Dear Readers

When I began blogging my novel, "The Uninvited Guest," two months ago, I hoped to unite my two overwhelming passions: Italy and money. I ultimately wanted to sway those of you with household incomes in excess of $180,000 ($260,000 in major metropolitan areas on the East and West Coast) to subscribe to my Italian tales using a fee-for-service model.

Unfortunately, I find the first 19 installments of my novel confused and dull. (Actually, I find them confused; my wife finds them dull; and I find my wife confused and dull.) It turns out novel-writing is a tricky business (As I said to Philip Roth during a recent stay at his guest "barn" in northwest Connecticut, "Now I know why only four of your 27 novels are any good").

I've never claimed to be the wittiest fellow in America (after all, we are a nation of more than 300 million souls), but merely the wittiest unrecognized fellow. To know that my novel is dull hurts. You may call me many things (the aforementioned witty, clever, wry, subtle, perspicacious, acute (basically perspicacious with more education)), but don't call me dull.

So I'm ceasing my blog as of this post. No, no, I won't drift away and become one of you. I'll still have the hubris to believe that what I write is worth sharing (i.e., shoving down the throats of others electronically), but I just won't be doing it for a while. If your lives are a bit poorer in the interim, so be it. Most of you reside in choice parts of California anyway; I do not pity you.

I would, however, like to thank those who've supported me during the past weeks with their thoughtful criticisms and suggestions: Salman Rushdie, Martin Amis, Christopher Hitchens (thanks, Hitch), Margaret Atwood, Alice Munro, and Kazuo Ishiguro. As for J.M. Coetzee, V.S. Naipaul, and Seamus Heaney: what can I say, guys? I couldn't have done it without you. For your recent hospitality, I thank you, Philip (and won't, as you requested, divulge the precise location of your house in Little Cornwall Bridge). Most of all, Michiko, I truly appreciate your taking time away from your busy job on the newspaper to offer midnight critiques of my work on a non-professional basis.

It's always difficult to say goodbye, particularly when one never bothered to say hello. I burst onto your screens like a comet, achieved a readership that never seriously threatened to put Pat (or Frank) Conroy out of business, and was gone.

But I'll be back. Probably. With a big, fat, readable novel that demonstrates the very skill we all know I possess. So I wrote 19 installments of a dull book before my spouse read excerpts of it aloud at a dinner party to make me stop blogging? So what? Not to compare myself to Michelangelo, Ali, or Jesus Christ, but all three made or are expected to make big comebacks. You'll know when I'm back: your lives will be richer, fuller, more textured, and finally worth living again. In the meantime, ask yourselves the question I do: Did I really fall short in cyberspace or am I simply too large for this small medium?

The Sounds of Summer

The Scene: Laura Wilner is helping her 14-year-old daughter, Sophie Wilner-Cohen, pack for summer camp.

Laura: I don't think you need a hairdryer, Sophie.

Sophie: Are you shaving my head before you drop me in Maine?

LW: No. But your hair will dry naturally. It's summer.

SW-C: Right. In Maine. Summer in Maine's like 59 °.

LW: That's the water temperature.

SW-C: Then I guess I won't need this bathing suit.

LW: Of course you will.

SW-C: (Appraising the bathing suit with extreme distaste/ borderline loathing) Where did you get this anyway?

LW: Bendel's. Remember, you were there.

SW-C: (Incredulous) A green bathing suit? Oh, my God.

LW: Sophie, don't start.

SW-C: I'll look like a pine tree.

LW: You'll look lovely. If you'll take the hair out of your eyes. Are you really packing these?

SW-C: Is there a law?

LW: I don't remember sitting around the campfire singing songs in a snug halter. Nor do I recall climbing trees in skin-tight leggings. You'll certainly be very popular.

SW-C: Popularity's bad?

LW: It can be.

SW-C: (With an edge) I'm really going to miss you.

LW: You certainly don't sound like it.

SW-C: What are these?

LW: Water bottles.

SW-C: Are they BPA-free?

LW: I don't know.

(Sophie sighs)

LW: And I don't care.

SW-C: Look. Stamped right on the bottom: BPA. The camp said "BPA-free plastic."

LW: They said two large-mouthed, one-quart plastic water bottles.

SW-C: Get the list.

