When I turned fifty, I went to my doctor for an annual physical. Although I felt fine, he made me feel bad when he said I was now old enough to be eligible for a winter flu shot. That was on top of the colonoscopy news about which I already wrote. As the winter approached, I made an appointment and went in for a flu shot. So, when I took ill mid-February, I was feeling the unexpected.
Not knowing what my unpleasant symptoms meant, and wanting to nip whatever I had in the bud, I called the doctor and went in to obtain an expert opinion. I got the physician’s assistant. So it goes. As it turned out, I was diagnosed with a viral upper respiratory infection so did not need antibiotics. Great, I thought. I didn’t need to make a stop at the pharmacy. As a Jew, though, I figured some homemade chicken soup would be in order, so I went to the supermarket to buy what I needed for my great Jewish remedy.
I grabbed a cart and wheeled it inside. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a man about 30 years old with a puppet on his hand. He looked a bit weird to me. Creepy, in fact. Who wears a puppet on his hand to the supermarket? Not wanting to waste time investigating because I really wasn’t feeling well, I headed first to the produce section to get what I needed for a nice soup. Then, after picking up some chicken thighs and a few other items, I headed to the check-out aisle. I also picked up a copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Couldn’t resist. There’s an Israeli on the cover – Bar Rafaeli. http://justjared.buzznet.com/gallery/photos.php?yr=2009&mon=02&evt=refaeli-sports&pic=bar-refaeli-sports-illustrated-cover-01.jpg Don’t you just love the way men justify their purchases?
While I was packing my groceries, I asked Donna, the checkout girl, if she had noticed the guy with the puppet on his hand. She hadn’t but I made some joke about it anyway. After I paid, I made my way to the door.
As I got to the door, there was more than one person with a hand puppet. There were two. A young woman was the perp’s partner. They were standing by a display table full of booklets and other items. Although I didn’t notice which organization they represented, it was one of those outfits dedicated to stopping kidnapping by having kids fingerprinted. I am sure there were many other safety tips for parents, but I didn’t get too close to the table to see what they had except for a large banner which clearly mentioned fingerprints. I had two new playmates to tease, wasn’t feeling all that well, so didn’t feel like reading their literature.
I said hello and asked what the puppets were for. The young woman started to explain the campaign to me while her male partner just stood there, looking a bit embarrassed. After all, he was hanging around a supermarket with a puppet on his hand. Friends, I just couldn’t help myself and will do my best to transmit my monologue to you to the best of my memory.
“Puppets? I used to use puppets along with a puppy to attract kids. Most kids can’t resist a cute puppy. So what are you guys doing here? Trying to ruin my social life? Don’t think I am giving you my fingerprints. And forget about getting my D.N.A. Actually, (speaking to the woman), I would be happy to give you my D.N.A., just not using a method traditionally accepted for your purposes.” She was kind of cute.
They figured I was joking and good for them. I was. They asked me if I would be interested in purchasing one of their t-shirts. I decided to wipe the smiles off their faces and replied: “Listen, kids, I am a level three sex offender and I am not buying one of your t-shirts. Have a nice day. Gotta go!” That seemed to make them wonder. And, just in case you are wondering, I am not a child molester. How could you even think that? Because I have a dog who was once a puppy? Shame on you.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Sid Stein Reinvents Charitable Giving
I was invited to a Valentine’s Day party this year. As you might be able to deduce from my stories, Valentine’s Day is not one of my favorite holidays. It’s restrictive by forcing one to choose between many candidates. And, even though it’s considered a “Hallmark Holiday,” women seemingly attach great significance and importance to the day. There are even financial considerations. Just how many Valentine’s Day gifts can one person purchase? On top of that, there are logistical considerations. Can one invite a woman to a Valentine’s Day breakfast without her knowing that she didn’t rate high enough to be invited to dinner? Probably not. So, in Sid Stein’s scheme of things, it’s just easier not to have a date at all. Besides, there are 364 other days in the year. So, the prospect of a party appealed to me. It was also a benefit for the American Heart Association, making it a good cause as well. And, when a pretty friend of mine asked me to give her a lift, I decided I would go.
