of you unfamiliar with the campus at SUNY Albany, it is a concrete and sterile environment which only contributed to my angst. I suppose it’s like living in Sweden, or at least, how I imagine what it would be like to live there.

When school let out, I applied for a job as a cab driver. It was torture. Hardly anyone took cabs during the summer in Albany. Most of the day would be spent sitting in a hot cab waiting for the Nazi dispatcher to call your number. In other words, I was bored and the pay sucked. After a month, I quit. On the other hand, the picture on my hack license was quite cute. At least something!
Without anything to do, I did what any normal teenage Jew who was pining away would do. I moped around the house and slept a lot. I spent my time listening to Scandinavian jazz and hanging out with my friend, Jeff. But, as the month of June was winding down, spending time with him became increasingly depressing because he had plans to leave for Israel in July for a summer of travel and a year abroad at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He was my best friend and I was going to miss him.

If any of the elements of this story sounds familiar to you, it’s because I wrote about some of these events in a previous flashback – Girls with Guns. However, because this story is ultimately about art, and angst is so important to artists, or so it seems, I thought it would be important to include and expand on some of the items I related in my other story.

My parents, who had to witness my depression, came up with a plan to cheer me up. Just a few days before Jeff was to leave for Israel, they asked me if I wanted to go to Israel for the summer. I was elated. It would be one of those cool summer backpacking trips. Before I knew it, I was on a non-stop 727 to Israel, sandwiched in between Jeff and his childhood friend, Scott, who fell asleep on my shoulder. It was an uncomfortable flight but it didn’t matter. I was on my way to Israel.

I had no plans when I arrived at Ben-Gurion airport. All I had was a list of telephone numbers for some Israeli high school kids I had met when they were on a good will tour of the States which included a stop in Albany. Jeff and Scott, who had been contemplating their trip for a while, already had plans. So, as soon as they arrived, they hopped into a cab and left. As I stood at an airport payphone, I suddenly felt all alone. I called the first kid on my list. “Hi, this is Sid Stein from Albany, New York. We met about two years ago when you visited. I am at the airport. Can I stay with you for a while?” Fortunately, Israelis are very hospitable.

I ended up having a great summer and decided to stay in Israel for the school year. I enrolled in Tel Aviv University and lived in the dorms in Ramat Aviv. My first girlfriend there was Arianna, the soldier girl with the gun. After we broke up, I met Alva, an Israeli student who lived in the dormitories. Alva was a lovely person and I really adored her. Some of my best stories from that year include her. However, this story is not really about her, it is about her father. With the exception of the father of a high school girlfriend, historically, I have not had great relationships with the fathers of those I loved. So, it was with great trepidation when Alva asked me to meet her parents. Even though I explained that nothing good could come out of meeting her parents, Alva insisted, and since she was a very giving girl, prevailed. So, off we went one afternoon to her parents’ home.

Alva didn’t live with her parents. She lived on a kibbutz, a collective, and had stayed there after her parents left to live in Hertzilya, a town outside of Tel Aviv. Still, it was her home away from home.

Unlike most Israelis who live in apartments and condos, Alva’s parents had a single-family home, which in Israel, meant they had money. Money was something I never seemed to have in Israel. Each month, my parents would send me $150.00. Just to be clear, that was a lump sum, once each month. As you might well imagine, that hardly lasted an entire month. I would live like a king for about two weeks or so and then have to scramble for cash. And I mean scramble, as in beg, borrow and steal. Those details, however, are better left for another time.

Alva’s parents were polite and cordial. I wouldn’t describe them as particularly warm, but they were quite pleasant, asking me perfunctory questions about my origin and my plans for the future, such as they were at the time. I really didn’t have any, so that part of the conversation was short. I had the feeling that I should have made something up, if only to appease Alva’s seemingly overprotective father. As I have learned now that I have three daughters of my own, a father’s concern is natural. On the other hand, I was only eighteen at the time.

As we were sipping tea around the kitchen table, kitchens always being the friendliest room in a home, Alva’s father received a phone call. Alva’s father was an artist, but at this stage in his life, he was also the director of a community center for disabled veterans. The centers, of which there are a number scattered throughout Israel, provide various services to disabled soldiers, including art classes. The call received by Alva’s father happened to come from a model who had been scheduled to pose for a class at the center. The model called to cancel at the last minute. Alva’s father turned to me and offered me the opportunity to model for his class. He also mentioned what I considered to be a very generous remuneration for my services. Since I was chronically short of cash, I agreed.

So, within a half hour of meeting my girlfriend’s father, I found myself in the passenger seat of his car, sans girlfriend, on my way to model for an art class.