LW: Sophie, it's 9:30 at night and we're flying to Logan at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. I will not get the list.

SW-C: It's funny.

LW: What?

SW-C: You worry about a hairdryer, but don't care if I'm ostracized.

LW: Ostracized for having BPA water bottles?

SW-C: And a green bathing suit.

LW: Would you like to pack alone?

(No response)

LW: Answer me. I don't consider eye-rolling an answer.

SW-C: This luggage label is so lame.

LW: No one's going to see it.

SW-C: The airline will.

LW: You'll unpack the first day, shove your suitcase under the bed, and that'll be that.

SW-C: (Makes a retching sound) Oh, my God, who bought these shorts: Helen Keller?

LW: Spare me the gagging. And don't pack that brush in your toilet kit.

SW-C: Why not?

LW: First, I bought you a brush. Second, you took that from my dressing table.

SW-C: The brush you bought me hurts. It's like what they use to comb your hair after you're waterboarded.

LW: You are not taking a Mason Pearson bristle brush up the slopes of Mount Katahdin.

SW-C: Then I'm not taking this.

LW: Now, Sophie, I thought we agreed.

SW-C: Why can't I just take a flashlight?

LW: I've read you the paragraph. Twice.

(Gagging sounds)

LW: A headlamp makes sense for the overnight trip. It'll free up your hands for chores.

SW-C: Chores? What chores?

LW: Setting up your tent, collecting firewood, peeling vegetables....

SW-C: Who am I: Cinderella?

LW: It's getting late.

SW-C: I will not attach a lamp to my head.

LW: You will be ostracized if you don't have a headlamp.

SW-C: Glasses, braces, and now a headlamp. I'll look like Frankenstein.

LW: Sophie, what a thing to say.

SW-C: It's true. You're trying to turn me into a monster.

LW: I'm trying to give you a good summer.

SW-C: Well try to be less giving.

LW: You could spend the summer in your room.

SW-C: I'd prefer it.

LW: Good. It can be arranged. Particularly for someone who's as large-mouthed as her water bottles.

SW-C: How?

LW: How what?

SW-C: How will it be arranged?

LW: By calling the camp and saying, "We're very sorry, but Sophie Wilner-Cohen will not be joining you this summer. We hope you'll give her spot to a child from the Fresh Air Fund or someone else more deserving and appreciative."

SW-C: Yeah. Like you'd do that. After you've already paid?

LW: We took out cancellation insurance.

(They stare at each other)

LW: I am getting very angry with you. Extremely angry. Stop rolling your eyes.

SW-C: I'm not.

LW: Whatever you're doing, stop it.

SW-C: How can I know what it is if you won't...

LW: (Interrupting) This is your last chance. You asked me in here to help you....

SW-C: No, I didn't.

LW: I'm sorry. I thought you did.

SW-C: You always say that.

LW: No I don't.

SW-C: "I'm sorry. I thought you wanted me to sign you up for Spanish lessons."

LW: (Angrily putting her hands on her hips) Don't mimic me, miss.

(Sophie puts her hands on her hips)

LW: You know what I am sorry for? That you're overtired and crabby and don't even know it.

(Laura storms out. Sophie stands alone. Laura re-enters and hands Sophie a flashlight)

LW: (Sighs) O.K., fine, take this. You'll live without a headlamp.

Spy vs. Spy

What happened last weekend (when you rigged a rope through a nylon webbing anchor, instead of a carabiner, and the rope split as you were rappelling down a cliff) has left you in four casts and a near-coma. My visit to your room this morning proved awkward. There was much left unsaid on my part (and obviously on yours) and much remains to be resolved. Nonetheless, I believe we can move forward. As a sage once remarked, "It's not how you fall down, but how you pick yourself up."

Issues of mutual doubt have swirled around our marriage since the honeymoon. You have always questioned my two-hour absence from the Temple of Karnak during our tour of Luxor. My reappearance, dishevelled, winded, and in the company of Sharif, a 23-year-old tour guide with limpid green eyes and a washboard stomach, has always been a sore point. You will believe what you want to believe, Ted, and batting your eyelids angrily at me this morning will bring us no closer to peace.

As a newlywed, I felt your suspicion as a palpable presence. I found you following me in the supermarket or sitting behind me in the darkened cinema when you were ostensibly at work. The resulting erosion of trust coupled with your loss of income hardened my heart.

