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.

Gifted

Dear Betsy,

Mother and I were sorry to learn from your academic advisor that your apprenticeship to a maker of fine Swiss chocolates has come to naught. As you know, failure to complete this Independent Study Project jeopardizes your graduation from Hampshire next spring. We hope you have not paid January rent on your apartment in Zug and that you will join us here in Charlottesville for Christmas.

Let me hazard a guess as to how you may have passed this morning in Switzerland and then allow me to tell you how I spent mine. I presume you awakened late and obviously did not report to chocolatier Herr Zimmer, though he is your primary reason for being in Europe. (I don't need to remind you that your difficulties with authority stretch back to ninth-grade summer when you put Mrs. Cuthbertson's goldfish in a blender after she commented negatively on your weeding prowess.)

Perhaps you then made your way to an Internet cafe at around noon, smoked a pack of cigarettes (we've asked you to stop), did not email Mother and me (we've asked you to start), and did email Willy Duffy (we've asked you to stop). We saw Willy dining the other evening at Chez Robert with his parents while wearing a baseball cap.

We've eagerly awaited details of exciting journeys you may have undertaken since beginning your adventure abroad. After all, we purchased you a 60-day Eurail Pass only to receive upon your arrival a request for funds to buy an Interail Pass since "Eurail doesn't cover Romania." Mother imprudently wired this money, but as of this writing I have no reason to believe you've set foot in that nation. (Your intention to spend a five-day break in early November in "France, Italy, Spain, and Sweden" left us baffled. Unless, of course, you were travelling with Bruce Springsteen and his band).

So I assume you did not use either of your rail passes today. You did, however, use all three of your credit cards yesterday (I received an alarming call from Visa this morning alerting me to "unusually heavy activity in the Zug region").

Maybe you treated yourself to the same sort of meal you apparently enjoyed Tuesday (Thai Brasserie: 165 Swiss francs). Must you eat Asian food in Zug? The amount also seems exorbitant for lunch for one (Mother hopes you're making friends; I don't if it means you're buying them lunch).

I devoted my morning to hunching over a yellow legal pad, endeavoring to calculate how much we've spent on you since the first of this year. The amount is staggering (at least to me and others who dwell on planet Earth): $184,362.

I once heard you comment to Jacob Simonton, "Since Hampshire costs more than Princeton, it must be better." That remark rankled at the time, but I kept my silence. Betsy, Hampshire costs more than Princeton not because it is better, but because it has a substantially smaller endowment.

One out of every 2.4 dollars I earn currently subsidizes you. The school taxes in Charlottesville are crippling but your inability to gain access to magnet programs for the gifted meant that you never attended public school. Your interest in riding was heartwarming; your insistence on buying a pony in Ireland was not. I must put it plain: raising you has been occasionally rewarding, often challenging, sometimes exasperating, but above all, it has been expensive.

In your last email (which we received some time ago), you mentioned that you "do not like Virginia." This is a very broad statement and I'd like you to elaborate. I realize that John Grisham resides in Charlottesville and Mother informs me that you've never taken to the author or the town. Apparently, you don't consider him a "real writer." Approximately 400 Americans earn a decent living writing books each year; John Grisham has sold more than 60 million copies of his work. He is as real a writer as exists, Betsy. Furthermore, as he's never had any contact withour family save for a book-signing two years ago, I'm not sure his presence in the area is justification for not spending Christmas with us. So, please, indulge me, and tell me if John Grisham is keeping you from us. I doubt whether he or we would consider moving, but it would be nice to know.

I now must ask: What are your plans for the next semester? You mentioned a possible internship at a "Rangoon lunatic asylum" under the auspices of a program run through the Women's Studies/Psychology joint major at Bard. For your information, Rangoon is now known as Yangon, lunatics are currently referred to as "mental patients," and asylums are these days called "institutions." I don't imagine you know the proper terms for any of these in Burmese, but am sure you will become familiar with them over time.

I assume your accommodation costs in Yangon will be considerably lower than those in Zug. Food may be a problem: most subsist on rice. For someone accustomed to a bowl of fresh macadamia nuts on her bureau, this may come as a shock.

A further shock: contrary to your wishes, you will not occupy a "one-bedroom in Greenwich Village with a garden" after graduation. Mrs. Cuthbertson was right: you're a crappy gardener. You will live north of 86th street and east of Second Avenue with four other girls of my choosing (not Willy Duffy) in a two-bedroom apartment with paper-thin walls and poor light. If someone has to sleep on the living-room sofa, it will be you.

I strongly urge you to return home for Christmas. Bring Mother a box of Herr Zimmer's truffles and make sure it is gift-wrapped. I don't care how you obtain this, but if I see a charge on my card, so help me God.