I am glad I went to the party. Not only did I meet some very nice people, but I also saw some old friends I hadn’t seen in quite a while. One of these old acquaintances was Alex, someone I used to see regularly at karaoke at the Bleecker, now known as Pinto and Hobbs. He got married and moved to Troy, New York, just a short ride north from Albany. Since finding marital bliss, Alex apparently doesn’t get out in Albany very much anymore. If he does, he doesn’t get to Pinto and Hobbs. That’s a shame because he is a very entertaining karaoke singer.
Alex was standing with another friend as the two of us began reminiscing about old times. They were funny times too. As much as I still love karaoke at Pinto and Hobbs, I consider those the “Classic Karaoke” years, the time when I was a bit out of control and far more confrontational. In fact, Alex reminded me of the time when he and another friend “saved” my life. They intervened in a situation. Someone was apparently angry enough with me that he wanted to beat my brains out. I remember the incident well and was certainly grateful when Alex intervened. He is quite tall, which always helps with intimidating shorter bullies.
Alex, however, added a new story to the Sid Stein lore, one about which I have absolutely no recollection. The story convinced me that I should reconsider hiring a scribe to follow me around to record the events of my life I don’t remember.
It’s a short story, but adds a new wrinkle to the nature of charitable giving which might appeal to some people who normally don’t like to give or who need more fun when giving. Alex told me that he would never forget the time when he spotted me in an open window on the second or third story of a Lark Street brownstone throwing coins to a panhandler. Since I have no memory of the incident, I have no idea whose apartment I was in. Thinking back, I can’t even remember anyone I know who even lives on the particular block of Lark Street Alex identified. I asked him if he was positive about the location because there is someone I know who had an apartment which overlooks the street. He was adamant, but who knows for sure? Not I.
You might think that this form of charitable giving is demeaning to the recipient. A valid argument could be made that I was mocking this poor person who needed money, even if I was inebriated at the time. By the same token, I could argue that even if such were the case, at least I was helping someone in need. And, think about all the people who pass by beggars without giving them anything at all. Alex, though, added a twist that made me feel better about the incident. He noted that not only was I enjoying myself, but so was the panhandler. Apparently, we made a little game out of it.
Is there a moral to this story? Not really. On the other hand, there are many people who need help. Some even overcome their own sense of dignity and beg for help. So, if you are a person who has a problem giving to them, try to have some fun with it. You’ll be doing a good deed while helping a person in need.
I am glad I went to the party. Not only did I meet some very nice people, but I also saw some old friends I hadn’t seen in quite a while. One of these old acquaintances was Alex, someone I used to see regularly at karaoke at the Bleecker, now known as Pinto and Hobbs. He got married and moved to Troy, New York, just a short ride north from Albany. Since finding marital bliss, Alex apparently doesn’t get out in Albany very much anymore. If he does, he doesn’t get to Pinto and Hobbs. That’s a shame because he is a very entertaining karaoke singer.
Alex was standing with another friend as the two of us began reminiscing about old times. They were funny times too. As much as I still love karaoke at Pinto and Hobbs, I consider those the “Classic Karaoke” years, the time when I was a bit out of control and far more confrontational. In fact, Alex reminded me of the time when he and another friend “saved” my life. They intervened in a situation. Someone was apparently angry enough with me that he wanted to beat my brains out. I remember the incident well and was certainly grateful when Alex intervened. He is quite tall, which always helps with intimidating shorter bullies.
Alex, however, added a new story to the Sid Stein lore, one about which I have absolutely no recollection. The story convinced me that I should reconsider hiring a scribe to follow me around to record the events of my life I don’t remember.