When we arrived, I discovered that this art class had only one student, a disabled man in a wheelchair. He was waiting for us in front of his easel and set of charcoals. Apparently, he was ready to draw. Without hesitation or warning, Alva’s father asked me to take my clothes off. The prospect of standing naked in front of my girlfriend’s father, a man I had met for the first time only an hour earlier, was, to say least, disturbing. Apparently, when I accepted the offer, I was only thinking about the money and not the job description. Still, there I was and I still needed the money. I briefly contemplated backing out, but how would that look to the man I was trying to impress as a worthy boyfriend for his daughter. Besides, he was an artist and artists have their own perceptions of nudity. Right? Making matters worse, it was a chilly day and the room was not heated. That meant shrinkage on top of the embarrassment I already felt. Geez! Noticing my discomfort, or perhaps, just feeling the chill in the air, Alva’s father brought out a small space heater. Big fucking deal! On the other hand, how big did it need to be?

So, my friends, I was asked to strike a pose. Since this was my first time modeling, I searched my brain for some inspiration. I came up with Michelangelo’s David, which stands so cold and lonely in Florence, Italy. And there I stood for nearly three hours, naked and objectified. I don’t know how many of you have ever modeled or tried to stand statue-still for so long, but it wasn’t easy. It entails a considerable amount of muscle cramping. I tried thinking of the money I was earning. That helped a little. Alva’s father did pay me a compliment at some point during my ordeal. He likened my posture and the way I held my hands to a classical Greek sculpture. Thanks Mickey! Or does he did he liked to be called Angelo?

I was relieved when the class was over and I was able to get dressed. I recall a quiet drive back to the house. I was paid and went back to the dorms with Alva.

Life in the dorms was good. I had a place to stay, plenty of friends and a life full of adventure. I skipped classes, slept late and had a great girlfriend. One day though, I was surprised to learn that my Israeli roommate was leaving.
(With my friend, Noel, in my dorm room)

Apparently, he finished his studies and had to move out. We got along quite well and I was sad to see him leave. I was even sadder to learn that I was assigned a new roommate. My distress didn’t stem from the mere fact that I wasn’t going to have a room to myself. Rather, it was because I was saddled with some mama’s boy nerdy kid from Long Island. As soon as he opened his mouth and introduced himself, I knew we were not going to get along. He whined. It was evident that he was going to be a serious student and intolerant of my Bohemian lifestyle. I say Bohemian even though that’s not exactly true. My best friend, Peter, was Romanian from Transylvania. If that’s not quite Bohemia, it’s close enough, at least for my imagination. Unfortunately, my suspicions about my new roommate proved true. We did not get along at all. Still, it was what it was and I had to make the best of it.

Even though Arianna, my soldier girlfriend, left me after the incident with the South African girl, I was still friendly with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend. They showed up one day hoping to stay over in my room. As a beneficiary of Israeli hospitality, I had adopted an “open door” policy and frequently entertained guests. The three of us hung out for a while until Riki and Knafo left to go somewhere. They said they would return later that evening. As hospitable as I was, I wasn’t about to wait all night for them. I had needs. I was hungry. So, I wrote a note, attached it to my door and left my room key in my mailbox. I went down to Sandwich City, got a bite to eat and returned to my room. The note on the door and my key were gone. I figured that Riki and Knafo had come back and left again. No problem. I just went to hang out with a friend. I returned about an hour later to find my new roommate affixing his own note to the door. It said simply: “Michael’s key is with Penina the “house mother.” Penina lived with her family in an apartment in the dorm building opposite mine. She was in charge of the dorms and was not my biggest fan. I asked my roommate about the message. He said that he read my note to my friends and was not happy about it. I admit. It wasn’t the nicest note but didn’t think he could read Hebrew. I miscalculated. Oops! My note said: “I went to get something to eat. Be back soon. My key is in the mailbox. Watch out for my new roommate. I think he’s a homo.”

Apparently, he objected to the last part. I was livid. I started screaming at him for turning me in to Penina. He, on the other hand, seemed pleased with himself. I wish I could remember the countless obscenities with which I showered this lad, but I was viciously angry. I wasn’t thinking – Hey, Sid, you should remember this for future reference. You might write about it someday. Well, there was only one thing to do. I had to go to see Penina.

Before you jump to conclusions, my main crime was not the “homo” reference in my note, even though I regret that now. I have somewhat evolved since I was a lad of eighteen. If that had been all, I might have been asked to apologize. Instead, my crime was leaving my key in the mailbox. It was late January of 1977 and Israel was still at war with all her neighbors. Sadat had not yet visited Jerusalem. Israel was, and unfortunately still is, on high alert for terrorism. The university feared that terrorists would gain access to the dorms and murder students. Therefore, the prime directive was – Do not leave your key anywhere!