Love,
Dad

Consolation

Dear Motorola:

I am writing to tell you what a central role your company has played in my family's life during the past 60 years and to express my gratitude. I am nearly as old as Motorola (you came into existence in 1928; I in 1946) and still remember when my father brought home our first television. We lived in a modest home in a modest town and modest state (284 Maple Lane, Akron, Ohio), so I do not exaggerate when I say that seeing Dad come through the door with that set was the highlight of a 13-year-old boy's life. It's difficult to describe what those flickering images in your "wonder box" meant to my friends and me. We inhabited a small corner of the world and led limited lives, which Motorola enlarged. Thank you.

Over the years, we owned dozens of the Quasar products manufactured by Motorola and parting with one of your television sets was like saying goodbye to a family pet. The only thing that consoled (no pun intended) us was the thought that another shiny TV made by you, bigger and better than ever, would arrive to take its place.

When my Dad got back from Korea and my older brother, Brian, from Vietnam, the first thing they did after greeting relatives was to plop down in front of the television and relax. Veterans certainly do love television; at least those in our family.

Which is why it was so disappointing when our remote control stopped working last Tuesday. The remote's a Panasonic but since they bought up your TV and radio business more than 30 years ago, we've still felt close to you each time we hold the device in our hand. Dad's long gone and Brian (who purchased (and loved!) numerous Motorola gadgets for his own home over the decades) now lives with me. He's bed-ridden and spends most of his time watching television. Or used to, before the remote failed.

"Failure" is too harsh a word. Certainly for Motorola. Your compnay's like America itself: dependable, innovative, and the best thing going on God's earth. If you happen to have a spare remote (details attached), I've got two new, triple-A batteries just raring to go. Ordinarily, I'd ask a company to replace a faulty product, but in my eyes, Motorola's like my child: it has no faults! So I'd be more than happy to pay for the new remote as I'm sure Brian probably wore ours out with his darned channel surfing.

I don't know if the person reading this letter has ever been bed-ridden or had a loved one bed-ridden or even witnessed someone bed-ridden without a working remote. But that's probably the definition of frustration. At least it is for Brian. Put that together with the fact that his hospital bed in the living room is no longer adequately functioning (head rest doesn't elevate). The warantee's expired, but when I discovered that the electronic sensors under Brian's mattress were made by Motorola, I leapt for joy. No one stands behind their goods like you. That's what I told Brian the other day when he was fussing about the remote.

I said, "Don't fret, Brian. Companies like Motorola (and there aren't many left) are the bedrock of this nation. A family like ours, which has made some sacrifices over the years and continues to serve with honor (our nephew's currently in Iraq where I believe he has a Motorola cordless phone and camera (model #HMVC3050) in his tent) will never be let down by such a grand firm. You'll get your remote, Brian."

I didn't want to burden him with the cost of a new hospital-bed motor ($830) or power windows, doors, and locks for our Chrysler (buy American!), which the dealership says will run to more than $1,150 (estimate enclosed). Thank God Motorola manufactured those parts or I'd really be up the creek. Or in the creek if I were to sail through an open, inoperational car window into a small body of water or possibly even a lake, river, or ocean. Brian would be home in bed, unelevated and without his remote. Or unelevated and with his remote if you send it quickly.

In the meantime, heating bills are mounting ($3,263 currently overdue), but as long as they don't repossess the house ($14,914 behind in mortgage payments) and I can obtain an extra blanket ($26), we should be able to carry on and continue, as we always have, to purchase your fine products.

God bless,

Eugene Banks

How to Get into Brown

Getting into Brown is tough these days: fewer than one in nine made the cut last year. It obviously makes little sense to dispense advice along the lines of "ensure that the previous four generations of your family attended Brown," "be the child of a famous parent," "captain three varsity sports," "have your parents build Brown an arts center," or "change your skin color." Nonetheless, there are time-tested strategies that have proved surprisingly successful.

#1) Join an expedition to the Galapagos and discover a new plant or insect. While others are enjoying a naturalist's lecture aboard your "floating classroom," hop out with an empty mayonnaise jar, capture the freakiest-looking specimen you can, and upon returning to upstate New York, tell your local vet or florist you found it in nearby woods while "exploring" and get him or her to inform Brown. Failing that, order something exotic through the mail and follow the same procedure.

#2) Find a new bird. The larger the thing you discover, the more impressive. If you're handy with scissors and surgical thread, or know someone who is, you can attach the head of one bird to the body of another and then "scan" the resulting creature so that a vet who has seen the image can testify to your powers of detection.

#3) Write a book. Brown long ago ceased caring about students who read books; they're now interested in those who write them. A girl who collected stories from women about their first menstrual periods will enroll at Yale this fall. So that one's taken, but what about "First Spankings," "First Wet Dreams," "First Divorces," "Second Divorces," etc.? Remember, you simply require an English teacher or other adult not related to you to verify that you've written a book. It doesn't have to be any good or actually make it to market (just list a publication date beyond April).