It’s a short story, but adds a new wrinkle to the nature of charitable giving which might appeal to some people who normally don’t like to give or who need more fun when giving. Alex told me that he would never forget the time when he spotted me in an open window on the second or third story of a Lark Street brownstone throwing coins to a panhandler. Since I have no memory of the incident, I have no idea whose apartment I was in. Thinking back, I can’t even remember anyone I know who even lives on the particular block of Lark Street Alex identified. I asked him if he was positive about the location because there is someone I know who had an apartment which overlooks the street. He was adamant, but who knows for sure? Not I.
You might think that this form of charitable giving is demeaning to the recipient. A valid argument could be made that I was mocking this poor person who needed money, even if I was inebriated at the time. By the same token, I could argue that even if such were the case, at least I was helping someone in need. And, think about all the people who pass by beggars without giving them anything at all. Alex, though, added a twist that made me feel better about the incident. He noted that not only was I enjoying myself, but so was the panhandler. Apparently, we made a little game out of it.
Is there a moral to this story? Not really. On the other hand, there are many people who need help. Some even overcome their own sense of dignity and beg for help. So, if you are a person who has a problem giving to them, try to have some fun with it. You’ll be doing a good deed while helping a person in need.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sid Stein Needs A Cup Of Coffee And Cashes In Another Of His Nine Lives
Some time ago, my daughter told me she had joined a group on Facebook called “What would Larry David do?” If you have never seen “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” his television show on HBO, you may not get the reference. Larry David was one of the creators of “Seinfeld.” He was also the one who made “Seinfeld” funny. The premise of the Facebook group is fairly simple. In his show, “Curb,” Larry is known for reacting to situations in a way no other person would. For example, instead of sidestepping confrontations the way most people do, Larry exacerbates them. In those situations when it would be politic to keep quiet, Larry never does. I am a little like Larry in that regard and this is my story.
As you may have read in my story “Sid Stein – Crimefighter and Criminal,” I have a soft spot in my heart for women of Latin extraction. Not too long after I was to appear in court for the loitering ticket I received while on a date with my first Dominican girlfriend (I broke up with her), I met yet another one on J-Date, the Jewish online dating service. Somehow, despite the fact that I am on a Jewish dating site, I meet all the Dominican women. Go figure.
Rosa was quite delightful and we hit it off well. Although she lived in Manhattan, we saw each other on weekends. Either she would come here or I would go there. And, I must add. After years of not spending any time in the city, I was enjoying my visits to the Big Apple.
One night, Rosa made reservations for us at the Carnegie Club to see Cary Hoffman, a Sinatra impersonator backed by an 11-piece orchestra. http://www.hospitalityholdings.com/ The club is a swank cigar bar and jazz venue, so I wore my Sunday best. Although I was having some trouble reading the cocktail menu because I had forgotten my reading glasses, I eventually settled on a Havana Fizz. Here is the recipe for this delicious cocktail:
Havana Fizz
Specialty of The Carnegie Club
Created by Kenneth McClure
Cocktail glass, chilled
Pour ingredients into an empty mixing glass
6-8 sprigs of fresh mint
1/2 oz. fresh lime juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
Muddle contents
Add ice
2 oz. Bacardi 8 Rum
Shake and strain
Fill with Champagne
Garnish with a mint sprig
After a few Havana Fizz’s, I was really enjoying the Carnegie Club. The singer was great and really evoked a Frank Sinatra show in Vegas. Ring-a-ding! The cocktail waitresses were classic and cute. They wore pearls. The other patrons were fun too. We met couples from Oklahoma, Texas, and yes, even New York. I was having a grand time but Rosa was a bit upset with where we were seated by the hostess. Something went awry with our reservation and although we had a small table, it wasn’t located in the spot she wanted. As we were leaving to go to a music club, Rosa decided to have a few words about the mix-up with the maitre-d’. Her conversation took place by the door while I waited outside. As she complained about the seating arrangements, I wasn’t left alone to shiver in the cold. Instead, I was stranded outside with three young women who were discussing their evening plans. They were all quite attractive, and in my somewhat inebriated state, I had no problem striking up a conversation with them. I may have even offered them a party favor. Whatever the case, at least I had something to do while I waited.
