I'm Such a Meanie

Have you come across one of these guys? (And for some reason they always seem to be guys.) You’re sitting down somewhere, in this case it was at a picnic table at a local street festival, and to be polite you begin talking to the old guy sitting near you. (Yeah, I’ve gone back to using the classic words like “old” and “fat” and “stupid.” Keep your adjectives short—that’s what all the writing books say.)

So I’m talking with the guy for a few minutes and the conversation keeps coming around to age. It doesn’t take me long to realize what I’ve stumbled upon here—another old fart who is just bursting to tell me exactly how old he actually is. Trust me, I’ve met them before.

There are two times during the short scamper through our lives when we are particularly proud of our age; so proud that we can’t wait to tell anybody we can corner long enough to listen. One time is of course when we are very young. Who among us hasn’t felt the urge to strangle some little rug-rat in order to stop his incessant, “I’m five, I’m five, I’m five…” Hey kid, I used to be five too and, although it was quite some time ago, I still remember that it was not that big a deal. So how about clamming up for two seconds?

And then there’s the other end of the spectrum, and one of these geezers currently had me trapped at the picnic table while I was trying to eat my hotdog. I blame Spike for starting the whole thing by innocently asking the coot if he lived here in town. I can’t swear that he actually scoffed at the fact that we’ve live here for only four years, but he was quick to point out that he’d lived here his “whole life.” Uh-oh, I thought.

“Yep, the population is 12,000 now but it was 800 when I was born,” he began. My legs involuntarily tensed into the classic biological “flee” position, while a line from a great old cartoon flashed into my head: Really, Commander, we really must be going…

We talked a little more when somehow I mentioned that my mom enjoyed going to the casino. The fossil perked up at this and asked how old my mother was. When I told him she was 79 he was quick to mention that he had “a few years on her.”

And still I couldn’t do it. All this harmless old relic wanted was for somebody, anybody, to ask him how old he was, and then to exclaim with disbelieving glee, “Really? You don’t look like it!” I continued to cram the hotdog down my throat so I could then beat a hasty retreat, but I didn’t cram fast enough. I had looked away and pretended to be delighted by the enthusiastic brats who were dangling from the nearby climbing wall, but the dinosaur could contain himself no longer and so finally and proudly blurted out to Spike that he was 87 years old.

Let me say here what I couldn’t force myself to say to his face: The man looked nothing like 87. If forced to guess I might have gone 15 or even 20 years younger. And so what? How you look, although perhaps an indicator of how you’ve cared for yourself combined with a bit of luck, doesn’t make you one day younger than you actually are. Enough with this “you’re only as old as you feel” nonsense. If that were true then I’d be 87 too.

And so we politely bid farewell to the old man and his wife (Who for a second there I had thought of as “do-able.” I really do have some issues I need to work on.) And honestly, would it have really been such a big deal, would it have taken that much effort, for me to make the old fellow’s day by playing along with his harmless game? Apparently it would have, yes. Besides, you don’t want to encourage this sort of behavior—it’s dangerous and it must be nipped in the bud. Or maybe it all comes down to what I’ve already advertised on the top of this page in 18-point type. Maybe I am just a meanie.

The Pet Rock Quiz

I’m driving around and, as I often do, I’m thinking about things that really piss me off. You have no idea how I suffer, knowing that there are so many false “facts” floating around out there and so little time for me to correct them. Frinstance, I was contemplating all the people I’ve come across over the years who continue to believe that the guy who invented the Pet Rock made enough money to make himself rich enough to never work again. (Actually I couldn’t think of a single person who ever told me this, but I know you’re out there.)

Now when I was working in advertising, well not actually in it but certainly along its frayed edges, I heard that the creator of the Pet Rock took the money he made and used it to go on a nice cruise with his family. And then he went right back to work. But I had heard this tale many years ago, before we all had the greatest gift from the gods since fire at our disposal.

And so I checked out the facts about the Pet Rock on the Internet, and what do you know? It just goes to show you you’re never too old to learn. Too stubborn, yes, but not too old. But I actually did learn some things about the Pet Rock and if you take the quiz below you might just learn a thing or two yourself. And won’t that be a pantload of fun?


