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 ….

A Classic Moment in Karaoke

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

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

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

Everybody was kung-fu fighting

Those cats were fast as lightning

In fact it was a little bit frightening

But they fought with expert timing

They were funky China men from funky Chinatown

They were chopping them up and they were chopping them down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are some of the lyrics:

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

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

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

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

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

Sid Stein Narrowly Escapes Contracting Legionnaires' Disease

If you have been reading my stories, then you should know a few things about me by now. For example, you should have learned that I love to sing karaoke. I am an attorney who wrote a book about cheating, I am divorced and have had some pretty funny dates. Even if you haven’t read a word except for my name, then you probably would guess that I am Jewish. I am. Sid Stein, for Christ’s sake! How Jewish can you get without naming yourself Cohen and advertising your circumcision?

Being a card-carrying member of "The Tribe" has always been an important part of my life. I have always maintained a strong connection to the Jewish community and even lived in Israel for a few years. By the same token, I don’t segregate myself from the gentile world in the United States. Some of my best friends are gentiles. Really! If you have been reading my blog, you would know that too.

Long ago, I decided that instead of dividing the population of the United States into Jew and gentile, I would re-categorize Americans into two groups - people I could get along with (Jew-friendly) and people I was afraid of (too gentile to be true). In other words, just way too goyish to tolerate. Rednecks fall into this category. If you don’t know what goyish means, you might fall into that second category. Of course, it’s wrong to generalize and stereotype, so I am always willing to give anyone, even a perceived redneck, the benefit of the doubt. By the same token, I don’t often thrust myself into the heart of darkness without a very good reason. Knowing that I am inclined to shoot my mouth off, I have learned over the years that discretion truly is the better part of valor.

Therefore, it was with some sadness that I told my friend and karaoke comrade, Kate, that I was afraid to go to her birthday party. Why? She was holding it at an American Legion Post in East Greenbush, New York, across the Hudson River from Albany, a place where few Jews deign to tread. In fact, most Albanians (that would be residents of the city, not the country), Jewish or not, don’t like crossing the river into Rennselaer County if they can help it. Our perception is that it is populated by very strange folk. Think "Deliverance." You may think that rednecks only live down south. I have news for you. They are all over these United States. The accents might change, but they all watch Jerry Springer and NASCAR with the same enthusiasm. I hate to admit this, since I am a resident of the Capital Region of New York State, but the most popular radio station in the area is WGNA - country radio! Go and figure.

My friend Kate grew up in East Greenbush, Rennselaer County. She lives in Albany now which makes being her friend that much easier. Since her birthday party, at a time when we were just cementing our friendship, she has introduced me to some of her family and friends from the other side of the river. As it turns out, many are quite pleasant. I even enjoy spending time with them. As I have said many times before, live and learn.

As a friend of Kate, I did feel badly because I didn’t go to her party. But why did she have to have it at an American Legion Post? In my life, I had never even set foot in one. I imagined all kinds of flag-waving, patriotic Republicans with antiquated social opinions. Even though I was too young to be drafted for Vietnam, I was never prepared to make up for it by volunteering for the armed services. And Kate wanted to bring Sid Stein into a hotbed of army veterans? My initial reaction was - no way, no how. I mean, come on - I am a Northeast liberal Jew!

A year or more passed since her party when Kate asked me again to go to the "Post," as she called it. A friend of hers (and acquaintance of mine) was hired to provide karaoke services. She wanted me to go for two reasons this time - to support him and to sing with her. I told her I would think about it. I considered the facts. Even though the people at the "Post" were different, by the same token, they weren’t criminals. At least, I wasn’t aware that any were. There wouldn’t be any reason to tell them that I was Jewish. It’s not on my driver’s license, even though the name kind of gives it away. I could always tell them I was German. Besides, I really thought that I was being a big baby about the whole thing. I knew some of her friends who would be there, including her adorable niece, so I would have a group to hang out with. More than anything else, I think I was ready for an adventure. I called Kate and asked for directions. It was "Post" time for Sid Stein.

I hopped into the Sidmobile and set out for the "Post." I remember feeling a sense of euphoria mixed with a tinge of trepidation as I made my way across the Hudson. I really didn’t know what to expect, but I had visions of men wearing camouflaged hunting jackets accompanied by women who looked a lot older than they really were and sporting hairdos from the 70’s. I also anticipated a lot of smoking. Since the "Post" is a private club of sorts, New York’s anti-smoking rules do not apply. Kate told me that was part of the attraction. Not being a smoker, I wore old clothes.

Despite my preconception of the "Post" being far away, it was actually quite close to Albany. I was surprised to find out that it was only 10 minutes or so from my house. I considered moving further away but was comforted by the fact that I lived on the other side of the river. And, unlike some of the other "Posts" I had driven by in my day, this one was housed in a relatively new building which looked clean and modern. It even had a large illuminated sign out front complete with an LCD display of the time and date. Kitchy, but helpful to passersby.