As unhappy as Rosa was with the maitre-d’, she was even more unhappy when she stepped outside to find me engaged in conversation with three women. I made a mental note – she gets jealous quite easily. As she sneered at me, I feebly defended myself. I explained that: (1) I like to chat with random people, which is absolutely true, and (2) if she hadn’t felt the need to complain to the maitre-d,’ I never would have started the conversation with them in the first place. As you might well imagine, the second part of my defense was not very well received. Like I said, it was a feeble defense.
Despite this minor incident, we hopped into a cab and went to a music club where Rosa knew one of the members of the funk band playing there. We both enjoy music and were soon drinking martinis and bopping along to the beats being thrown out by the band. We were even having a good time. The difficulties encountered at the Carnegie Club were soon forgotten.
Before I get to the next part of the story, I need to fill you in on a few points. Consider this an aside. Like many other women of Latin descent, Rosa has what can only be described as a classic Latin butt. It’s big. Big butts are part of what you get when you date Latinas. If you don’t like them, then don’t date them. Personally, I have not always dated women with big butts. My ex-wife did not have one. Nevertheless, I do have some instinctual attraction to them. Although I wouldn’t describe the attraction as a preference, I do appreciate an ample butt. To be honest, I have no idea when or how I acquired this appreciation, but it may have something to do with what might possibly be described as a condition akin to a midlife crisis, although I don’t think it’s quite that drastic.
Let me elaborate. At some point when my kids were in high school, I started to listen to rap music. They were listening to it so I heard it often. Wanting to be the cool dad, since I was always the cool dad, I grew to enjoy it. Before I knew it, I was listening to rap quite often and even purchased a number of New Era 5950 caps. http://www.neweracap.com/ Those are the caps you see rappers wearing all the time. Part of the hip/hop culture. They are ubiquitous on the heads of today’s youth. I even sing a couple of rap songs at karaoke. In one way, you could say that I embraced hip/hop culture. An acquaintance of mine from karaoke once remarked that he was impressed that I continued wearing my caps and hoodies long after I first sported them in public. He added that he was comforted by the fact that I didn’t turn out to be a “wigger” for a day. I took it as a compliment. I think he meant it as one. Mostly, anyway. If you don’t know what a “hoodie” or a “wigger” is, look it up.
There is something else you need to know before I continue. I should describe what it’s like walking around Manhattan with an ample- butted woman while wearing a 5950 cap on my head. Although some of you white liberals with no black friends (and I don’t mean polite acquaintances like the kind you have at work) might think this is a racist stereotype, black men really do like big butts. There are even songs about it. I even put together a CD with just ass songs. So, while walking around Manhattan, I discovered that many black men would be checking out Rosa. Fair enough. I look too. We’re guys. We do that. With Rosa, though, there was an added twist. They would look at me too – quizzically, skeptically. As this scene repeated itself a number of times, I finally figured out why these black men were looking at me this way. Silently and in a state of disbelief, they were challenging me. I fancy that the question they were asking with their eyes was this: “Are you sure you can handle all that, white boy?” Once I figured it out, I just nodded my head in the affirmative with a wry smile on my face. To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed earning the respect of men who appreciated the origin of ass in asset.
I need to tell you one more thing before I get back to my narrative. It’s important because it affected how Rosa related to me and the world around her. It’s my theory about a particular genetic code embedded in the DNA of all Latina women. Let’s call it the Latina Spice Denominator or LSD for short. All Latina women have it. Some people might call it Latin passion or simply a quick temper, but after dating two Latina women in succession, I truly believe it is a condition passed down from generation to generation. Genetically. Think Rosie Perez in the movie “White Men Can’t Jump” as she’s screaming at Woody Harrelson. Although I submit that all Latina women have this trait, some control it better than others. Whereas Rosie Perez didn’t exhibit much control, at least in the movie, Rosa seemed to manage her LSD much better, at least most of the time. Clearly, after a couple of martinis and some confusion at the Carnegie Club compounded by what she described as flirting with those three women while I waited for her outside, she lost some of that control.