1. Who is the creator of the Pet Rock?
a. Paul Willis
b. Gary Dahl
c. Joan and Julia Donner
d. William Raines

2. Where was the Pet Rock conceived?
a. Chico, California
b. Livermore, California
c. Los Gatos, California
d. Berkeley, California

3. How much did the original Pet Rocks cost?
a. $3.95
b. $5.95
c. $7.95
d. $9.95

4. In what year was the Pet Rock fad?
a. 1970
b. 1975
c. 1980
d. 1985

5. From where were the Pet Rocks imported?
a. Mississippi River Delta, Louisiana
b. Lake Victoria, Canada
c. Yosemite Falls, Yosemite National Park, California
d. Rosarito Beach, Mexico

6. About how many Pet Rocks were sold?
a. 50,000
b. one million
c. five million
d. twenty million

7. About how much profit did the creator actually make from the Pet Rock?
a. Less than $10,000
b. $150,000
c. One million dollars
d. Seven million dollars

8. The Pet Rock was introduced at a gift fair in which city?
a. San Francisco, California
b. Los Angeles, California
c. Chicago, Illinois
d. Toronto, Canada


OK, that’s enough. I’m not going to kill myself trying to squeeze a full ten questions out of a dopey rock. How did you do? Let’s find out.


ANSWERS:

1. The Pet Rock was conceived by advertising executive GARY DAHL while drinking with his buddies. Where the best ideas come from.
2. LOS GATOS, CALIFORNIA. I’ve been there many times and have never seen a Birthplace of the Pet Rock sign. They should get one.
3. You could bring home a Pet Rock of your very own for only $3.95
4. Which was a pretty good deal, even way back in 1975.
5. The Pet Rocks were stones from ROSARITO BEACH, MEXICO. The first one came from a builder’s supply store in San Jose, California and cost Dahl a penny.
6. During the brief fad (is that redundant?) about a MILLION Pet Rocks were sold.
7. Dahl had planned to make at least a dollar profit on each Pet Rock, and so made roughly a MILLION DOLLARS. Yeah, I know—a lot more than the cost of a family cruise. Get off my back, OK?
8. Because he knew the toy market to be so cutthroat Dahl introduced the Pet Rock at a gift fair, in SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA.

Fuck the Yankees

Hey, Kids. This one is from a few years ago, but I think it's just as appropriate today. I'm reposting it in anticipation of the Yankees buying, I mean winning, the World Series tonight. Or tomorrow for sure. And then, of course, purchasing Chase Utley for next season. Fuck the Yankees.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ha! Fuck the Yankees. Have a nice trip back to the Bronx, you losers. God, how much fun was it to watch these pinstriped posers humiliated by the Tigers? How glorious was it to watch the huge-salaried “A-Rod” taking a swing at a pitch that made him look like the retarded kid who was kindly being allowed to play in a sandlot game?

I had planned on writing this tirade against the Bronx Bummers after they beat up the Tigers, as they were expected to do. And in truth that might very well have been just before they beat up on our beloved Athletics. But they didn’t beat up on anybody, did they? They managed to win the first game of their play-off series and then rolled over like Blair coaxing Bush to rub his tummy.

The mighty Yankees went on to lose three straight games to Detroit. Sweet! No, they would not be advancing in the play-offs this year and they most certainly would not be going to the World Series. And the reason this is a surprise is because the Yankees were supposed to go to the World Series this year. Hell, they’re supposed to go every year. Why? Because they’d already bought and paid for it, that’s why.

Yeah, that’s my gripe. And it’s not against the Yankee players per se, who are, after all, merely plying their trade and trying to make the most they can in the span of a career that can be all too short and suddenly ended. Hell, I guess I’m not even bitching against the Yankee organization, who are simply playing by the rules; rules which say that a team can spend as much as it wants to pay their players. Of course a big-market team that spends a full 60% more than the number two spending team and nearly double that of the third highest spending team is going to get the best players. And be in the play-offs year after year after boring year.

Here, take a look at the chart below. This is the 2006 payroll for each of the 30 Major League Baseball teams. It tells quite a tale, doesn’t it? Have you heard anybody say lately that they’re sick of hearing about the goddamn Yankees and Red Sox every year? Well I have. In fact it may well have been me who said it.