I didn’t pass by. I pulled into the crowded parking lot and found a space way in the back. That’s all that was available. Fortunately, the parking lot was well-lit. I wouldn’t have to worry about getting jumped by anti-Semitic WWII vets. Still, based on the amount of cars, I was concerned. Just what I needed. A packed "Post." Nevertheless, I would not let my paranoia deter me from singing that night and hanging out with Kate. Even the vets should be able to understand "America - Land of the Free and Home of the Brave."

I took a deep breath of the fresh night air as I stepped out of my car. I was as ready as I would ever be. And with that, I walked inside.

American Legion Post #1231 in East Greenbush, New York is named after Melvin Roads. No one among Kate’s "Post" friends knew who Melvin Roads was, but based on the look of his picture hanging on the wall, I thought he must have been a veteran of World War I. As I later learned online, I was correct. However, there was no way I could have known from just looking at his picture how unlucky Melvin actually was. According to information provided by the "Post" on the website I found, Melvin was a young soldier who was killed in action just hours before the end of World War I. Poor Melvin! Imagine the grief of his parents who were probably sure that their son would be returning home safely when they learned the war was over.

The "Post" was everything I expected and more (or less, depending upon your perspective). As I entered the main hall, I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. At the very least, I was in some sort of time warp. Even though I have been a fan of sci-fi over the years, I usually prefer to read about it in a book or watch it in a movie. This was more like 2007 - A Karaoke in Space Odyssey. In Star Trek lingo, I had gone where no Jew had gone before. Now that I think of it, that’s not much of a stretch. Both Willaim Shatner (Captain Kirk) and Leonard Nimoy (Mr. Spock) are Jewish.

I was not wearing a t-shirt announcing my heritage, nor a big Star of David or yarmulke, so I proceeded further into the hall to find Kate. It was dominated by a large square bar around which sat those who had served our country, accompanied by their wives and girlfriends who actually still sported those hairstyles from the 70’s. Many were smoking.
I love it when I am right.

My guess would be that most of the men sitting around smoking and nursing their drinks had served in Korea or Vietnam. It was not a particularly young crowd, but about a third of the people were under forty. As I took a closer look, there were definitely some who undoubtedly served in the Big One as part of Tom Brokaw’s "Greatest Generation." I could tell because they looked ancient and grizzled. I was amazed that some were there at all. The oldest ones looked like they should have been on respirators.

Although she wasn’t waving an American flag as I half expected, I wasn’t disappointed when I found Kate, seated at a table in the back, close to the d.j. Most of the people at her table were under 21, friends of her very cute niece. As I sat down, I felt as if I had joined the kids’ table at Thanksgiving dinner. I said hello to the d.j. and decided to get a beer. Kate wanted her usual Captain and diet. She has ordered it so many times that I have stopped asking her what she wants to drink. I made my way to the bar only to discover that there was just one bartender. She seemed nice if very busy and sported a 70’s era hairstyle. Hmm. I didn’t know how long it would take before I was able to order, so I did what any guy would do, I checked out the crowd. Slim pickings, I am sorry to relate. I did spot a woman in her late sixties at the other side of the bar who must have been quite a looker when she was 17. You know how when you are looking for something it’s always in the last place you look or right under your nose? Well, the most interesting person there happened to be standing right next to me. I kid you not when I tell you that this man looked like Sean Connery’s twin brother. http://www.seanconnery.com/ And check out this clip - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FgMLROTqJ0 I couldn’t resist, so I introduced myself. He had an accent. "Excuse me, but you look just like Sean Connery?" I had to say something. I couldn’t resist. If I didn’t have to wait so long before being served, I would have regretted saying anything at all. Oh yes, I was not the first one who thought he looked like Sean Connery. 007 proceeded to tell me a long Scottish tale which had none of the excitement of a James Bond movie. He did have a great baritone though, gravely and worthy of the master spy himself. Somewhere during his analysis of "Braveheart, the bartender came over and asked me what I wanted. I never thought I would have to be saved from James Bond, but I was relieved. I thought it would be safer if I didn’t order an import, so I settled on a Budweiser. It has a red, white and blue label. How can you go wrong with that at that?

Armed with my beer, I brought Kate her Captain and diet. As soon as I sat down, she asked me what I wanted to sing. Kate loves to sing karaoke, but she doesn’t like to sing alone. Although two people singing together usually means a duet, that is not always true at karaoke. And it’s rare for Kate and me to sing a duet. We usually just sing together, unless I am singing by myself. Since I felt like I was in a foreign country, I thought it best to start things off by singing with Kate. She chose "Will You Love Me Tomorrow." Most of you are probably familiar with the Carole King song from her album "Tapestry." http://www.caroleking.com. It’s a beautiful song, but I prefer to sing the cover by the Shirelles. It’s more lively which is a plus at karaoke. Experience teaches that people get bored listening to slow ballads. http://www.theshirelles.com/theshirelles.html

It’s important to understand something about me when I sing "Will You Love Me Tomorrow." I have to ad lib. I can’t help myself. At Pinto and Hobbs, late on a Thursday night, it can get a bit raunchy. It’s not strange to hear me say things like - "Bitch, I don’t give a shit if you still love me tomorrow." Sometimes, it gets worse. People laugh and no one minds because they know it’s all in good fun. I realized I wouldn’t be able to use my usual material at the "Post." It was a "family" place. There were old people and old women. I decided it would be wise to alter my routine. Since I was among veterans, I thought a little army story would be amusing. I decided to go with a variation on and much abridged version of "Girls with Guns," which I hope you already read. I thought it would be appropriate for the following reasons: 1) it involved guns; 2) it involved a girl; and 3) it involved an army girl.