Without any alternative, I walked across the courtyard separating my building from Penina’s. I climbed a flight of stairs and knocked on her door. Penina answered. I was confronted with the coldest, meanest stare I had ever seen. If she wasn’t born to become a very stern woman, she certainly developed into one. She stood silently for thirty seconds and then said: “Leave the dorms immediately.” I pleaded with her to let me stay. Where was I supposed to go at eleven at night? She finally relented and told me to leave first thing in the morning.

As it turned out, the key in the mailbox doubled as a pretext to kick me out of the dorms. I had also been told that since I never attended classes, I had no reason to be there in the first place. I could live with that. Still, that’s not the whole story. I was part of a dormitory purge. My best friend, Peter, the guy from Transylvania, and his girlfriend, Yolande, were also ejected at the same time. If only I had a picture of the three of us with all our belongings waiting at the bus stop. However, I do have a picture of the three of us and Arianna, in happier times. And yes, whoever took the picture cut my head off. That’s sort of how I felt as I stood waiting for the bus.
Peter had a friend who lived nearby who let us store our belongings. His name was Eugene and was a filmmaker from Romania. I guess the Romanians stick together. Still, I no longer had a bed to call my own. I also did not call my parents. I was certain they would be unhappy that I had been kicked out of school.

Finding a place to stay became my daily mission in life. I still had many friends in the dorms and it usually wasn’t a problem to find someone who would let me sleep on the floor. Sometimes, I could stay with Alva, but only when her roommate was away. Apparently, she didn’t like company. On weekends when Alva went home, she left me the key to her dorm room, assuming, of course, her roommate was also away.
Life on the street wasn’t always easy. Even with friends, it was hard not having a place I could call my own. Being homeless was a challenge. For example, you can’t just take a nap in the middle of the day - or a shower. Those were things for which I had plot and plan. And I’ll never forget sleeping on a park bench one night. When I woke up, I had red blotches on my face. They disappeared by the end of the day, but I didn’t want to take any more chances with my charming visage. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to charm grilled cheese sandwiches out of unsuspecting coeds. On the other hand, I was young and there was a certain romantic aspect to hustling for room and board. It inspired creativity – creative ways to hustle anyway.

So the basic scenario was thus – I had been kicked out of the dorms, my belongings were being stored with some Romanian guy I didn’t really know, my girlfriend wasn’t able to accommodate me very often and I usually had no money for food. What was a nice Jewish boy to do?

As fortune had it, a new crop of American students moved into the dorms for the spring semester. Included in this group was a quartet of four attractive girls who moved into the suite I had vacated. I viewed their arrival as an opportunity on a number of fronts. They were attractive girls, so sparked my interest as an 18 year old. They had two rooms, which sparked my interest as a homeless person. And, I figured that they all had spending money from their parents. All I needed was a clever way to introduce myself.

As you might well imagine, on the day I had to leave the dorms, I wasn’t able to afford a mover, or even a taxi cab to ferry my belongings to Peter’s friend’s apartment. I took whatever I was able to carry and left the remainder behind. That mostly consisted of my books – The Stranger by Camus, the Norton Anthology of English Literature, the poems of Leonard Cohen, some Hesse and Vonnegut, and who knows what else. I hatched a plan. I would go to my old room, knock on the door and introduce myself as the former tenant who left his books behind. It seemed like a sound plan and off I went.

I knocked on the door and was greeted by a very cute girl named Lynn. I explained that I had left my books behind and pointed them out on the shelf. Sometimes the truth works. I engaged her in conversation and found her to be quite charming - and cute. I think the book gambit was a touch of genius. I am quite sure that my collection gave her the impression that I was erudite and thoughtful. After all, how can I count the times poetry has been used as bait?

As we talked, I explained that a photographer for the school newspaper had just developed some pictures he took of me (with Yolande) for an article about sex and drugs on campus. It was my second modeling job. In a few of the pictures, Yolande and I appeared in the nude. Not the kind of pictures you would want your mother to see, but that’s another story. Lynn was more than intrigued by my openness in sharing the pictures with her. She was smitten. She also bought me some food at Sandwich City. A young American on her first trip abroad meets the handsome, bohemian intellectual. Classic!