I am finally ready to return to my story. As I said, Rosa and I were having a great time bopping to the music and drinking martinis. We were feeling good. When the show ended, we hung around so Rosa could chat with her drummer friend and a couple of other people she knew at the club. In a friendly mood, I was chatting with people too. To be honest, I was in more than just a happy mood. I was drunk off my rocker. We were cabbing it, so why exercise any discretion with intoxicating beverages?
Of course, there is always some reason to exercise discretion and I was about to find out as soon as we left the club. Apparently, while I was engaged in some chatter at the club, some older black man was busy hitting on Rosa. I had seen him sitting there at some point but didn’t pay him much attention. He was on the scrawny side and seemed harmless. Harmless or not, Rosa lost control of her LSD again simply because I wasn’t paying attention to her while some guy was moving in on my “territory.” She gave me an earful about it even while I implored her that the man was completely harmless and not a threat. It didn’t matter to her. Whoever the suitor is, she emphatically explained that it was my absolute duty to step in and break it up.
I was finally beginning to get it after committing two major transgressions. Don’t talk to other women and defend my woman to the death. So long as I abided by those two rules, my life with Rosa would be full of bliss. It sounded simple enough. To her credit, Rosa regained control over her LSD and we hopped into a cab to get a bite to eat. And, some coffee. I really needed some caffeine.
Since we were in the Village, Rosa settled on a late night place to eat, called simply, The Coffee Shop, conveniently located at Union Square. http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/coffee-shop/ Check out the review from New York Magazine. It’s very hip, plays extremely cool music, serves great drinks and is full of very pretty people who need something to eat after partying all night long. We arrived just before 4 a.m. and the place was packed. There was at least a 20 minute wait for a table. We got in line.
Rosa thought she could finesse the maitre-d’ and maybe get us seated sooner. Apparently, she has a way with maitre-d’s. Feel free to ask the one at the Carnegie Club for a reference. Curious about a new place in the big city, I morphed into a tourist and spent my time in line looking around the room and absorbing the sights and sounds. In other words, I took my eyes off Rosa. That was a mistake. In the short time I was busy checking out the scene at The Coffee Shop, some guy got busy hitting on Rosa. This time, however, it wasn’t some scrawny, harmless-looking black man. This time, it was a very muscular, mean-looking black man over six feet tall who reminded me more of a gangsta rapper than Nat King Cole. I am 5’9” in shoes. And he wasn’t just talking to her. He was hassling her. I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath, walked right up to him, and in a stern but steady voice, said: “If you don’t leave my girlfriend alone, I will fuck you up.” I wish someone had a camera to get a picture of his face. He was shocked and confused. I could tell what he was thinking. “Is this white guy crazy? I could tear his head off.” He got right up into my grill (face) and incredulously asked: “Did you just say you were going to fuck me up?” Did I tell you how mean he looked? By the way, he looked even meaner from only two inches away. You may be thinking that I couldn’t have chosen a more stupid course of action so late at night when I knew damn well that this guy had also been out partying his ass off. Well, what you don’t know is that there was this huge bouncer standing right next to us. And I mean huge. If he wasn’t a former defensive lineman for the New York Giants, he could have been. Black, bald, about 6’7,” and like I said, huge. A mountain. With my antagonist still glaring at me, I glanced up at the bouncer with the few seconds I had to respond before getting my ass whipped or being branded a coward and then getting my ass whipped. The bouncer was stoic. Then, he cracked a little smile and wordlessly reassured me that he had my back. I turned toward this freaking asshole, looked him straight in the eye and said: “Yeah, I said that I was going to fuck you up.” I emphasized the word “fuck.” Just as I was finishing my last word, the bouncer stepped between the two of us. He never said a word. He just became an impenetrable barrier between me and the guy who probably could have killed me.