1
New York Yankees
$194,663,079
2
Boston Red Sox
$120,099,824
3
Los Angeles Angels
$103,472,000
4
Chicago White Sox
$102,750,667
5
New York Mets
$101,084,963
6
Los Angeles Dodgers
$98,447,187
7
Chicago Cubs
$94,424,499
8
Houston Astros
$92,551,503
9
Atlanta Braves
$90,156,876
10
San Francisco Giants
$90,056,419
11
St. Louis Cardinals
$88,891,371
12
Philadelphia Phillies
$88,273,333
13
Seattle Mariners
$87,959,833
14
Detroit Tigers
$82,612,866
15
Baltimore Orioles
$72,585,582
16
Toronto Blue Jays
$71,915,000
17
San Diego Padres
$69,896,141
18
Texas Rangers
$68,228,662
19
Minnesota Twins
$63,396,006
20
Washington Nationals
$63,143,000
21
Oakland Athletics
$62,243,079
22
Cincinnati Reds
$60,909,519
23
Arizona Diamondbacks
$59,684,226
24
Milwaukee Brewers
$57,568,333
25
Cleveland Indians
$56,031,500
26
Kansas City Royals
$47,294,000
27
Pittsburgh Pirates
$46,717,750
28
Colorado Rockies
$41,233,000
29
Tampa Bay Devil Rays
$35,417,967
30
Florida Marlins
$14,998,500


This year I’m happy to say that only one of the top ten spending ball clubs, the Mets, has made it to the final four. The Cardinals are the next closest, at #11. And look at my poor little A’s, down there near the bottom, not that many steps above the Devil Rays. The Devil Rays, for chrissake! The worst team in baseball! And yet on Tuesday night my team will be playing their little gold and green hearts out as they fight for the pennant against those Yankee-squashing Tigers. And the winner of that series will go up against either the Cardinals or the Mets in the World Series.

And so of course I’ll be rooting for the A’s to win it all, knowing full well that by next season I’ll be watching as Barry Zito and possibly other A’s stars are lured away by the irresistible siren song of big money, as were Canseco, McGwire, Giambi, Tejada etc.

But no matter what happens be assured that I will be at peace. For even if the A’s fail to win the World Series I’ll know deep inside that they gave it their best. And I’ll know that I’ll appreciate them for giving us a very exciting baseball season.

And perhaps best of all I’ll know that whoever wins the 2006 World Series, whoever is jumping up and down on the pitcher’s mound in a crazed and joyous frenzy and whoever ends up in drenched uniforms beneath foamy waterfalls from spouting bottles of champagne I’ll still have joy in my heart. Because there is one thing of which I can be certain: It won’t be the goddamn Yankees.

I'm Not Jewish

Part II: The Story That Could Have Been Really Funny

I come home about two weeks ago and there’s a message on the machine. It’s from yet another person that I know, but not particularly well. But still a friend. After some greetings and chit-chat (we hadn’t spoken in several years) the message goes on to say that she is calling for a particular reason. Specifically, she’s been looking for someone to portray Jesus and she decided that I was the perfect candidate!

At first I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The idea that someone would want me to portray anybody, much less Jesus, in a play or pageant was almost beyond my scope of understanding. Everybody knows that I don’t perform in front of people. I hide behind my keyboard and release vile thoughts from my Pandora’s Box of a mind when I’m all alone and in the dead of night. What could she possibly have been thinking?

The message rambled on a bit more about another subject and then returned to the main event:

“Yeah, the more I think about the more I know I’m right. That’s what we need, a real Jewish Jesus.”

Ah ha! So that’s it. She didn’t put it into these exact words, but apparently what my friend was looking for was a real jewy Jesus to be in her little show. In fact it sounded like she wanted to say the jewier the Jesus the better.

I immediately picked up the phone, not to return the call but to talk to my pal Mr. Zero. He is one of those friends I mentioned last night who is always trying to get me to admit to being Jewish, although he knows I’m not. I knew that he, and I, would get a major kick out of this phone call.

“That is so funny,” he agreed right on cue when I related the contents of the bizarre message. And he was right, of course. Seriously, no matter what my religion, or lack of, can you even begin to imagine me portraying Jesus in some passion play, or whatever the hell she had in mind?

First off, I don’t think Jesus should be portrayed by someone who still carries the remnants of a fairly thick Long Island accent. I mean, wouldn’t some of the solemnity of the story be destroyed if when the Roman soldiers arrive to arrest Jesus he greets them with a, “How ya doin’?”

Also, although there is no photographic record of Jesus, I think we can safely assume that he probably didn’t weigh anywhere near 220 pounds. Pity the poor director who would be forced to hire a dozen carpenters just to be able to stage that crucifixion scene, and with me refusing to remove my shirt besides.

And again, although we can’t know for a fact that Jesus didn’t have gray hair, we do know that he only came within seventeen years of being eligible for AARP, whereas I, had I not been stuck in denial, could have joined that organization for the decrepit four years ago. Add all this to the fact that I couldn’t act my way out of a one-ply tissue and you’ll agree that any idea about me portraying Jesus would be beyond absurd.