Before long, Lynn became what I can only describe as my backup girlfriend for when Alva wasn’t around. Yes, I know that two-timing is not the most chivalrous way to behave, but remember, I was homeless and mostly penniless. I would have said shekelless, but Israel still called their currency lira at the time. Besides, liraless is just as ridiculous as shekelless. Except for the time Lynn espied me in Alva’s window, kissing her, the arrangement worked fairly well. Lynn’s heartfelt “Fuck you, Sid Stein!” still rings in my ears. At some point, she forgave me. I was a bohemian, after all.

With Lynn in my life, I wasn’t so homeless anymore. I didn’t stay with her every night, but she was usually around on the weekends, which dovetailed well with Alva’s frequent weekend absences. Although Lynn knew about Alva, Alva didn’t know about Lynn. Otherwise, she would never have left me her dorm key for that fateful weekend.

It was one very special weekend that Alva left her key with me. Since I could stay with Lynn, I gave the key to Yolande, who like me, was similarly homeless. Why shouldn’t Yolande have a bed too?

I was fast asleep in Lynn’s bed when there was a loud knock on her door. I answered the door to find an extremely distraught Yolande. She looked like she had been through hell. She had been crying and her hair was a mess, not that it was ever so neat to begin with. Apparently, at some point during the night, Yolande had some sort of episode – a nervous breakdown, for lack of a better term. She had locked herself in Alva’s room and began screaming while tearing the place to shreds. There were reports of torn and bloody sheets. I have no idea what drove her to madness, but mad she was. Perhaps she had read too many French Existentialists.

Lynn and I did the best we could for Yolande. That night, the best we could do was keep her safe from the university dormitory authorities. We knew, however, that it was only a matter of time before the proverbial shit hit the fan. That didn’t take long.

The following day, when Alva returned to the dorms from her weekend at her kibbutz, her parents were waiting for her. They had been summoned by the dormitory authorities who wanted to expel Alva from school for violating the same rule (pretext) used to oust me – giving your dorm key to someone else. Unlike me, who had no one to intervene, Alva’s parents used their political connections to keep her in school. They also made a strong argument that none of it was Alva’s fault. She obviously had been duped by a sinister force – yours truly.

I later learned that the defense employed by her parents was bolstered by what the dormitory authorities told them about me. I was duly impressed with my apparent exploits. Apparently, I had earned a reputation as a drug dealer, despoiler and exploiter of virgins (young girls?), and get this – I was allegedly packing a gun.
Despite the fact that none of that was true, I was in no rush to actually lose my reputation. To a 19 year old (I had a birthday), it sounded pretty cool. In fact, it enhanced my charm with the girls. Thanks, dorm moms!
I was safely in Lynn’s room watching Alva’s drama unfold in the courtyard. Her parents were there to move her out of her dorm room. I was losing one of my girlfriends! Despite what you might think, I was in love with Alva. Whether or not you think it’s hypocritical and contradictory to love one girl and sleep with another, I still felt a need to be gallant and take a stand for Alva.


(Yep, that's me!)


Before Alva and her parents actually drove away, but after the dorm people had scattered, I left Lynn’s room and ran to the street to confront Alva’s father. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I didn’t want to lose my girlfriend. I recall standing on the corner of Einstein and University Streets, just outside the front gate of the dorms. I don’t remember what I said, but I am sure I professed my deep love for Alva and how the entire incident was a misfortunate occurrence. Alva’s father wasn’t buying any of it. He and his wife were livid. He hurled insult after insult upon me. He told me I wasn’t good enough for his daughter. In that instant, a thought occurred to me. Was I not good enough as a person or was I not good enough because he had seen me naked? I didn’t ask him as he whisked his daughter away.

Recently, I was accused of taking too long to tell a story. Maybe the person was right. It took me seven pages to get to the punch line of this story.

Sid Stein Goes to Church

Many traditions die hard. Some are good. For example, I have been attending Siena College basketball games with my father for nearly 25 years. Together, we have watched the program grow from a small Division III school to a Division I mid-major contender which has gone to the “Big Dance” the last two years in a row. The team used to play its home schedule at the school’s 4,000 seat gym – the ARC. For quite a few years now, Siena has held court at Albany’s 13,000-seat Times Union Center which has all the size, amenities and feel of a major civic center. Going to Siena games is a father-son tradition I cherish. We sit in the same seats every year with the other season tickets holders, most of whom we only see during basketball season. Each November, when the season starts, it’s like a family reunion. We reacquaint ourselves with the other members of the Siena “family,” catching up on news and what has transpired in the off-season. Without a doubt, it’s something I look forward to year after year.