I felt like a king. Indestructible. Without a doubt, I had never done anything braver in my life. Or more stupid, if you prefer. And, I had done the right thing by Rosa, who at this point, was watching the scenario unfold. I puffed up my chest and smiled at her. No way was her Latina Spice Denominator going to rear its ferocious head now. This time, she was going to pin a medal on me. “Are you fucking nuts?” she screamed at me. I think she was more scared than mad, but I couldn’t be sure. “That guy could have killed you!” “Don’t ever do that again!” Sometimes, you just can’t win. The Latina Spice Denominator is mysterious, and apparently, not always logical.
In any event, we soon got a table and enjoyed some good late night food. And coffee!
One other thing. Perhaps a month later, Rosa and I were sitting somewhere and struck up a conversation with a black man at an adjacent table. At some point, he said to me: “Don’t ever take your eyes off your woman.” Sound advice if a little too late.
As you may have read in my story “Sid Stein – Crimefighter and Criminal,” I have a soft spot in my heart for women of Latin extraction. Not too long after I was to appear in court for the loitering ticket I received while on a date with my first Dominican girlfriend (I broke up with her), I met yet another one on J-Date, the Jewish online dating service. Somehow, despite the fact that I am on a Jewish dating site, I meet all the Dominican women. Go figure.
Rosa was quite delightful and we hit it off well. Although she lived in Manhattan, we saw each other on weekends. Either she would come here or I would go there. And, I must add. After years of not spending any time in the city, I was enjoying my visits to the Big Apple.
One night, Rosa made reservations for us at the Carnegie Club to see Cary Hoffman, a Sinatra impersonator backed by an 11-piece orchestra. http://www.hospitalityholdings.com/ The club is a swank cigar bar and jazz venue, so I wore my Sunday best. Although I was having some trouble reading the cocktail menu because I had forgotten my reading glasses, I eventually settled on a Havana Fizz. Here is the recipe for this delicious cocktail:
Havana Fizz
Specialty of The Carnegie Club
Created by Kenneth McClure
Cocktail glass, chilled
Pour ingredients into an empty mixing glass
6-8 sprigs of fresh mint
1/2 oz. fresh lime juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
Muddle contents
Add ice
2 oz. Bacardi 8 Rum
Shake and strain
Fill with Champagne
Garnish with a mint sprig
After a few Havana Fizz’s, I was really enjoying the Carnegie Club. The singer was great and really evoked a Frank Sinatra show in Vegas. Ring-a-ding! The cocktail waitresses were classic and cute. They wore pearls. The other patrons were fun too. We met couples from Oklahoma, Texas, and yes, even New York. I was having a grand time but Rosa was a bit upset with where we were seated by the hostess. Something went awry with our reservation and although we had a small table, it wasn’t located in the spot she wanted. As we were leaving to go to a music club, Rosa decided to have a few words about the mix-up with the maitre-d’. Her conversation took place by the door while I waited outside. As she complained about the seating arrangements, I wasn’t left alone to shiver in the cold. Instead, I was stranded outside with three young women who were discussing their evening plans. They were all quite attractive, and in my somewhat inebriated state, I had no problem striking up a conversation with them. I may have even offered them a party favor. Whatever the case, at least I had something to do while I waited.
As unhappy as Rosa was with the maitre-d’, she was even more unhappy when she stepped outside to find me engaged in conversation with three women. I made a mental note – she gets jealous quite easily. As she sneered at me, I feebly defended myself. I explained that: (1) I like to chat with random people, which is absolutely true, and (2) if she hadn’t felt the need to complain to the maitre-d,’ I never would have started the conversation with them in the first place. As you might well imagine, the second part of my defense was not very well received. Like I said, it was a feeble defense.
Despite this minor incident, we hopped into a cab and went to a music club where Rosa knew one of the members of the funk band playing there. We both enjoy music and were soon drinking martinis and bopping along to the beats being thrown out by the band. We were even having a good time. The difficulties encountered at the Carnegie Club were soon forgotten.