I stepped up to the microphone with my usual bravado when Kate and I were called by the d.j. And why not? We had sung this song many times before. The music started and so did we. I don’t know if it was our best performance (I had only part of a beer by then), but we were doing fine. After the third verse, however, things turned ugly. If you want the complete lyrics, please go online. I will give you the third verse:

I'd like to know that your love
Is love I can be sure of
So tell me now, and I won't ask again
Will you still love me tomorrow?

The third verse is followed by an instrumental section. That’s when I start my ad lib.

"So, I was going to school in Tel Aviv and had a girlfriend in the Israeli army who used to bring an Uzi submachine gun to my room. She would point it at me and ask me if I would still love her tomorrow."

That’s when I heard the rumbling from the crowd. "Did he say Israel?" "I think he did."
Of course, I was thinking that Israel and the United States were allies. I guess I was wrong. After all, I was on foreign soil. I didn’t want to take too many liberties with a room full of veterans. The following day’s newspaper headline shot through my thoughts. "Man killed while singing a love song at karaoke." I immediately shut up. No more ad libs.

The crowd quieted down, but I was still nervous. Maybe you remember the scene in the "Blues Brothers" movie when John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd are singing the blues with their band behind a chicken-wire screen at a Country and Western Bar. The crowd hated the blues, so started throwing beer bottles at the band - hence the chicken-wire. The band’s solution? Sing the theme from "Rawhide." The crowd was mollified. Well, my friends, that was a movie and I was in real life, even if it was a non-fiction version of the "Twilight Zone." Still, I am glad I remembered the scene, and after my near tragedy, I decided to sing something more amenable to the musical tastes of the "Post." My next request for a song was "Desperado" by The Eagles. It’s not exactly country, but I could give it a twang and get close enough. At least I wouldn’t be singing about Israel or the Jews.

I sang my heart out with my best country twang. They loved it. I was exhausted from the stress but greatly relieved. Kate was happy too. I saved her from any further embarrassment in front of her constituents. We went back to drinking and laughing. After a few bottles of Bud, I actually felt at ease. The "Post" wasn’t so bad after all. Kate and I even sang another song without incident.

I am not sure exactly how it happened, but looking back, I like to think of it as temporary insanity. No doubt it was a combination of the beer and just feeling good that things were going well. So I did the unthinkable. I put a slip in for "If I Were a Rich Man" from "Fiddler on the Roof," one of my best songs. I really nail Tevye, Yiddish accent and all.

For those of you who have never experienced the joy of karaoke, it’s important to know a few things. The singer is holding a microphone and watching a television monitor, following the words. Even when you know the lyrics by heart, you have a tendency to watch the monitor anyway, just so you won’t make any mistakes. That means you are not always watching the crowd. In my case, as I transformed myself into Tevye the Milkman, that omission was a mistake.

I was well into the song. I had just started another set of daidle deedle daidle dum (dumb being the operative word), and not needing to look at the monitor for that part, I looked up. What can only be described as a lynch mob was gathering at the bar not 15 feet away from me. Although it was difficult to absolutely discern the murmuring of the men who
had assembled and were now scrutinizing me, I thought I heard enough to understand that I was in big trouble.

It was the second time that night when I felt like I was in a movie. Perhaps you remember the scene from "Annie Hall" when Woody Allen goes to visit Annie’s family in Wisconsin. The anti-Semitic grandmother looks at Woody and sees a Hasidic rabbi. That’s exactly how they were looking at me.

"Didn’t he say something about Israel before?"

"He must be a Jew."

I might as well have dropped the "N-bomb" on a crowded bus in Harlem. I looked to Kate and saw her panic-stricken expression. It was telling me to get out of there quickly. Or else.

I thought it best to maintain my cool, or at least what remained of it, but realized that the sooner I got out of the "Post," the better. So, instead of faking a coronary, I started coughing. I handed the microphone back to the d.j. and excused myself. The mob moved in my direction as I headed toward the door. I kept moving without looking back again. Grace under fire.

It was over 50 feet to the exit. If the mob decided to take action, I was a dead man walking. Walking wasn’t that easy either, because after so many beers, I really needed to go to the men’s room, conveniently located near the exit. A baseball analogy came to mind. Three strikes and you’re out. I already had two. Besides, if I took the chance of relieving myself, then they would know for sure that I was Jewish. No hiding that fact in the men’s room. I quickened my pace and scooted out the door. Then I ran to my car, doing my best to hold it in. I am sure it looked more like a fast waddle. I spun around as soon as I got to my car door. No one was following me. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I was safe!

In case you are wondering, I made it to the bathroom just in time. If you recall, I only live 10 minutes away from the "Post."