On the other hand, some traditions are bad - racism, for example. The election of Barack Obama notwithstanding, racism still exists. Here in Albany, there are two distinct African-American neighborhoods, one north and one south of the downtown area. Both are impoverished and both are generally avoided by the area’s white residents. If that’s not quite racism, it’s a vestige of racial division. Beyond bemoaning the situation, there is little I can do except participate in the political process and try to elect officials who stand for change. For anyone familiar with politics in Albany, change comes slowly if at all.

Siena basketball has become so popular that parking downtown for games has become a problem. Although parking on city streets is free after 6:00 p.m., the spots close to the arena downtown fill up quickly. Even the garages and surface lots have more cars than they can handle when there is a big game. Although parking in a garage isn’t too costly, getting out of the garage after a game can be a nightmare, so I always tried to find a spot on the street. One never knows when one has to make a quick getaway.

Faced with ever growing crowds and my own inability to get out of the house early, I found myself in a parking predicament. Where to park? Driving around searching for a spot one evening, I found a solution which has worked every time since.

Even though Herkimer Street isn’t far, just a few blocks south of the arena, it is located in a poor, predominantly African-American section of the city called the Pastures. The Pastures was once the center of Jewish life many years ago and over the years, I have heard stories from my parents and others about various Jewish businesses which once thrived there. On Herkimer Street itself, stands the old synagogue Beth-El Jacob, where my grandfather (deceased) and my father sometimes worshipped. Even though it is now a church, St. John’s Church of God in Christ, Hebrew letters carved into the stone above the front doors are visible as well as a big Jewish Star of David in stained glass.

Besides the comfortable feeling I got from my historic connection to Herkimer Street, I discovered that there was always a place there to park. I thought how fortunate I was to find a regular parking spot so close to the arena. Then, I felt guilty. After all, my good fortune was the result of racism. White people are apparently nervous about parking in a black neighborhood. Other people’s misfortune has given me a place for my car. Despite my natural Jewish urge toward guilt, it hasn’t stopped me from parking there. I mean, why should I perpetuate racism even if I am, in some small way, taking advantage of it?

Confident that I would have a parking spot, I set off for a game this past December. Sure enough, I found a spot on Herkimer Street and made my way to the arena. I was looking forward to a fun game and spending time with my father. Even though I hadn’t eaten much that day, I was in such a good mood that I decided to have a beer. The line at the Brooklyn Brewery kiosk was short so I bought a flavorful lager. I found my way to my seat, sat down with my father and the other members of my Siena “family” and enjoyed the first half. Siena was playing a team from Delaware which was sorely overmatched. I was glad I decided to have the beer.
During halftime, I walked back to the Brooklyn Brewery kiosk and ordered another beer. I thought, why not? It’s one of those fun games when you know your team is going to win without a struggle. Might as well enjoy it fully and hope for some great dunks.

By the time ten minutes had passed in the second half, I was bored. The game was a blowout. Figuring that the Siena coach would start to play his bench, which usually means sloppier play and more free throws, I decided to leave early. I was also a little buzzed.

I put my jacket on and made my way out of the arena. I was in a merry mood as I headed down South Pearl Street toward Herkimer. It’s not more than a leisurely five minute walk. When I got to my car, I was dismayed to find a whole row of cars double-parked on Herkimer, blocking my exit. Now what? And, I had to pee!

On the stoop of a brownstone by my car stood a group of five or six African-American twenty-somethings clad in what best can be described as ghetto gear – hoodies, caps and bling. Is this what I get for taking advantage of racism? I turned to them, looked them over and asked if they knew why so many cars were double-parked. They laughed and told me that everyone was at church –except for them, of course. I said that I guessed I would have to go to church and find out what was going on. One of them replied that I looked a little too tipsy to be going to church. They all laughed again, but my mind was made up. Besides, this would be an opportunity to visit the former Beth El Jacob synagogue. And off I went.

As I approached the steps, I stopped to look at the building. I made my way up the steps to the front doors of the building. They were wood and looked old – maybe original. The first door I tried was locked. So were the next two doors. I wondered if anyone was in church at all. Had I been lied to? Was the group down the street still laughing at me? I tried the fourth door. It was open. I went in.

There was a small anteroom which led to the main sanctuary. I peeked through the glass in the sanctuary doors just to make sure there were people there. The church was only about a quarter full and someone was preaching. It was clear that the service wasn’t over yet. Since I had two beers, I decided to find a men’s room before I joined the congregation. I hoped that no one would see me. I didn’t want to look like a tipsy homeless person just looking for a warm place to pee.