The knowledge that you were routinely monitoring my phone calls and reading my SMS's was more than hurtful. You were vehement in your denials until I confronted you with a charge from "Mobile Phone Spy." Though I never found the actual device (you've always been good at hiding things (except American Express statements)), I continued to mistrust your mistrust in me.

While listening to the Ravi Shankar album you thoughtfully gave me for my 33rd birthday, I unearthed an ear-cam microcamera in the headphones you had less thoughtfully given me. I can only liken the revulsion and sense of violation I experienced upon that discovery to what I imagine you would feel if I sliced open your pet iguana, Igor, from end to end, surgically implanted a camcorder in his belly, and then sewed him back up. One word raced through my mind: "Why?"

I grew to dread birthday presents: the handsome pen set which contained an audio spy camera perfect for discreetly filming me; the stylish Bakelite, 30s-era radio housing a high-quality wireless color camera; the elegant bluetooth GSM wristwatch equipped with a micro earpiece.

When I came upon you reviewing surveillance footoge of me taking a shower, I was titillated and flattered. Less so when I realized your archives also included hundreds of hours of me baking, cleaning, and napping.

I began to spend my days roaming the house with a wireless camera hunter (scanning all commonly used video frequencies), and then graduated to a hand-held camera lens detector. I discovered cameras hidden in a photo frame, shower head, and, yes, even in an entirely unconvincing flower head.

I know you couldn't possibly afford what you were spending to monitor me and consequently became suspicious of you, installing my own cameras in air freshener, shower gel, toothpaste, foot ointment, and ultimately, Igor. In retrospect, I was unwise to make the incisions myself and regret his demise.

But you drove me to it, constantly phoning to verify my whereabouts. Yes, I countered with a CVX-II Voice Changer to mess with your head, but only after I learned from the mechanic that he'd unearthed a GPS spy bug in my car. The key ring bug detector I carried was insufficient so I upgraded to the cumbersome Sweepmaster used by professionals.

One day I mistakenly left this state-of-the-art spy device on the coffee table, but when you arrived home, you didn't even notice. You were too eager to don your headphones, put your ultrasensitive mic in place, and listen to me through the bedroom wall. Shouldn't you have been spying on me when I wasn't alone? Because that was the one fact you overlooked during your hundreds of thousands of hours of undercover work: my solitude.

Whereas my hunch proved true: your costly exploits were underwritten by a third party: a slag named Marian who holds an associate's degree and has no taste in clothes or (apparently) men. I did screw Sharif (twice), but according to the visual and audio evidence in my possession, that still leaves us several dozen times behind you and Marian.

If you emerge from your near-coma, I hope we can put the past behind us. Let's dispense with the cell phone downloads, covert filming, and gifts given for the wrong reason. Otherwise (like that carabiner you reached for last Saturday) when you really need me, you'll find I won't be there.

Trip Advisor

My husband Leo and I often confound people. We drive a Winnebago but love to stay in bed and breakfast inns. Proprietors often glance dubiously at our motor home and ask, "Are you intending to sleep in that?" "That" happens to be one of the sleekest, most comfortable units on the road today so we're not that surprised when folks think we're just searching for a parking place. "No, no," we reassure the B & B owners, "we have the money to stay inside." "Inside the inn?" they persist, eyeing Thor (the name of our Winnebago; Leo has Viking blood).

What a lot of people don't understand is that for us to sleep in their hostelry is frequently a come-down. Once we've compared shower stalls, the comfort and swivelability of living room chairs and the quality of hardwood surfaces, we opt for the Winnebago. "Maybe we'll come in tomorrow morning for breakfast" (Thor's kitchen is cramped), says Leo, letting them down gently.

Now one region of this country that has no appreciation of motor homes is northwest Connecticut. We've had some genuinely hair-raising experiences there. For those who've never been, it's crammed with stone walls. And behind those stone walls are either prep schools or homes that look like prep schools. And in those homes are alcohoòics and wife-beaters (often both) who "write."

A typical day for one of these types might be: Scotch, phoning and yelling at their agent, smacking a wife or kid (who's not enrolled at one of the local prep schools), "writing," more Scotch, and then calling the cops on Leo and me for driving Thor past their house. This actually happened to us four years ago. We received a summons for "parking within fifty feet of the Litchfield town green."