Maybe you are also wondering what happened to Kate. After all, she was the one who invited the Jew into the "Post" to begin with. I called her from my house. She was laughing her ass off. She did say they asked her never to let that happen again. Trust me, it won’t. Besides, why run the risk of contracting Legionnaires' Disease?

Sex and Candy

For a few years, I went to the Bleecker Café on Thursday nights for karaoke. I do love to sing and I do love attention, so karaoke is a natural choice for me. The Bleecker had one of the best late night crowds in Albany, an eclectic (and I do not use the word eclectic lightly) mix of Center Square residents, politicians, lobbyists, karaoke addicts and one author. For those of you unfamiliar with Albany, Center Square in Albany is a mini version of Greenwich Village. What made the Bleecker especially unique in New York’s capital city was that race, gender and age were all optional. In other words, when Sid Stein says eclectic mix, he really means it. (Sorry about going from first person to third, but I couldn’t help it.)

Not everything stays the same. The owner of the Bleecker died. Michael Boxley, former advisor to New York Assembly Speaker Sheldon Silver, was involved in a sexual assault case, making all legislative personnel more cautious about going out and about, and I got divorced. Change isn’t always bad. The Bleecker was sold and is now called Pinto and Hobbs and it’s still a great place to go. Over the years, I became friendly with the karaoke DJ. Greg is a nice guy too. He gives me a lot of leeway when I sing.

The Bleecker isn’t the only place where Greg is a DJ. By now, you have read about my Wednesday night hangout, Bomber’s, on Lark Street, across from Planned Parenthood. The crowd there is much younger on average, mostly 20-somethings who look at me as an old man. And, if truth be told, I am old enough to be the father of many of them. Still, the girls are cute, they are not my daughters, and if you gotta sing, you gotta sing.

When I sing karaoke, I like to adlib during musical breaks in the song. It’s always funny, but sometimes a bit raunchy. That is what I meant when I said that Greg gives me a lot of leeway. Greg, however, is a businessman, and he is more cautious at Bomber’s than he is at the Bleecker. I am not sure why, but maybe he thinks the kids won’t appreciate me as much as the more mature Bleecker crowd. Fortunately for Greg, there is one song that doesn’t leave me any room for adlibbing. That’s "Sex and Candy," a one-hit wonder by a group called Marcy Playground. It’s a song well-suited to my baritone voice and may be my best song. So, if Greg just wants me to sing, he’ll play "Sex and Candy," figuring I will just sing it straight, which sounds a bit funny considering I primarily sing it at a gender-optional place. I know Greg picks the song for this reason, but I don’t mind. I love the song.

http://www.marcyplayground.net/

Here are some of the lyrics:

Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had so much time to sit and think about myself
And then there she was, like double cherry pie
Yeah, there she was, like disco superfly
I smell sex and candy here
Who's that lounging in my chair?
Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?
Mama, this surely is a dream.

It’s somewhat slow, and very sexy, which is one of the reasons I enjoy it. So there I was, on stage at Bomber’s, singing to the 20-somethings, when a most remarkable thing happened. As I was singing, two lovely, young girls came up on the small stage. One danced seductively in front of me, the other behind. I knew they were making fun of the "old man at the bar," but I didn’t mind at all. I quite enjoyed the attention from these two beauties. They were smiling and giggling. I am sure they had friends at the bar who were also enjoying their escapades. I still didn’t mind. They were both great dancers. At my age, attention from young girls is attention from young girls.

With a big smile on my face, I kept singing "Sex and Candy." It was going well. I was happy. Greg was happy. The two girls seemed happy as well. Then, the one in front of me made a huge mistake. She apparently thought that she could make a complete mockery out of Sid Stein for the benefit of herself, her friends and the rest of her demographic at this very crowded bar. I could see the wheels spinning behind her mischievous grin. Although I am sure she never saw "The Blue Angel," the great German film in which a sultry, sexy Marlene Dietrich playing Lola tempts and ridicules the much older professor portrayed by Emil Jannings, I had. I knew the score. I am Sid Stein, not some stodgy old bachelor in a movie.

Maybe you are wondering what mistake this poor girl made. Well, as I was singing and she was gyrating in front of me, she started to unbutton my shirt. I am sure she didn’t intend on going too far - she just thought she was being funny at my expense. Her mistake was that I had the microphone in my hand, compounded by the fact that I am not Emil Jannings portraying a fictional character. And, she was no Marlene Dietrich. I turned to Greg who was half titillated and half shocked. Maybe he was thinking - lucky Sid. I said to him: Sorry, Greg, I know you want me to just sing, but I can’t let this one go by without saying anything." And so I did. I said, so that all could hear me clearly:

Honey, I don’t want you to unbutton my shirt. I want you to unzip my fly and give me a blow job.

The poor girl was mortified. She shouldn’t have been messing around with Sid. She slunk back to her friends. I just hope that in some small way, I redeemed that professor in "The Blue Angel." More importantly, Greg forgave me. And the beat goes on.