I eventually took a seat in a pew toward the back of the church. I became the sole white attendee. Yes, I felt out of place, but these were good Christians who were more interested in worshipping the Lord than worrying about why I was there. There was preaching and singing. A real revival! A small combo consisting of an organ, drums and maybe a bass guitar accompanied the singing. There weren’t any Mahalia Jacksons there, but the gospel singing was pleasant, warm and uplifting.
The service was everything I expected. Congregants were singing for Jesus and dancing around the sanctuary. One teenage boy showed his jubilation by running exuberantly around the room. As I enjoyed the sights and sounds, I was wondering what people might expect from the lone white person there. Was I supposed to do cartwheels down the aisle like John Belushi in the Blues Brothers?

I didn’t engage in any acrobatics. Instead, I sat there quietly, somewhat overwhelmed by the history of the place. Except for a simple large cross which adorned the wall behind the altar, it didn’t look like much had changed from when it was a synagogue. Above the cross was a large round, stained-glass window depicting a Jewish Star of David. On both side walls, there were four smaller but long stained-glass panels with the same Jewish star adorning the top of each one. At the bottom of the eight smaller windows, the names of the Jewish donors of each window were still visible in the stained-glass.

I receded into a long-forgotten Jewish history as I listened to gospel music and preaching. I thought about my now deceased friend, Nathan Rosenstein, who used to own a market not far from the synagogue and how he might have prayed here on the Sabbath and High Holy days. As I soaked up the sweet sounds of the gospel music, I contemplated how the Jewish community in Albany has changed over the years, migrating from downtown to uptown and beyond to the suburbs. Somehow I was filled with bittersweet memories which were not my own – memories which had now been supplanted with the hope of salvation through Jesus.

A few people stood up to testify about how Jesus had entered their lives during difficult circumstances, helping them manage one crisis or another. Some spoke of minor “miracles” about finding their way after being lost on a trip while others spoke about help bestowed upon their family in a time of sickness. There were many “Amens.”

At some point during the service, a man stood in front of the congregation. He brought out two wicker baskets which he placed on a table in front of the congregation. The preacher spoke about the importance of supporting the church. When he was finished talking, worshippers stood up and approached the table, depositing their donations in one basket or the other. Not wanting to be the only person who didn’t pay his dues to the Lord, I reached into my pocket and pulled out two five-dollar bills. I stood up and walked down the center aisle, a five in each hand. As I reached the baskets, I smiled and deposited a bill in each one before returning to my seat.

Before long, the service concluded. People got up and began talking to their fellow worshippers. I stood up too and was immediately greeted by a woman who said, “G-d bless you.” “G-d bless you too,” I replied. More than one person came up to me and greeted me in a similar fashion. It was very endearing.

Still feeling a little tipsy, I approached the altar and found an older woman standing by herself. I told her the following story:
“You know, I wasn’t planning on coming to church tonight. I went to the Siena game and parked my car here on Herkimer Street. When I got back, I discovered all these cars were double-parked blocking me in so I came into the church to see what was going on. I didn’t want to disrupt the service so I sat in the back. I am Jewish and my grandfather and father used to worship here back in the days when it was a synagogue. I just want you to know how happy I am to find that this building is still a house of G-d. So, even though I started out by going to a basketball game, I guess G-d wanted me to come here and find some religion.”

The woman was thoroughly delighted with my tale, blessed me and asked me to come back again. I was so delighted that she liked my story that I went around and repeated it at least five times to other members of the church. They were all delighted as well and offered to help me find who was double-parked. I told them not to worry about it. I said I was happy to come to church and was sure that because the service was concluded, my car would be freed soon. Amen!

With a big smile on my face, I left the church and walked back to my car. Sure enough, someone had left allowing me to navigate out of my parking spot and head on home. The same twenty-somethings who had laughed at me when I first arrived were still there. They were still laughing, but now somewhat impressed that I had actually ventured into the church. One of them added: “You don’t look so tipsy anymore!” And off I went.








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Sid Stein Gets Bouncy

When my wife and I split up, I moved into a house we owned and rented out. We lived in the house for a few years when we were a young couple with young children. Neighbors change over the years and I was pleased to meet a young couple who had just moved in next door. They were both nice and the young wife quite pretty. I also learned, through the chain-link fence which separated our yards, that she liked to sunbathe in her backyard. Sadly, they decided to spoil my viewing pleasure by erecting a wood fence just high enough so that I couldn't see over it. I couldn't see through it either, for that matter. So, I bought a trampoline. Granted, it's not as easy as just turning your head to catch a glimpse of the bathing beauty, but it is fun and they can't really complain. Another neighbor bought one too!