And this is where I wish I could end the story. But as I explained last night, I am nothing else if not truthful to you, my loyal readers (reader?) and so now the rest of the story. And believe me it’s quite a letdown.

I finally returned the phone call. Well of course my friend didn’t want me to play Jesus on a stage or in a pageant or on video. When she suggested I “portray” Jesus she meant in a screenplay. She thought it would be a good idea if I wrote a screenplay about Jesus, and by that she meant the real Jewish Jesus, at least as she perceived him to be.

I get this quite a bit, you know. (Nearly as much as I’m asked about being Jewish, in fact.) People find out that I am a writer (or at least play one on the computer) and immediately begin to tell me about all the great writing ideas they have. And they all suffer from the same problem—they can come up with a limitless supply of creative concepts, but they get stuck when it comes time to sit down and actually put them on paper. And it’s right about here that I’m always forced to remind them that the part where they sit down and put their ideas down on paper? That’s the writing.

So I’m sorry for how this ended. It would have been truly hilarious if someone had actually asked me to play Jesus on a stage. And who knows, if the money had been right I might have even done it. After all, these are different times in which we find ourselves. If we can entertain the notion of a black president or a woman president maybe we’re ready for a chubby, gray-haired and middle-aged Jesus with a thick New York accent. Then again, maybe we’re not.

I'm Not Jewish

Part I: Not That There's Anything Wrong With That

Let me warn you at the outset that this could have turned out to be a much funnier story than it did. But at least I’m telling the truth about what happened, which might make me feel good about myself but it also eliminates any chance I might have had to be selected for the Oprah Book Club.

Throughout my life, from the time I was a teenager and probably earlier, people have thought that I was Jewish. To this day I have several good friends who kid me about “coming clean” about my heritage. I say that they’re kidding, but I suspect they’re half-kidding at best. And if I’m objective about the whole thing I suppose it’s really not difficult to understand why.

I was born in New York, more specifically Long Island. Do you know how many times in my life when I’ve told people where I was from they immediately respond with the exaggerated, “Oh, Lawng Guy-land!” Not that there’s anything blatantly anti-Semitic about this, but subconsciously? Yeah, I think it’s there. It’s like that commercial for Pace picante sauce, where the Red State cowboys are reading a label (or having it read for them) and one of them says, “This sauce is made in New York City!” You don’t need subtitles to know what he’s really saying is, “Hey, this stuff is made by Jews!”

My name, both first and last, would also quite logically lead people to assume I’m Jewish. For my whole life I’ve heard a rule of thumb which states that if a “man” surname ends in two n’s it’s German, but if it ends in one n it’s Jewish. Is this true? How the hell should I know? I do know I’ve spent a good chunk of my life correcting people on the spelling of Stegmann. “With two n’s,” I’ve said about a million times. But that has nothing to do with my proclaiming or denying my heritage—I just want my name spelled correctly. Right? Right?

As a kid I worked in a drive-thru dairy store. Yes, I’ve had quite an illustrious employment career—right from the beginning. One time I had a slight run-in with one of the customers, a teen just a few years older than I. I don’t remember what the fracas was about; perhaps I had refused to sell him beer or cigarettes. What I do remember was as he pulled away he looked at me through his car window and spat, “You Jew.” And even though I’m not Jewish, and had neither the time nor inclination to explain this to that delightful chap, I got a small taste that day of the bitterness that is prejudice. I never forgot the feeling.

A few months ago I was working with a guy I know, but not particularly well. It was Christmas-time and I could see he was struggling with my ”Jewishness.”

“So do you celebrate Hanukah?” he asked.
“No, I’m not Jewish.” I answered. I could see the slits of his eyes narrow in doubt.
“What are you?” he asked.
“Well, I was raised Catholic.” Immediately I knew he had seized on the phrase “raised Catholic.”
“But one of your parents was Jewish,” he challenged.

I told him that no, as far as I knew I had no Jewish blood. The conversation ended there, but I could tell he was not convinced. I have no doubt that one of this guy’s next conversations included the phrase, “And then he tried to deny that he’s Jewish!” That’s okay, I was relieved enough just knowing that the inquisition had ended without me being tied to a rack.

I have dealt with many situations similar to this over the past four decades, and yet each time it still surprises me. I no longer wonder why people think I’m Jewish (hell, I’ve even played it up when trying to close a big account) but I do wonder why they care so much. Why is it so important to these people for me, someone who to them is obviously Jewish, to step up and admit “the truth”?