Leo put it best when he told the ticketing officer: "I don't know if you've heard, but this is still America." "No," said the cop, indicating the white clapboard buildings in our vicinity, "it's not." Can you imagine? They've actually got an ordinance against vehicles longer than 18 feet. Leo wanted to leave a whole bunch of Big Mac wrappers on their precious green but we couldn't find a McDonald's.

Anyway, all this provided a sharp contrast to perhaps the last place in America where you can still locate a charming, reasonably priced bed and breakfast: Arkansas. That's right: less than 80 miles from Little Rock, Leo and I discovered what has to be one of the great deals in this great nation: Ma Gerber's.

Ma herself is quite a character. She's the sort who keeps a wad of Kleenex in her brassiere on hot days (we were there the last week in August) and yet can still tell you almost every state bird (she missed Alaska and Ohio) while mopping her brow.

At first, when he took a look around Ma Gerber's, Leo's comment was, "Too many ruffles." (That's the Norwegian in him). But then he realized: "This place is relatively clean and the room's got an air conditioner." (Cooling a Winnebago overnight in the deep South can be prohibitively expensive.)

The big plus was the Jacuzzi. As much as we cherish Thor (94,000 miles and still purrs like a baby), he lacks a place for us to fully re-charge our batteries. That is to say, what Leo might call "an erogenous zone": an area of the home where a couple in their early 60s can reawaken the embers of what drew them together in the first place.

I feel truly sorry for all the rich couples in Connecticut and New Jersey who read their separate financial statements each night before climbing into separate beds. There are actually women who can't remember their grandkids' birthdays but fall asleep dreaming of a pair of suede boots in the Short Hills Mall, men who care more about their golf handicap than their wife's disability.

Not Leo. He took one look at that junior suite Jacuzzi and his eyes lit up. Then he turned to Ma Gerber and pointed at the tub: "There's a ring" (that Norwegian again). You could see her face sag: it was 114° and she was not up for scrubbing a Jacuzzi. "The girl's gone home," she said, "I'll give you each a triple portion of bacon in the morning and bring up a can of Comet." That clinched the deal (after all, the junior suite was only $48).

That evening, Leo was extraordinarily...avid. Now I don't know how many of you have done it in water or how many of you have done it in hot bubbly water in the heart of Arkansas in the last week of August, but Leo and I nearly died. Literally. He had palpitations and I felt numbness along the length of my left leg. Afterwards as we lay there panting, Leo said, "That was really something. We should go on 'Near-Death Experiences.'" "Yeah," I said, "or 'Oprah' at the minimum."

We then went down to the porch and shared a bottle from a nearby winery with Ma Gerber and her daughter, Roberta. We must have shot the breeze for a good three hours (they have a seat that swings).

Our only reservation about Ma Gerber's is the number of stairs (62). Other than this, we unreservedly recommend this B & B for: Girlfriend Getaway, Old Travellers, Pet Owners, and Family with Teenagers. We do not recommend Ma Gerber's for An Amazing Honeymoon or People with Heart Conditions, but for an Amazing Second Honeymoon? Absolutely!

Alumni Notes

Greetings fellow Bulldogs! Happy New Year from me, Amanda Cavendish. Has it really been a quarter of a century since we left Yale? Is our 25th Reunion truly around the corner? Who else feels like screaming every time they hear the name Herbert Hoover? (Or is it just that he went to Stanford?)

When I look at my life today, I am struck by how remarkable it is and how little I could have pictured it in 1984. Like many of you, I am busy with children and household activities. Like a few of you (Chessy Cox '84, Pierce Lamb '84, Evelyn Matthews '82, Toby Hart '81 and Lisa Oliver'83), I live on Woodbridge Lane in Winnetka. Having been reared in Lake Forest, I never imagined I'd end up a maverick dwelling in the South.

Nor did I dream I'd be the mother of four fantastic kids. Two boys and two girls: what are the odds? Don't know how many of you recall me running around Branford freshman year in my nightgown with a hockey mask and butcher knife pretending to be that Michael guy from "Halloween," but our son Alec seems to have inherited my zest for life (some would say mental illness!). His cross-country coach was out driving one snowy November night when Alec streaked past shirtless. "Alec," yelled the coach, "What on earth are you doing?" "Living," came the response. Precisely.