Before I get to the next part of the story, I need to fill you in on a few points. Consider this an aside. Like many other women of Latin descent, Rosa has what can only be described as a classic Latin butt. It’s big. Big butts are part of what you get when you date Latinas. If you don’t like them, then don’t date them. Personally, I have not always dated women with big butts. My ex-wife did not have one. Nevertheless, I do have some instinctual attraction to them. Although I wouldn’t describe the attraction as a preference, I do appreciate an ample butt. To be honest, I have no idea when or how I acquired this appreciation, but it may have something to do with what might possibly be described as a condition akin to a midlife crisis, although I don’t think it’s quite that drastic.
Let me elaborate. At some point when my kids were in high school, I started to listen to rap music. They were listening to it so I heard it often. Wanting to be the cool dad, since I was always the cool dad, I grew to enjoy it. Before I knew it, I was listening to rap quite often and even purchased a number of New Era 5950 caps. http://www.neweracap.com/ Those are the caps you see rappers wearing all the time. Part of the hip/hop culture. They are ubiquitous on the heads of today’s youth. I even sing a couple of rap songs at karaoke. In one way, you could say that I embraced hip/hop culture. An acquaintance of mine from karaoke once remarked that he was impressed that I continued wearing my caps and hoodies long after I first sported them in public. He added that he was comforted by the fact that I didn’t turn out to be a “wigger” for a day. I took it as a compliment. I think he meant it as one. Mostly, anyway. If you don’t know what a “hoodie” or a “wigger” is, look it up.
There is something else you need to know before I continue. I should describe what it’s like walking around Manhattan with an ample- butted woman while wearing a 5950 cap on my head. Although some of you white liberals with no black friends (and I don’t mean polite acquaintances like the kind you have at work) might think this is a racist stereotype, black men really do like big butts. There are even songs about it. I even put together a CD with just ass songs. So, while walking around Manhattan, I discovered that many black men would be checking out Rosa. Fair enough. I look too. We’re guys. We do that. With Rosa, though, there was an added twist. They would look at me too – quizzically, skeptically. As this scene repeated itself a number of times, I finally figured out why these black men were looking at me this way. Silently and in a state of disbelief, they were challenging me. I fancy that the question they were asking with their eyes was this: “Are you sure you can handle all that, white boy?” Once I figured it out, I just nodded my head in the affirmative with a wry smile on my face. To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed earning the respect of men who appreciated the origin of ass in asset.
I need to tell you one more thing before I get back to my narrative. It’s important because it affected how Rosa related to me and the world around her. It’s my theory about a particular genetic code embedded in the DNA of all Latina women. Let’s call it the Latina Spice Denominator or LSD for short. All Latina women have it. Some people might call it Latin passion or simply a quick temper, but after dating two Latina women in succession, I truly believe it is a condition passed down from generation to generation. Genetically. Think Rosie Perez in the movie “White Men Can’t Jump” as she’s screaming at Woody Harrelson. Although I submit that all Latina women have this trait, some control it better than others. Whereas Rosie Perez didn’t exhibit much control, at least in the movie, Rosa seemed to manage her LSD much better, at least most of the time. Clearly, after a couple of martinis and some confusion at the Carnegie Club compounded by what she described as flirting with those three women while I waited for her outside, she lost some of that control.
I am finally ready to return to my story. As I said, Rosa and I were having a great time bopping to the music and drinking martinis. We were feeling good. When the show ended, we hung around so Rosa could chat with her drummer friend and a couple of other people she knew at the club. In a friendly mood, I was chatting with people too. To be honest, I was in more than just a happy mood. I was drunk off my rocker. We were cabbing it, so why exercise any discretion with intoxicating beverages?
Of course, there is always some reason to exercise discretion and I was about to find out as soon as we left the club. Apparently, while I was engaged in some chatter at the club, some older black man was busy hitting on Rosa. I had seen him sitting there at some point but didn’t pay him much attention. He was on the scrawny side and seemed harmless. Harmless or not, Rosa lost control of her LSD again simply because I wasn’t paying attention to her while some guy was moving in on my “territory.” She gave me an earful about it even while I implored her that the man was completely harmless and not a threat. It didn’t matter to her. Whoever the suitor is, she emphatically explained that it was my absolute duty to step in and break it up.