Another bizarre aspect of these questioning sessions is that I’ve often gone through them two and even three times with the same person. It might be months or even years later, but there I am once again answering questions about the Jewish faith while at the same time denying McCarthy-style that I am not now nor have ever been a member of it. And the classic story, or at least what could have turned out to be the classic story, happened just a week or so ago.


TOMORROW: THE STORY THAT COULD HAVE TURNED OUT TO BE REALLY FUNNY!

"I'm Hopeless!"

Listen, as long as I still have the way-back machine plugged in I’m going to use it again tonight. This is another sports-related story that dates back to the misty recesses of my long-ago youth, but this one doesn’t star me. It features my childhood pal Arthur.

I’ve written about Arthur previously on these pages but I don’t think I’ve related this particular story. If I have and I’m repeating myself (and I’m sure Ms. Cheeks will let me know if I do) I apologize. Besides, I’ve written 350 of these damn things so if I cover the same ground once in a while cut me a little slack, OK?

Arthur, you may recall, was a close friend of mine from fifth grade right up until high school graduation. You may also recall that he is the only person on Earth that I’ve ever admitted might, might, be smarter than me.

Yes, in the classroom Arthur was indeed a wizard. If I remember correctly he went through high school taking nothing but Honors classes. (Unlike yours truly.) He also had a wicked sense of humor that perfectly complemented my own, which I suppose explains the friendship as much as anything else. Arthur did however have one flaw: he was a complete spaz.

In sixth grade our school held a sort of Recess Olympics. I certainly can’t remember all the events (or what I had for breakfast this morning, for that matter) but I know there was a high jump, a hop, skip and jump and some inane relay race with wooden pins. Each student was required to compete in an event. Memories are suddenly rushing back. I believe that I personally competed in the relay race, which is surprising since it was the type of event usually reserved for only the swift. (Although today, ironically, my wife often tells me that I am indeed fast, although sadly not in a way that would win a schoolyard competition.)

There was also an event called the standing broad jump. It was the most basic of the tasks and was exactly what its name implied: The contestant started from a standing position and simply had to jump. It was a distance competition, the goal being, obviously, to see who could jump the farthest. As it seemed to require the least amount of athletic acumen, and perhaps even no coordination at all, this was the event that Arthur chose. Or had chosen for him.

I still remember where I was standing and at what angle when it came time for Arthur to make his jump. I watched my friend as he got into a slight squat, made his jump, tripped over his feet and fell to the ground. Within two seconds of hitting the pavement Arthur was up on his feet, embarrassed and with arms flailing, proclaiming loudly and disgustedly to the world, “I’m hopeless!”

Five years later Arthur, myself and two others from our group found ourselves sitting in the bleachers of the high school gym. This was the first meeting of those sophomores who had decided to try out for the school football team. The coach, who I had previously only known as my math teacher, was giving his recruitment speech about how great playing football was. He was making the point that when you hit a player from the other team and he went down it was “a better feeling than getting laid.”

I tell you honestly at the age of 15 I had only the vaguest notion of exactly what “getting laid” was, but I was pretty sure it would feel a lot better than knocking down some dopey high school kid. (A few years later I was more qualified to research the coach’s theory and so was able to confirm what I had only previously suspected—that guy was nuts.)

That meeting was the end of my high school football career. Of the other three of my group, one attended one practice and promptly joined me on the sidelines. The other two continued to attend practice, made the team and played the entire season. One of the two was Arthur.

I never did see Arthur play in a game. Nor did I see him after our freshman year in college. I’ve made attempts and have been unable to track him down, but I hope he’s out there somewhere enjoying himself. I’m sure he’s still smart and has accomplished a great deal with his life, but I suspect the season he played on the high school football team remains one of his proudest achievements. I never told him, but I too always thought it was pretty cool.


ADDENDUM: Since I wrote this piece I have happily been back in touch with Arthur. I sent him this piece and I think he recognized it as the compliment it was intended to be. He did, however, take exception of the description of him as "a complete spaz." And he might be right--I may have been guilty of taking a little poetic license for dramatic effect.

Although he did indeed fall when attempting to do the standing broad jump.

The Impossible Seinfeld Quiz

So some of you think the Seinfeld quizzes have been too easy, do you? You, Berkeley Spider-Man, claim to have scored ten out of ten on both quizzes. And the same boast comes from you, Voice Man. Yes, nearly every one of you claim to have gotten a perfect or near-perfect score on those previous trivia quizzes. Except for, of course, Mr. Size the Stockbroker, who chooses to waste his time by living his life to the fullest instead of watching endless reruns of old TV shows like the rest of us. I’m sorry to report that this absurd attitude has caused him to score a perfect zero on both tests.