Speaking of Branford, if anyone's interested in a mint-condition priceless set of Royal Worcester plates depicting the campus's most beautiful spot in the world's most glorious colors (blue and white) do let me know as it seems a pity to let it fall into unappreciative hands.

We will, however, never put our pet iguana, Pepper, on the chopping block. Our neighbors, dooming-and-glooming about stagflation, think we're bonkers to raise him. But he eats much less than you'd think and has an unusually high crest, substantially more scales than most, a particularly long whip-like tail and enormous dewlaps. My husband Doug (Dartmouth '80; Wharton '83) says he looks like his firm's accountant.

Actually, Doug had to let that accountant go recently along with a number of other longtime staff (including Chas Alexander '68). We had our own goosebumps when Doug was summoned to the C.E.O.'s office only to learn a) he's doing a terrific job b) he still has one and c) our daughter Daphne (who'd been wait-listed for the C.E.O.'s daughter's sleepover) should pack her toothbrush. Restructuring is never easy but the economic downturn has made it imperative. On a brighter note, Doug was able to fill a number of resulting vacancies off Craigslist at considerable savings. If this be the recession, bring it on!

Hard as it is to fathom, our eldest, Sarah, recently applied early decision to college (no, not Yale, though I certainly lobbied hard). She's skipping her senior year of high school, a choice having nothing to do with saving $43,000 and everything to do with her incredible maturity and poise. Can this gorgeous, graceful creature (featured in North Shore magazine's Hot Teens Issue (March 2007)) really be about to leave the nest? It seems only yesterday we were delivering her to Deerfield, where we ran into Bink Jenkins '82 and his new wife Astrid dropping off his son Ryan. The Jenkinses and we later split the services of a decorator, Missy Campbell, who did both kids' rooms at Deerfield and, as part of the package, has promised to further her work at whichever colleges they find themselves. Godspeed finding your way around IKEA, Missy (only kidding!).

Christmas Day saw us checking our investments online in a Kuala Lumpur internet cafe surrounded by a horde of laughing Malaysians in brightly-colored sarongs. Doug indicated the screen to their blithely uncomprehending faces and said, "If you don't count the decimal points, our annual fund balances haven't changed." We were on the first leg of our Alumni Asian Spice tour (Myanmar's still a no-no, but we did manage to visit Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, and four other nations). Sterling Professor of History, Peter Whittaker, briefed us on the Far East political situation in the lobby of the Bangkok Oriental and then proceeded to fleece the group for sixteen dollars playing Quarters in the bar. Be forewarned, Pete, come next year's trip, revenge is ours.

On the homefront, I continue to give back to the greater Chicago community, serving on the boards of North Shore Country Day (Stephen is a sophomore and on the High Honor Roll), the North Shore Art League, and the Winnetka Village Improvement Association. Lately, I've battled to resuscitate the Winnetka Fox Hunt (Doug's grandfather Henry ('16) was Master of the Hunt in 1955 when it was disbanded) as a charity function to benefit the Winnetka Historical Society. I've been on the phone constantly. Sisyphus, you have my sympathy.

Despite this travail, I recently squeezed in time with Nan O'Brien '82, Froggy Morton '83, Francesca Thurgood '83, and Tina Barker '84. Nan announced she's just read a piece on Hollywood agents reluctant to pay for lunch in these troubled times and then promptly picked up the check!

Our indefatigable Daphne was re-named co-captain of her gymnastics squad and wiill again dance lead position on the synchronized swim team (see schedule at www.northshorewaterlillies.org). She is also hugely relieved finally to be menstruating (We told her all along: "You have to be last in something.").

We're currently re-doing the bedrooms in our guest cottage in case we have to rent out the big house (just joking!) so if anyone's in the neighborhood, give a holler. Don't be shy: we keep Pepper with us. In the meantime, cross your fingers and watch this space in the Spring Issue to see where Sarah applied early and if she got in. That'll be something to share at Reunion.

A Girl's Best Friend

Once I've slept with a woman eight times, I start thinking about marriage. A lethal combination of erectile dysfunction, halitosis, and an alarming series of facial tics usually keeps me mired at seven, so, for me, eight's a charm.