I was finally beginning to get it after committing two major transgressions. Don’t talk to other women and defend my woman to the death. So long as I abided by those two rules, my life with Rosa would be full of bliss. It sounded simple enough. To her credit, Rosa regained control over her LSD and we hopped into a cab to get a bite to eat. And, some coffee. I really needed some caffeine.
Since we were in the Village, Rosa settled on a late night place to eat, called simply, The Coffee Shop, conveniently located at Union Square. http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/coffee-shop/ Check out the review from New York Magazine. It’s very hip, plays extremely cool music, serves great drinks and is full of very pretty people who need something to eat after partying all night long. We arrived just before 4 a.m. and the place was packed. There was at least a 20 minute wait for a table. We got in line.
Rosa thought she could finesse the maitre-d’ and maybe get us seated sooner. Apparently, she has a way with maitre-d’s. Feel free to ask the one at the Carnegie Club for a reference. Curious about a new place in the big city, I morphed into a tourist and spent my time in line looking around the room and absorbing the sights and sounds. In other words, I took my eyes off Rosa. That was a mistake. In the short time I was busy checking out the scene at The Coffee Shop, some guy got busy hitting on Rosa. This time, however, it wasn’t some scrawny, harmless-looking black man. This time, it was a very muscular, mean-looking black man over six feet tall who reminded me more of a gangsta rapper than Nat King Cole. I am 5’9” in shoes. And he wasn’t just talking to her. He was hassling her. I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath, walked right up to him, and in a stern but steady voice, said: “If you don’t leave my girlfriend alone, I will fuck you up.” I wish someone had a camera to get a picture of his face. He was shocked and confused. I could tell what he was thinking. “Is this white guy crazy? I could tear his head off.” He got right up into my grill (face) and incredulously asked: “Did you just say you were going to fuck me up?” Did I tell you how mean he looked? By the way, he looked even meaner from only two inches away. You may be thinking that I couldn’t have chosen a more stupid course of action so late at night when I knew damn well that this guy had also been out partying his ass off. Well, what you don’t know is that there was this huge bouncer standing right next to us. And I mean huge. If he wasn’t a former defensive lineman for the New York Giants, he could have been. Black, bald, about 6’7,” and like I said, huge. A mountain. With my antagonist still glaring at me, I glanced up at the bouncer with the few seconds I had to respond before getting my ass whipped or being branded a coward and then getting my ass whipped. The bouncer was stoic. Then, he cracked a little smile and wordlessly reassured me that he had my back. I turned toward this freaking asshole, looked him straight in the eye and said: “Yeah, I said that I was going to fuck you up.” I emphasized the word “fuck.” Just as I was finishing my last word, the bouncer stepped between the two of us. He never said a word. He just became an impenetrable barrier between me and the guy who probably could have killed me.
I felt like a king. Indestructible. Without a doubt, I had never done anything braver in my life. Or more stupid, if you prefer. And, I had done the right thing by Rosa, who at this point, was watching the scenario unfold. I puffed up my chest and smiled at her. No way was her Latina Spice Denominator going to rear its ferocious head now. This time, she was going to pin a medal on me. “Are you fucking nuts?” she screamed at me. I think she was more scared than mad, but I couldn’t be sure. “That guy could have killed you!” “Don’t ever do that again!” Sometimes, you just can’t win. The Latina Spice Denominator is mysterious, and apparently, not always logical.
In any event, we soon got a table and enjoyed some good late night food. And coffee!
One other thing. Perhaps a month later, Rosa and I were sitting somewhere and struck up a conversation with a black man at an adjacent table. At some point, he said to me: “Don’t ever take your eyes off your woman.” Sound advice if a little too late.
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