OK, hotshots, the gloves come off starting right now. Below is our very last Seinfeld trivia quiz. (That is, until I feel like doing another one.) On the previous tests if you claimed to score a ten you were called a Seinfeld Fan. Claim to score a ten on this one and you’ll be called a liar. According to the law of averages 100 monkeys randomly guessing would score an average score of 2.5. It is highly doubtful that you’ll do much better.

1. On what date did Susan die?
a. November 10, 1995
b. May 16, 1996
c. August 2, 1996
d. January 27, 1997

2. What branch of the military had Kramer been in?
a. Army
b. Air Force
c. Navy
d. Marines

3. What was the Drake’s first name?
a. Cedric
b. Scott
c. Julius
d. Richard

4. What is Elaine’s shoe size?
a. 5 ½
b. 6 ½
c. 7 ½
d. 8 ½

5. What was George’s high score in Frogger?
a. 570,000
b. 668,000
c. 700,000
d. 860,000


6. What was the name of Jerry’s apartment building?
The Towers
The Park View
The Sterling
The Windsor

7. What was the name of the busboy’s cat?
a. Paquita
b. Gato
c. Bonita
d. Miguel


8. What was the name of the farmer’s daughter with whom Newman dallied with?
a. Darlene
b. Susie
c. Georgette
d. Betty Sue

9. Which character is known to have a brother?
a. Kramer
b. Elaine
c. George
d. Jerry

10. What was the name of the cleaning woman who George had sex with?
a. Maria
b. Consuela
c. Lily
d. Evie



ANSWERS


1. According to her tombstone, Susan died on MAY 16, 1996. That’s one wrong, Chump!
2. For a brief time Kramer was in the ARMY. 25 of the monkeys knew that--did you?
3. Did you love the Drake? Then how come you didn’t know his first name was SCOTT?
4. Elaine’s shoe size is 7 ½. I figure you’ve gotten one correct answer so far.
5. George scored 860,000 on Frogger. Have you recognized Slippery Pete on the new VW commercials?
6. Jerry lived in THE STERLING. Did you guess The Park View? Well, then you’re wrong again, loser.
7. The cat’s name was PAQUITA. Congratulations! I figure at this stage you’ve fumbled your way to two correct answers. That’s a grade of 29% Takes you back to your high school days, eh?
8. The farmer’s daughter’s name was Susie. Susie was also the name that one of Elaine’s co-workers called her, and if I’m not mistaken (and I’m not) the name of Jackie Chiles’ secretary.
9. GEORGE is the only character to mention a brother.
10. George had sex in the office with EVIE. Was that wrong?


So how’d you do? If I may quote the Bubble Boy: Not So Good! So did get at least two or three correct and achieve chimp level? The bell curve suggests that a few of you might have guessed your way to as many as five or six. Any more than that would simply be a fluke. And if anybody claims to have gotten ten out of ten on this one I suspect that you’ll also soon be announcing that Newman is hiding weapons of mass destruction.

If I Can Make It There

I spoke to Mr. Zero today. It seems he was in New York last weekend and so I asked him if he had witnessed the lighting of the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. Well he had, and of course he had viewed it as he has so many other events in his adult life: over the rim of a glass filled with booze.

Each night the Letterman show begins by claiming that New York is the greatest city in the world. I’m not sure what criteria they used to come to that conclusion, but I am sure that I don’t want to turn this article into some anti-New York screed. To some New York is a fantasy vacation destination. To others it is the only place on Earth that they would deign to live. For me New York is…well, just listen to my story.

More than one and less than three decades ago, for reasons that now seem alien to me, I pursued a job as a stockbroker. Somehow, despite having worn a brown tweed sports jacket to the interview, I was hired. Upon passing the license exam (some might call it a “license to steal” and I wouldn’t object too strenuously) I and my fellow new-hire Paul were sent to New York for a month of training. To some, I knew, this was like a dream come true. As for me, I wasn’t so sure.

The cab driver who picked us up at the airport and drove us into Manhattan thought he was a riot. Obviously he lived for the days when he would pick up some yokels and regale his captive audience with forty-five minutes of his clever New York witticisms. I was kinder back then, and so I didn’t spoil his fun by telling him that I had not been born under a turnip wagon in Beaverfeet, Arkansas, but rather in Queens, just a few minutes from our present location. And so he went on with his hilarious and obviously prepared routine about the filth, crime, rats and AIDS in New York. The people who live in that city wear this stuff like a badge and love to talk about it, and invariably their speeches end with, “But I’d never live anywhere else.”