Having My Baby

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

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

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

[Both:]
Havin' my baby

And don’t forget this verse:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sid Stein vs. the State Police

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

SId Stein Cashes In One of His Nine Lives

Today is my birthday. Although it’s a day of celebration, I like to devote a portion of the day reflecting on my past. It’s not the same brand of intense scrutiny required on Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish New Year. Rather, it’s a time to remember some close brushes with death. I can only hope that I really do have nine lives. My next few entries will explore this theme. Here is one such tale.

It was Thursday. A cold winter night. I started my evening in downtown Albany and eventually made my way up to the Bleecker, at the corner of State and Dove. It was karaoke night back in the day when Sue was still the bartender. Sue always took good care of me. Maybe she cared too much for me on occasion. I probably shouldn’t have left her such good tips. She has been gone a few years now, ever since the Bleecker changed hands. I miss her.

Thursday is my night to go a little wild. It’s my favorite night of the week for going out and this particular Thursday was no different. And yes, I knew better than to drive. Still, finding a cab in Albany is sometimes tricky. One has the option of calling a cab from the bar. Depending on availability, it can take a long time before one arrives. On the other hand, it’s fairly easy to flag one down on Lark Street at the corner of Madison. There are over six popular bars near that corner, not to mention the queen of the capital region’s Dunkin Donuts, where Maria and Belinda, members of the Latin coffee cartel, serve coffee, donuts and breakfast sandwiches to cops, drunks and bums. I wonder which group I belong to. Anyway, I usually get a Coolatta and a coffee cake. Maria sometimes treats me when she has questions about Family Court. She often does. My destination this Thursday, however, was on the opposite corner. I wanted a slice of Romeo’s pizza. I was hungry after a night of singing. And drinking.

From the Bleecker, it’s a solid 15-20 minute walk to Romeo’s. You can add a few minutes because I was walking slowly. I always walk a bit slower after a few hours of strenuous karaoke. I remember that I was in a good mood, singing softly to myself as I made my way, west up State Street, past brownstones, and then south on Lark. Lark is an eclectic mix of bars, restaurants, shops and apartments. I would always pause and reflect at the pink-painted brownstone formerly owned by Char until she had to file for bankruptcy protection. Her former home is still pink. No one has brought it out of foreclosure. I have no idea why. Maybe it has ghosts. I wouldn’t be surprised. Char is an Albany icon. A stunning blonde with pale yet luminous skin, and always dressed in gothic black, Char owned the QE2, Albany’s premier punk/hardcore rock club. She hosted some great bands over the years. Char wasn’t a great business woman, but she knew music like no one else. A lot of great acts performed there before becoming famous. She even had a double bill of Soundgarden and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. My personal all-time favorites were the Genitorturers and Jonathan Richman (he sang "There’s Something About Mary). They each made annual visits. But, I digress. What I want you to remember is that it was very late at night, close to 2 am and I was minding my own business. http://www.larkstreet.org/dining_nightlife.php

About halfway down Lark, I was confronted by two men, both in their thirties. "What the f%@& is your problem?" the bigger one barked. Apparently, he was not in as good a mood as I. "I have no f%@#ing problems," I confessed. With that, the bigger and uglier one got right up in my face. "You want to start something?" He was full of questions. "Just get the hell out of here," I countered.

To be honest, I can’t recall the exact conversation after this point. I do remember that I was in imminent danger of getting my ass kicked. There were two of them, but even one could have accomplished the feat without breaking a sweat. Sid, I thought, you’ve got a problem. A big f#%$ing problem.

All of a sudden, a tall black man came bounding across Lark Street. He immediately positioned himself between me and these rather rude and confrontational cavemen. "Why don’t you just turn around and keep walking," he suggested. At first, the bulkier Neanderthal balked. "It’s not your f#%$ing problem. I wasn’t talking to you. Stay out of it." My rescuer remained calm and replied: "Listen, this is a black man telling you to turn around and keep walking. I recommend that you do just that." I was impressed by his quiet power. The two thugs stood their ground. "Once again, this is a black man telling you to just turn around and keep walking."

My would-be attackers appeared to reflect on the moment and then turned and walked away. Even before I was finally able to breathe again, my savior put his arm around me and in an almost innocent way, inquired: "Are you a top or a bottom?" "Sorry," I replied. "I’m not gay, but thanks for coming to my rescue." "No problem," he responded. "Glad I could help." And off he went.

In Albany, we have a saying just for these moments. "Only on Lark Street."

I continued on my way to Romeo’s and ordered two slices. Why not?

Sid Stein's Unlucky Blind Date

Sid Stein’s Unlucky Blind Date

Without a doubt, the most adventurous form of dating is the blind date. I recently had one. Remarkably, it was just my second blind date ever. The first was many years ago when I was about 20, and I only went out with the girl as a favor to my mother. At the time, I thought it would be my last. Never say never.

I don’t want to say that Albany, New York is a dating wasteland. I like it here most of the time. However, if you are looking to date a Jewish woman, they are not easy to come by. Age appropriate women around Albany who subscribe to Jdate, the Jewish dating site, are few and far between. So, if one comes along, you might take a chance on her. Whether or not you should, is another question entirely.