Speaking of things bouncy, I went to last year's local Irish festival held at the Altamont Fairgrounds. It was my first one and I had a nice time with all the Irish people even though I felt very self-conscious as a Jew. I bought a t-shirt which says: "Irish Girls Rule." That seemed to endear me to the crowd. Anyway, to my surprise and delight, they had a Bouncy Bounce ride there. However, since it was an Irish festival, it was a Guinness bouncy bounce. Go figure!

Sid Stein vs. The Ku Klux Klan

I recently celebrated my 51st birthday. Although I try to enjoy the day from year to year, certain birthdays have been more successful than others, as I assume is the case for most people. Some have been memorable, some forgettable, some happy, some sad. For my 51st, I didn’t make any special plans. Because all my children were going to be out of town, I decided to keep things low-key and just go out dancing with a friend – simple, yet fun. However, when I realized that my birthday fell on the same Saturday as Albany’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade, my expectations for having a good time were significantly lowered. They were reduced even further when I learned that we were anticipating the best weather enjoyed by the parade in recent memory – sunny and warm, a rarity in Albany during March. Given that the Irish population in Albany County is large, approaching 25%, and given Irish drinking predilections, I was less than hopeful that there would be a lot of people with whom to celebrate that night. I expected most people would be drunk and tired by dinner time. So, I was not surprised when I didn’t hear from my Irish-American dance partner.

Even though the weather was great, I did not attend the parade. With our high concentration of Irish, it often seems like we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day every week. In other words, after living here for so many years, I just didn’t need another Irish-centric day, even if I could have enjoyed telling people that the city threw a parade in honor of my birthday.

However, when the reality of being stood up on my birthday sunk in, I was feeling quite down. Even though I wasn’t expecting the best birthday celebration ever, I certainly didn’t consider the possibility that I would be alone. I should have known better than to make plans with an Irish girl on the day of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Live and learn.

As the evening wore on and I began to sink into the depths of despair, I rallied. I wasn’t going to let my disappointment get the best of me. There was always karaoke at Maggie’s to lift my spirits. And, I knew there would be spirits. And people too! Even people who liked and appreciated Sid Stein! So, I hopped into the shower, dressed and set off to Maggie’s Sports Bar.
Maggie’s was packed. Based on all the new faces I saw when I walked in, and their rowdy demeanors, it was clear that many of the patrons had wandered in after the parade. The more the merrier, right?

I made my way to the bar, stopping to say hello to the DJ and some of the regulars. Many were anxious to hear me sing “Gin and Juice” by Snoop Dogg, so after I ordered a drink, I put the famous rap song in with Johnny the DJ. I had finished my first drink and had started another when I got the call to sing. Since the song is partially about drinking, I always feel more comfortable with a little alcohol in my system before I go up.

I was feeling it that night. It was my birthday, so I felt more inspired than usual. I sauntered around the room as I rapped, making eye contact with my fans at Maggie’s and making the girls giggle when I shouted BIATCH! They loved it. Applause! Applause! Then I turned around.
In the past, I have encountered some resistance from a minority of people when I sing “Gin and Juice.” There was that one woman who slapped me, an incident I recalled in a previous story. My friend, Greg the DJ, from Pinto and Hobbs, told me that an African-American patron once mildly protested and asked him to prevent me from singing it. Greg defended my right to sing whatever I wanted pursuant to the Freedom to Rap Clause in the First Amendment. Greg was not about to institute different rules for different races. 5950 caps off to Greg.

When I turned around after finishing “Gin and Juice,” however, I was confronted with a spectacle I had never quite expected. To say that the man bearing down on me was huge is a gross understatement. He was a mountain. At least 6’5”, he weighed a good 275 pounds. His biceps were the size of my thighs. He was white, bald with a goatee and reminded me of a very scary Hells’ Angel. He did have a bit of a belly, but it was one of the iron-looking stomachs on which you would probably hurt your hand if you hit it.

As this skinhead pointed his finger at me in a very threatening manner, he was shouting –“You’re white! You’re white.” I didn’t know how to react. I just stood there stupefied and stared at him, as if to say, “What the fuck is your problem?” Of course, no way was I going to say that to him. He could have popped my head like a cherry tomato. Apparently, my detractor objected to my singing a song by a black man, and more particularly, a rap song. As I continued to stand there dumbstruck by his outburst, he said, “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I am going to fucking kill you.”

Yikes!

At this point, Maggie stepped in and confronted this miscreant. As she did, he started pounding his fist in the air while bellowing “White Power! White Power!”

At that point, I thought it best to work my way back to the bar and get far away from this guy. I even took off my bowler hat to be less conspicuous. Then I tried teaching myself how to breathe

again.