During the four weeks I spent in New York I was sick for two of them. And they weren’t even consecutive weeks, but the second and fourth. In other words I got sick the second week I was there, got well, and then got sick again the last week. It was winter in New York and there were a lot of people confined into a lot of small, cramped places, like the subway or the offices or the training classrooms. And there were a lot of germs.

Each morning I put on a suit and then a heavy jacket so I could tolerate the bitter cold as I made my way to the subway station. The clothing felt like I was wearing a suit of armor and the subway like a cattle car. By the time I arrived at the company offices to begin the day of training I was totally exhausted. And it was only 9 a.m.

Most days were spent in the over-heated classroom learning about the things that eager young stockbrokers were required, and hopefully eager, to learn about. It was boring stuff, and when combined with a hot classroom and a dose or two of NyQuil I don’t know how I didn’t fall asleep. Or maybe I did. Who remembers?

There are many wonderful cultural activities in New York, many unique things to see and do. During my extended visit I saw no plays, went to no museums and listened to no symphonies. On weekends I took the train to nearby Long Island to visit my family and during the week I struggled to drag myself to the training session in the morning and then back to my hotel to collapse at night.

Oh, and that was another thing. I shared a room with Paul, which really should have been no problem. He was a good guy, and we became friends. During the day. At night, however, he snored like a rhinoceros. I tried several techniques to deal with the situation: First I tried to force myself to fall asleep before he did. Have you ever tried to force yourself to sleep? Then I got these gooey earplugs that were like sticking Gummi bears into my ears. And finally I came up with the idea of reaching over and violently shaking Paul’s bed when he began to snore, and then pretending to be asleep when he was jolted awake.

This worked the first night, but that was all. Paul was by no means a stupid man, and he knew exactly what was going on. He was also fresh out of the military, an officer, and had been a boxing champion at Annapolis as well. Just before he turned out the light on the second night he looked over and said, “Good night. And if you shake my bed tonight I’m going to come over there and kill you.” And so Paul, unlike myself, slept peacefully through that night, and through every subsequent night for the entire month.

I spent my “fantasy” month in New York sleepless, sick, bored and completely miserable. And finally one day it was over. We flew back and landed at the San Francisco airport and were met by Paul’s wife, who graciously drove us back to the East Bay. Here it was nearly spring, and as I sat in the back seat as we drove across the San Mateo Bridge my eyes feasted on the color of the fresh, emerald hills, gulping it in like some delicious green wine.

My enjoyment was somewhat limited, however, by the sharp, stabbing pains that I was experiencing on the left side of my chest. Up front Paul and his wife continued talking to each other while I debated whether to ask them to take me to an emergency room. Dammit, I thought, here I am barely out of my twenties and that ghastly city has killed me!

I didn’t say anything about the pains, and happily they soon subsided. My body eventually realized that I was now safely back in California and everything was going to be just fine. I haven’t returned to New York City since that horrible experience of long ago, but maybe someday I will. It is, after all, the greatest city in the world.

I Won! I Won!

For those of you who look forward to entries that give play-by-play accounts of my personal and/or professional disasters I’m afraid you’re in for a bit of a disappointment tonight. Perhaps you should just run along and come back another day. I’m sure Fate is waiting around a nearby corner, perched atop a ladder, sniggering as he waits to drop yet another bucket of rancid entrails onto my unsuspecting head. But not today, Children, because today I went to the casino and I won!

OK, I suppose I should calm down. In truth I only won a hundred bucks which is, as we’ve already established in a previous column, not a lot of money here in 2009. And that’s especially true if those dollars happen to be American dollars. And yet here I am carrying on, excited as a damp-pantied schoolgirl and audacious enough to use not one, but two exclamation points in the title.

Ah but dear reader, give me a bit of leeway on this one. You see, when we left to visit the casino this morning I fully expected to return home somewhat grumpy over once again losing $300. I mean, that’s what I usually do. And to my credit I’m very diligent about sticking to my limit and never losing more than the $300. Unfortunately I’m also quite good at never losing a penny less.

We decided to visit a casino that we haven’t been to in many years. It turns out that it’s actually a shorter drive from HMB than our regular casino. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Though the place claims to have over 3,000 slot machines I couldn’t find my favorite, which is, as regular readers know, the 10X10X10 machine. (“Regular readers.” Ha! The shrink promised that these delusions of mine would eventually disappear.) And so I found my old stand-by (and for once I’m using that expression to describe a slot machine and not a chick) the 5X5X5 machine. I immediately put in one of the three hundred-dollar bills I had gotten from the ATM (Why futz around with twenties? It wastes my time and is insulting to the machine.)