One night, as I was logged onto Jdate, I was contacted by a local woman who had not posted a picture. Although there are any number of reasons why a person would want to remain totally anonymous on an internet dating site, it often means that the person is less than physically desirable. That being said, it’s not the only reason, especially for women. Who wants a stalker? Not everyone is photogenic. Typically, I don’t bother browsing through the members who won’t post a picture. I am a man. We are a visually-oriented gender, even if I have purchased Playboy only for the articles.

The woman sounded nice enough as we chatted by instant messenger. Personality, or inner beauty, counts too. At some point, I did ask her about her physical appearance. She replied that people tell her she is attractive. I don’t know about you, but I don’t always trust what other people say. Often, they are just being polite. When I ask a direct question about a person’s looks, I hope for a direct answer. Telling me that other people think you are attractive is not very direct. "I have been told that I am attractive" is the typical response. What’s the matter? You don’t own a mirror? It’s the kind of answer I would expect from a blind woman. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t expect to find many blind women on a computer dating site. How the hell are they supposed to read my messages? Now, you might attribute her response to modesty, but that’s a long shot. At the very least, it seems to indicate a lack of self-confidence which could be an entirely different problem with which to cope. Still, I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and hope that I am not kidding myself. Since I have four pictures posted, I asked her if she thought we would make a good-looking couple. She responded affirmatively.

With this particular woman, however, I did have a lingering doubt in my mind. She claimed she didn’t have a picture because she didn’t own a digital camera. This, from a person who allegedly worked at a photography studio. Of all people, wouldn’t someone in the photography field have a digital camera? Besides, how hard is it to digitize a photo? You can do it at almost any drug store nowadays.

Despite my doubts, I arranged to meet this mystery woman on a Thursday night, my usual karaoke night. I didn’t mind because she wanted me to pick her up at 8. Karaoke doesn’t really get rolling until 11, so I would have three hours to kill. If it didn’t work out, I could still make it to the bar. If it did, I could bring her along. Or, who knows what?

I found it highly unusual for a first date to request that I pick her up. In the interest of internet safety, it is highly recommended to meet someone at a neutral, public place, just in case the person turns out to be some kind of psycho. My date apparently had no choice in the matter. Her car was in the shop.

I walked into the photography studio at 8 sharp. Okay, maybe I was a few minutes late. No one was at the front desk, so I took a seat and opened a magazine. My date peered from behind a door and advised that she would only be a few more minutes. She was still helping some clients choose photos. My heart sank. She was not very pretty. She looked much older than I. Tired, too. I guess the people who told her she was attractive were long dead. She could have been a very cute baby. Who knows?

I couldn’t exactly duck out of the place, although after 20 minutes of waiting, I certainly felt like doing just that. My date finally emerged from her office. She was nearly a full half hour late. She apologized for the delay. Apparently, her clients had trouble picking out which photos they wanted. They were in there so long, you would think it was a Versace shoot. Three old, fat ladies. Oh, Donatella, what has happened to your spring line? So, I thought, the date is off to a roaring start.

My date locked up the studio, set the alarm and we got into my car. We hadn’t made any real plans about where to go, so I asked her what she wanted to do. Since the studio was in a suburb of Albany, I didn’t know what was around there. She mentioned coffee, but wasn’t sure what was open. No way was I going to Dunkin’ Donuts. It’s too bright and she wasn’t pretty enough. What if someone saw me?

I suggested we go get a cocktail, but she told me she didn’t drink. Great! How the hell was I going to get through this date without a drink? Not even a shot to take the edge off her bad looks? She did, however, provide me with an excellent reason why she didn’t drink. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to, she just couldn’t. Why not? Well, it turned out she had to wear some kind of narcotic patch. She claimed it was more powerful than morphine. If she had a drink, it would totally knock her out. I agreed that she shouldn’t drink. The last thing I needed was a comatose date, or even worse, a dead ugly body in my car. I wonder if you have to put them in the recycling bin.

You might be wondering why she needed the narcotic patch. I know I was. She volunteered the information. I didn’t have to ask. I am sure she has told this story many times before. It sounded well rehearsed. Before I start this sad story of misfortune, brace yourself. My date must be one of the unluckiest people on the planet. And yes, by the way, part of the story included time she spent wearing a brace.

We drove in an easterly direction towards Albany, and I began to worry. The closer I get to Albany, the more likely I might run into someone I know. I didn’t want anyone to see me with this woman. Evelyn, by the way. Sid Stein has a reputation to protect, even if it is notorious. Perhaps because it is notorious.

Evelyn suggested a restaurant on route and I pulled into the parking lot. I had heard that this recently renovated establishment wasn’t doing great business, so I felt comfortable with her choice. Just my luck, the parking lot was full. I better reevaluate my intelligence sources. Without even one open parking spot in the lot (thank my lucky stars), it was on to the next place. I remembered there was an Asian restaurant close by, so I suggested that. She offered that she loves sushi. Great. And, the parking lot was not very crowded.