As I sat at the bar, a scuffle broke out behind me. I turned around to find the neo-Nazi and a few of his friends involved in a pushing and shoving match with Jimmy (a regular) and a few others. I had no idea what caused the confrontation, but I was just as glad not to be a part of it. All of the guys were bigger than I. There was a good deal of shouting going on but I wasn’t sure what was being said. Girlfriends were trying to push their muscular boyfriends back to keep them out of trouble. You could almost hear them. “Please don’t fight! Stay out of it!” Adding a little humor to the scene, some guy was trying to sing a ballad the entire time. Johnny the DJ had to cut it short.

Order was finally restored but there was a pervasive unease at Maggie’s. Jimmy didn’t help matters when he subsequently sang “Rapper’s Delight,” the original rap song, by the Sugarhill Gang. The Grand Dragon stood up and shouted something but didn’t renew any physical hostilities. Jimmy, although tall, is as skinny as a rail and was clearly pushing the safety envelope. Still, I appreciated the fact that he was backing me up.

I suppose I should pause here and say something poignant about racism. It still exists.

I stayed on my barstool while karaoke continued. I wanted to go out and have a smoke, but that

would have meant passing the table where the Klan was having its post cross-burning party. I wasn’t taking any chances. I considered quitting.

I did, however, have a chance to find out about the specifics of the scuffle. It was about me, or more correctly, about the song I sang. Apparently, Jimmy asked the Grand Dragon something to the effect of “what the fuck is wrong with you?” Talk about taking chances. I was impressed. In response, Mr. White Power said to Jimmy, “I eat guys like you for breakfast.” Jimmy even had an answer. “It sure looks like you do.” Now that’s what I call testosterone.

I was a little surprised that Maggie didn’t throw the guy out, but that may have caused an even bigger problem. There was no one there big enough to handle my new enemy (he was with friends too) and it would have meant calling the police, which is never good for business. And, Maggie knew something I didn’t. This guy was a corrections officer at some jail or prison in the area. He probably knew the cops. At least Maggie didn’t throw me out. I guess she just crossed her fingers and hoped for the best.

Things did calm down after a while and I soon felt comfortable enough to go out and have a smoke. Of course, I did avoid any eye contact with New York’s biggest supporter of David Dukes.

While I was outside, I was approached by some guy who turned out to be a friend of “Sarge.” Apparently, that was either his rank or nickname or both. It was this guy from whom I originally learned that Sarge was a corrections officer. He tried to explain to me the stresses of the job and how working in a jail can change a person. I had no idea that working with the “scum of the earth” (his phrase) turned someone into a raging racist, but hey, you learn something new everyday. Sarge’s friend went on to explain that Sarge was really a great guy but maybe had too much to drink. It was the day of the parade, after all. He even offered to bring me over and introduce me to Sarge. I politely declined. I explained that maybe if Sarge wasn’t so drunk, it might be different, but I didn’t think it was prudent to take any chances that night. As if! In any event, he told me I wouldn’t have to worry about anything else that night, not from Sarge or from any of his corrections officer colleagues. Terrific!

I thought that it might help to sing a different kind of song to ameliorate the mood at Maggie’s, so I sang “Moondance” by Van Morrison, the famous Irish singer/songwriter. I thought that would be appropriate for St. Patrick’s Day. Besides, who doesn’t love Van Morrison?
I finished the song without incident. Sarge stayed at his table and continued to drink beer with members of his chapter of the Klan. My breathing finally returned to normal. Since the worst seemed to be over, I felt comfortable enough to talk about it with some of the other regulars at the bar. I just couldn’t get over the fact that this guy became so agitated just because I sang a rap song. I said to a friend, “Look at me! I am a fifty year old Jewish guy with four kids. If I was really ghetto, I would have pulled a gun out and shot the guy. Boy, is he lucky.”

I really couldn’t believe what happened next. Sarge got up with a friend to sing a song of his own. Before he started, he said something derogatory about Barack Obama and then told all the people who loved n****r music to get the hell out. And what did he sing? The modern-day anthem of the white South, “Sweet Home Alabama,” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweet_Home_Alabama_(song)

Fortunately, Sarge left soon after he sang his song. I haven’t seen him since. I am not exactly unhappy about that fact. 

I reflected on the events of the evening. I have always enjoyed singing “Gin and Juice” on karaoke night and most times, people love it. Still, never before had I ever inspired such passion with my singing. Pretty "sweet" if you think about it. On my birthday too! Also glad that "Sarge" didn't find out that I am Jewish!