I played for a short while when suddenly a jackpot hit for $100. Well lookie here! A bit later I was up about $115 when I decided to take a lunch break. Spike and I had passed the buffet earlier and decided that’s where we’d go. I mean, it’s not like I wanted to eat like a pig, mind you, but it was only $14. Hell, I thought, these days you can pay almost ten bucks at Denny’s for a salad, so passing up an entire buffet for just a few dollars more would be nothing short of financially criminal.

Holy cow, you should have seen this buffet. They had Mexican food and Italian food. They had Chinese food and American BBQ. They had an entire breakfast buffet. (Have you ever piled chow mein, manicotti and bacon onto the same plate? Well then you haven’t lived, Chum. And they had a dessert station the size of a tug boat that had more cakes than a bakery. I’m pretty sure I really didn’t overeat that much, although this happened nearly eight hours ago and I’m still feeling like two pounds of bologna in a one pound bag.

And then it was back to the 5X5X5 machine. Right off the bat I hit three (non-matching) 7’s for a $25 jackpot. And soon after another followed and I was up $170 dollars. It liked me! The machine really, really liked me! Now let me stop your guffawing right here by letting you know that I’m well aware that winning $170 is not exactly breaking the bank in Monte Carlo. (Did I ever tell you how I left the casino in Monte Carlo with a pocketful of their tokens because I thought they were Euros? No? Well then perhaps another time.)

No, being a little ahead meant that I could continue to play (and with “their money,” an amateurish expression I despise) until I hit something truly big. Unfortunately, after I won the second $25 the machine suddenly and inexplicably turned cold, as slot machines and women will often do, and it wasn’t long before I found that I was again only $100 ahead. Perhaps the slot machine didn’t really, really (Reely, reely? Too obscure?) like me so much after all.

Slot machines are for idiots. We all know that going in. Or at least some of us do. There is no skill involved. You can tap your coin or make the sign of the cross all you want and it doesn’t mean a damn thing. Nobody is a good slot player—the numbers will always out. And as I’ve often said to the fortunate few who are lucky enough to be within earshot when I am pontificating about gambling, the only advantage you have when playing the slots is that you can walk away when you’re ahead.

And so I did. I printed out my ticket that showed exactly $100 profit and cashed it in. Sure I had played a little bit less than usual, but I was walking out a winner. And that really was unusual. And if you scoff at the relatively small amount of my winnings allow me to take a moment to explain the workings of the gambling mind:

I came to the casino fully expecting to lose $300. I took that amount out of my checking account and gave the three crisp Benjamins what I considered to be a temporary home in my wallet. When I left the casino not only were the three bills still resting comfortably and snugly in my wallet, but they had now been joined by a fourth. So do the math: I expected to lose $300. I actually won $100. I left that casino $400 ahead, Baby!

I Wish I Could Tell You About My Bachelor Party

If you look back over my previous 680-plus posts (go ahead—I’ll wait) you’ll agree that I’ve held back precious little. From grade school humiliations to misguided adventures, sexual and otherwise, it’s all there for anyone who cares to read it. And yet I am, sadly, unable to tell you about the one night that I believe would make a wonderfully entertaining story; that is, the night of my bachelor party.

Oh, I can give you a summary, but only in the most general of terms. It happened just about nine years ago (well beyond the statute of limitations, I would think) and there were six of us, including myself. We went over to San Francisco in a rented limo, we had dinner and then we went to a few clubs.

And no, there were no strippers, hookers or really women of any kind, except for the few we met in the clubs. Everybody seemed to have a wonderful time—I know I did. To me the most memorable thing about the night (well, one of the most memorable) was that some of these friends of mine had never met before, or knew each other only barely. And yet on that night we bonded to form a single cohesive unit; a cohesive unit of fun!

The event was organized by one of the friends, which is a big reason for its success. I love my other friends, but frankly if this shindig had been planned by them, or by me, we would have been sitting in Crogan’s, playing liar’s dice and sneaking glances at our watches by ten-thirty. But thanks to the foresight and planning of the Mystery Friend, and a few, uh, incidentals that he thoughtfully brought along, the night was a jubilant, and mildly decadent, triumph.

And that’s all I can tell you. I’ve made a vow of secrecy to my Mystery Friend and so that’s all I know. Hopefully someday in the future I will be released from this forced silence and be free to write the full account of that delightfully merry evening from almost a decade ago. Perhaps—maybe after another 680-plus posts or so.