I had never been to this particular restaurant because it offers both Chinese and Japanese food on the menu. I never understood why natural born enemies would team up to open a restaurant. Asian restaurants should either be Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai or Vietnamese. The only combos should include chicken and broccoli, fried rice and an egg roll. There is also an Indian/Pakistani restaurant in Albany. On the subcontinent, they are threatening to blow each other up in a nuclear holocaust. In Albany, they serve 10 different kinds of nan. Go figure.

We were seated at a booth. I didn’t see anyone I knew. I felt relieved. Apparently, I was on Buddha’s good side that day. All the employees, including those behind the sushi bar, were Chinese. Those Chinese were smart to cash in on the boom in Asian cuisine other than Chinese. I ordered some sake. To my surprise, so did my date.

I imagine that most people would find it unusual for someone to wear a narcotic patch. I didn’t even realize they existed until Evelyn told me she wore one. "Didn’t you say you aren’t supposed to drink when wearing your patch?" I inquired. She told me she would only have a few sips. I could drink the rest. Oh no, I thought. She wants to get me drunk. Smart girl. After I asked her where I could get one of these patches, she told me why she needed it.

Apparently, Evelyn was walking along her merry way one day and caught her foot under a rocky protrusion. She fell forward, smashed her face and broke the C1 vertebra. That is the one at the top of your spine, the one in which the brain stem sits. Most people who break the C1 vertebra die. Not my date. I suppose you could call it good luck, but you still haven’t heard the rest of the story. After a few operations and spending a considerable amount of time in a back brace, my date survived with some limited mobility and a lot of pain. Hence the patch. Due to its narcotic nature, she is required to get new prescriptions for it on a frequent basis. The patch only lasts for a few days at a time. For the rest of her life, Evelyn will be engaged in a delicate dance of running between doctor and pharmacy so that she is never without her patch. She told me that withdrawal is a bitch. Don’t forget her car was in the shop at the time.

I continued to drink my sake and made a conscious decision to listen to what this woman had to say. Although she was divorced, it sounded like she would have preferred to have been a widow. Did I tell you her mother died when Evelyn was just a small child? She ended up in a succession of boarding schools. Anyway, I got to hear about her husband. During my career as a divorce lawyer, I encountered many women who divorced their husbands because they were publicly humiliated after the husband’s adultery became widely known. My client wasn’t merely humiliated. Her ex was in jail. Front page news. Extortion? Murder? Grand larceny? Try child pornography and rape. Did he rape a crack whore? No. Evelyn didn’t get off that easy. Her ex raped one of his son’s teenage friends. Although I didn’t ask, I believe the son’s relationship with his father became somewhat strained after that. It was a case that probably inspired a "Law and Order - Special Victims Unit" episode. That had to be extremely humiliating for Evelyn. If her husband was "into" children, I can’t imagine that her sex life was so wonderful either. I commented that it was one thing to read "Lolita," but quite another to have acted it out in real life. What do you say to someone who was married to a convicted pedophile? At least he liked children?

As a brief aside, I wouldn’t recommend taking a blind date to an Asian restaurant. The temptation to poke your eyes out with the chopsticks is too strong.

I, for one, don’t know how you can live without knowing your spouse is a pedophile. They must not have had a very close relationship. Nevertheless, my date’s recounting of her troubles was hardly over.

It could not have been easy recovering from such a scandal. Although she didn’t go into detail about her life once her ex was arrested and convicted, I used my imagination to fill in the blanks of her traumatic story. At this point, and thanks in part to my intake of sake, I actually started to feel sorry for her. I also noticed that she kept refilling my cup with the cruse of sake she had ordered.

As much as my date suffered personally, her sorrows were compounded by her love for her son, who not only lost his father to shame and prison, but had to live with the fact that his high school friends were some of the victims. What mother doesn’t weep for her son’s pain?

Her now 19 year old son was another source of trouble for Evelyn. He moved back in with her after a brief time out of the condo. Evelyn confided in me that she wished he would move out again. Apparently, although she loved him, he was a slob. He left his clothes all over the place. I am sure that Evelyn hesitated to put her foot down because of the trauma he suffered at the hands of his father. Her son also had a big appetite and was constantly eating her out of house and home. And the car was in the shop.

You might be thinking, so what if he was a slob and ate a lot? That’s not untypical for a boy of his age. Well, you haven’t heard what he did.

If being married to a convicted pedophile and rapist wasn’t enough, if spending a year in a back brace and destined to spend the rest of your life wearing a narcotic patch wasn’t enough agony, Evelyn’s son burned down their condo. He left a candle burning. So my date unwittingly explained to the fire marshal. Statements made are statements used, so her ex-landlord is suing her for damage to three units. She isn’t too worried. She has few assets and will file for bankruptcy protection if it comes down to that. So, I guess her son reminds her of a lot of trouble. Son of Pedophile and enemy of Smokey the Bear.