One conquest was Amanda. We got serious, she made me dinner, and we eventually got so serious I started to cook her dinner. What do they say? First comes love, then comes marriage? I guess that's because "purchasing a quality diamond" doesn't rhyme with "baby carriage."

Anyway, I was shopping for an engagement ring while living in New Hampshire. I know that may sound challenging, but the state does boast Manchester, a city with a population of more than 100,000 and some awfully fine jewellers. An "Esquire" I'd thumbed through at the barber shop (did not like seeing Salma Hayek after deciding to marry Amanda) said a ring should cost two months' salary. I was working at the rec. center part-time so I convinced myself to spend four months' salary. Which left me with $1,900 for a ring, but no money to live on for a third of a year. I would be like Will Smith in that movie "The Pursuit of Happyness" (yes, I do know how to spell it), when he worked as an unpaid intern for Dean Witter to become a broker. I would work for four months and just be broke. Or broker. But not a broker.

Everyone talks about the four C's of diamond buying: cut, clarity, color, and carat weight. But what about that fifth, all-important C: cost? Let's face it: there's no sense fussing over a stone's clarity if you can't afford it anyway.

Now you can get a gem for $1,900, but every time the jeweler showed me a ring, I felt my hand tighten around my wallet. I started thinking about all the things I'd done in my life because society told me to: wearing shoes, trimming my nails, attending school through eighth grade, not running in the pool area, showering Thursdays and before christenings, paying taxes, and not staring at people with obvious problems. Did I really want to start following "Esquire"'s rules when I wasn't even a subscriber?

As I stood in the jeweller's, I pictured the way Amanda shovelled in food like a refugee when I cooked for her, but at her house said, "I'm not hungry" or "I'll just watch." Here was a woman 23 years old, in the prime of life, whose idea of fun was to watch someone eat a not particularly good meal. How sick is that? I hate being watched when I drive, sleep, read, or, especially, eat. I didn't like the way Amanda came at me in the bedroom either, her face all flushed and devilish. I once shoved her away and said, "Christ, at least take off your shoes."

I turned to the jeweller: "What do you have for $100?" He stared at me in an unfriendly manner, then said with an edge, "I have absolutely no ring on the face of God's earth for $100." "That wasn't my question. What do you have in the shop for $100?" He handed me an empty velvet box: "This costs six dollars." I glanced at a shelf behind him. "How about for a newborn?" He cocked an eyebrow, "You're marrying a newborn?"

"How much is this?" "That is $90." "What is it?" I asked. "A bell." "Oh," I said, "why does it have a handle?" "It's a hand bell." "For the front desk at a hotel or something?" "Perhaps," said the jeweller, "but it is not an engagement bell."

Now here's where the New Hampshire mentality can be annoying. Who says you can't give a woman a sterling silver bell for an engagement present? Had he read that in a rule book? The truth is, almost anything in life can be justified short of assault with a power tool: adultery, war, famine, misuse of sick days.

"I'll take it," I said. He paused: "Sir, may I offer some unsolicited advice?" I looked hard at him: "No."

Amanda was very pleased with the bell. "It's beautiful," she said, "absolutely lovely." "You know, Amanda," I announced, "I saw an awful lot of engagement rings in Manchester Tuesday." She gasped. "The one I wanted for you cost $65,000." She eyed me closely: "In Manchester?" I continued: "I could imagine nothing less for you. If you can't have the best, you're better off without a ring."

"Maybe an emerald...." she said hopefully. "Your eyes are green: they'd clash." "My eyes are hazel," Amanda said. "Right," I agreed, "greenish." She crossed to the bell. "Is that why you got me this?" "With this bell I thee wed," I intoned solemnly and shook it by its handle. We stared at each other for the longest time. I felt on the brink of saving $1,800. Actually, I was on more of a precipice. Amanda rang the bell, then she rang it a second time, and a third, and a fourth. "It does have a nice sound," she finally smiled, ringing it again. "Right," I agreed, "but ring it less often."

Bucktown

Given that half the planet's population wipes its ass with bark, I appreciate that I was able to graduate from Northwestern. But I can't help confessing I wish others also appreciated it. Specifically, women. I've been searching for companionship for as long as I can remember to no avail. And perhaps that's part of the problem right there: using words like "avail." But I am who I am and honestly don't see why having a large vocabulary in Chicago should be an impediment.