I did tell you that my Evelyn’s car was in the shop. There was a reason. Apparently, her car slipped out of park in the condo lot and rolled backwards, hitting and causing damage to two unoccupied, parked cars. For some reason, the town police were called to the scene. One would think that this would just be an insurance matter. Evelyn wasn’t so lucky. The police gave her seven tickets for various infractions. They even took away and suspended her driver’s license. She told me she hired a lawyer to take care of the tickets. He asked for a $4,000.00 retainer. Whoa! Talk about taking advantage of someone’s misfortune. So, she was out 4,000.00, would probably get dropped by her insurance company and had to rely on strangers to drive her around.

How could I not feel sorry for this woman? And after two orders of sake? It came time to leave. She had finished her miso soup and eel appetizer. I was ready to go myself. I was afraid what she might tell me next. It was clear from her demeanor that she didn’t want our date to end. It was also clear from her question regarding what we should do next.

My mind was already thinking Pinto and Hobbs, where I go on Thursday nights to sing karaoke. My friends would be there. I would be able to put this date behind me. But, my conscience got the better of me. You’re laughing? Yes, even Sid Stein has a conscience.

I certainly didn’t want to take Evelyn to Pinto and Hobbs. No way would I live that down. I still had about an hour before I wanted to be at the bar. Hmmm, I thought. She did say her car was in the shop and that her son ate her out of house and home. How about if I take her to the grocery store? I thought, what the hell? She can pick up a few necessities. She thought I was kidding at first. I told her that I was serious and she seemed happy to go. So, we stopped at her local Price Chopper supermarket.

I expected Evelyn to pick up a basket big enough to hold a few things - eggs, bread, milk, etc. Oh no. She took a shopping cart. Much to my surprise, she set out to do a complete supermarket shopping. She was tossing items into the cart as if she was planning for Armageddon. How many fat,lazy, good-for-nothing sons did she have at home? How many frozen dinners fit into a shopping cart? Apparently, the woman doesn’t like to cook.

As we maneuvered through the aisles, I wondered if she was going to need a second cart. I kept checking the time. How long was she going to take? This was no time for comparison shopping. Yo, lady, I am doing you a favor. Have some mercy! No mercy was shown. Evelyn decided to buy firewood. She tried to explain that her son used a lot of it, but I was suspicious. No way was I going to her place to sit in front of a romantic fire. 60 pounds of firewood! Of course, I had to shlep it into the cart. No way was my date going to manage that with her bad spine and all.

Apparently, Evelyn remembered that I keep a kosher home. She didn’t say anything, but while she was looking through the array of meats, I noticed she was checking out the pork products, and then checking out me. It seemed like she definitely would have added a few pork chops to her cart if I had not been present. Oh well. Too bad for her.

Finally, she was done shopping and we arrived at the check-out. She said hello to the cashier in a very friendly tone, as if the two of them were old friends. "Hi, Stacy, good to see you again," she said. Stacy barely acknowledged her. Evelyn may have been through Stacy’s line many times before, but it didn’t seem like Stacy cared very much. She was probably tired.

Stacy was definitely a 70’s girl. She was my age or a little older and not bad looking for someone who had probably been around the block a few times. In order to alleviate my frustration about the shopping venture, I gave Stacy the once-over and declared: "Stacy, is that you? It’s me, Sid. Don’t you remember? I would always askeyou to dance at Sneaky Pete’s (THE local disco at the time) and you always told me to get lost! You haven’t changed a bit. You look great" Evelyn, who is not originally from the Albany area, was in shock. Stacy responded: "Well, I don’t remember you. Besides, I didn’t go to Sneaky Pete’s that often. I usually went to the Rafter’s." I did not relent. "Oh yeah! You’re right. It was the Rafter’s. And, by the way, I don’t hold any grudges." Of course, I never saw Stacy before in my life. If I did, I certainly didn’t remember her. To Stacy’s credit, probably because she is usually bored checking people out of the supermarket, she played right along. "Those were great times. I loved the disco scene." Stacy and I hit it off great. We waxed nostalgic about all the Albany area clubs in the heyday of the disco era. Evelyn didn’t know what to think. She stood there totally confounded as she packed groceries in plastic bags. I was not going to help her. I was busy flirting with Stacy. Stacy and I got along so well that it sure did seem like I had met her years earlier. And Stacy was smiling like a teenager. Almost giddy. My poor date. There she was, trying to show me how well she got along with the cashier, and I was stealing her thunder. As we were leaving, I said one last thing to Stacy. "Hey, if I see you out at a club again, you better not tell me to get lost." Stacy smiled and laughed. She may have even tossed her hair back.

I barely managed to fit all the groceries in the trunk of my car. To make matters worse, freezing rain made the parking lot slippery. What a night!

Evelyn directed me to her condo. She was "hoping" that her son would be home to help bring in the groceries and the firewood. No such luck. I brought the groceries and firewood into Evelyn’s home. Nice place. And yes, her son’s clothes, etc were strewn all over the place. Evelyn was kidding. The kid is a big slob. Okay, but his father was a convicted pedophile and rapist. Give the kid a break.

Evelyn wanted me to stay for coffee. I politely declined her offer. She probably would have started a fire too if I had stayed. At least I had the inclement weather as an excuse. With that, I said goodnight and rode off into the east to the comfort of Pinto and Hobbs, for a night of karaoke.