I live in Bucktown, a happening neighborhood somewhat distant from the city center. I actually had a fight with one woman about its location. "Where are we?" she asked indignantly. "You're in Chicago," I informed her. "The hell I am," she responded. We then spent the majority of our "date" with a street atlas spread before us in my basement apartment, squabbling about city boundaries.

Why do I live in a basement at the age of 53? Not because I favor cool, damp environments, but because I work in a helping profession; while everyone else has been figuring out how to enrich themselves, I've been attempting to give back to society.

I'm a page in a public library off East Wacker. I help arrange books on the shelves, sort magazines, and direct patrons to the restroom. And yet a good number of women I've met don't even know what a page is. "What, you mean like in a book?" "No," I answer calmly, "I'm not a page in a book." Or, I love this question: "Are you working on your M.L.S.?" If you encounter a pilot, do you ask, "Are you considering becoming an astronaut?"

It's very sad to see how the older people get, the more they care about money. It's like they'd rather view your financial statements laid out than hear about your siblings, the starring role you had in the Freshman Revue (at a university noted for its drama program), and your boss.

Here's my financial statement: I do not care about accumulating as much as I possibly can before I depart this earth. I do not care about the right address, travel, fine wine, ridiculously uncomfortable European modular furniture and all the rest of it. I care about the moment, about communication, and laughter.

Blake wrote: "To see a world in a grain of sand/And a heaven in a wild flower." Yet citing this as my personal philosophy has elicited the following responses: "How can you see anything, never mind a grain of sand, in this basement?," "I want a lot more than a wild flower," and "Let's get the check."

Finally, after my mother asked me for the umpteenth time, "Do you mention your degree from Northwestern?," I placed the following ad: "World-famous businessman with balls the size of Vidalia onions seeks company." This drew 26 responses, all of them male. I then dropped the bit about onions and was met with: "Are you Bill Gates?," "Why is a world-famous businessman advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?," and "Why is Bill Gates advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?"

No, I'm not Bill Gates. I wear glasses (Who, at 53, doesn't?), am somewhat overweight (Who in America isn't?), and care about the environment. Hey, maybe I am Bill Gates. See, I'm funny and have personality. So I'd like to think that a first date at Walker Brothers Pancake House would not prompt this comment: "I don't see booze on the menu." Of course not: it's a pancake house. Should I have chosen Hooters?

That was the date where I nearly lost it. Jacqueline was a 39-year-old Assistant Vice something or other at some place that sounded dreadful and all she wanted to talk about were 401ks and Roth IRA Rollovers. I was trying to saturate my Hawaiian Platter (a short stack garnished with pineapple, coconut, and maraschino cherries) with as much maple syrup as possible while she was prattling on about being "fully vested." Then I had yet another opportunity to hear her vision of the "dream," which countless other women have also confided to me.

Basically, these gals are looking to retire. They're hoping to kick back, take it easy, re-do the kitchen of a brand-new home purchased for them as some sort of bizarre wedding present, and possibly have their new soulmate foot the bill for their kids' (from a previous marriage) college tuition.

Imagine: Jacqueline's 39, probably has another 28 years of productivity in her (38 if she invested those 401k funds poorly), and she's ready to slip into a bathrobe. I told her flat-out: "I'm not a player in the capitalist system. If you're looking for a University of Chicago professor with a chair, an orthodontist with a booming practice on Lake Shore Drive, or even somebody who owns two TCBY frozen yogurt franchises in decent locations, I'm not that guy. I'm in a helping profession." She asked, "Are you a nurse?" "No," I answered, "I'm not a nurse. And I'm not someone who can provide a life of luxury for myself or anyone else." "O.K.," she said, "don't get your back up. I'd just like to meet somebody who earns more than $22,000 per year." I asked her why she named that sum. She told me it was the poverty line figure for a family of four. "Oh," I said with new interest, "so you want to start a family?"

I stood naked before a full-length mirror Saturday morning and asked myself, "If I were a woman in her late 40s/early 50s who'd been through two messy divorces, been mistreated and neglected by virtually every man I'd met since then, and were yearning for sexual release to the point of developing hives, would I want to see this guy coming toward me nude?" I honestly couldn't decide and since it's not the sort of question I can ask my mother and she's the only woman I'm friendly with, I'm still without an answer.