#4) Have a teacher claim that you're "the most outstanding college candidate I've seen in all my years of teaching." This phrase has become almost mandatory. It will obviously be easier to meet the criterion if you approach a first-year teacher, but if necessary, you can always become extremely close to or sleep with a veteran teacher so that they'll lie.

#5) Be yourself in your essays. But first ensure that "yourself" is someone else. Find a peer who's a more talented writer, has more varied interests, and is not also applying to Brown and ask him or her to pen your essays. You may have to sleep with this person as well, but if your board scores are high enough and he or she's not too unattractive, it's probably worth a shot.

#6) Become a hero. Remember that movie "The Contender" starring Joan Allen in which a politician stages an auto crash and attempts to "save" a drowning woman in order to enhance his reputation? Do something similar. Even if you don't have ready access to a bridge, a car which can be submerged in a river, or a willing victim, you can be heroic on a smaller scale. If you inhabit a house that's not too valuable or doesn't contain objects of beauty, set a small fire which escalates into a dramatic conflagration which you then single-handedly extinguish. An infant or toddler sleeping upstairs and media coverage are a must on this one. Don't screw up.

#7) Submit an art portfolio or musical tape compiled by a lavishly gifted cousin. How's Brown to know you can't hold a crayon when they're looking at intricate silhouettes depicting the downside of globalization? For aspiring musicians, it's better to claim you play a stringed instrument than a woodwind (it indicates more practice). Drums are a no-no.

#8) Do something at "the state or national level." Telling Brown you won a local diving competition is like announcing that you breathe. Participate in a regional or national contest even if the thing you're doing is idiotic or borderline offensive. "I was one of 16 selected from 3,400 nationally given the privilege of recently journeying to Atlantic City, N.J." catches Brown's eyes because these are numbers they can relate to. It doesn't really matter if your achievement concludes "to take part in the rapid doughnut-eating contest." It's merely important you appear well-rounded (i.e., good at something not having to do with school).

#9) Identify others erroneously accepted by Brown. As Gore Vidal famously wrote, "It's not enough to succeed: others must fail." Here's a way to mesh the two: trawl Facebook, MySpace, the Internet, and even back issues of your local newspaper to see if you can nab anyone who's currently undeservedly on the Brown campus. (Think Prince Harry in Nazi regalia.) Someone who's committed murder or manslaughter, flashed their breasts at a party, vomited on someone else, written an obscene slogan on an intimate part of their body with a Sharpie, or been to Cuba in contravention of U.S. travel regulations does not deserve your place at Brown.

---

My B.F.F.

Having published fifteen posts of stunning originality, I believe I have fair claim to being the most compelling presence in the blogosphere in this new decade. Despite my fearsome intelligence, hunger for truth, and unflinching political commentary, I actively seek the company of others. In fact, I'm currently searching for a Best Friend Forever.

Sixteen fortunate preliminary B.F.F.s will be identified and whisked to the tip of Cape Cod, where they will spend the month of March in an unheated cottage. Each potential B.F.F. will receive a cubic-zirconium-encrusted cellphone with my personal coodinates entered into its memory.

All 16 contestants will be blond, extremely attractive, and younger than 23. I warn those of you educated (even privately) in the United States that some among your number will be products of British state schools and may, therefore, prove intimidating or at least more verbally adept. You will be evenly divided between men and women as I do not intend (at least initially) to bed my new B.F.F.

I plan to call each of you at random with a series of ever-escalating demands. I may ask you to run naked down a wind-swept beach with your mouth full of sand, to plunge into the Atlantic's icy depths, and then to grind sea glass or sharp, splintered driftwood into your sex parts. Why? As a test of loyalty and to determine if you are entitled to the moniker "B.F.F."

During your try-out or apprenticeship, you will use whichever bath products, consume whatever foods (even sea glass and sharp, splintered driftwood), and sleep wherever I decree (expect to spend several nights in an abandoned vehicle or tree). Your cohort of sixteen will be winnowed to four. The other dozen will be asked to return their cellphones promptly and to arrandge their own transport home (N.B. Provincetown airport operates on a vastly reduced schedule in winter and does not service the U.K.).

Finalists will then make their way to New York for a series of costly lunches with me on the Upper East Side (also at Savoy on Crosby Street). A few conversational guidelines: I am not particularly introspective and do not welcome intrusive, "psychologically acute" observations about my character. Don't inform me that I'm "parsimonious," "feel owed," or "have profound issues." Also, don't stare at me while I eat. Just keep your trap shut, allow me to discern if you can handle a fork in public, and when I tactfully excuse myself to "visit the gents'" at the conclusion of the meal, pick up the check.

Don't utter things you think make you sound interesting. Announcing "heliskiing is better than sex" won't make me want to try the sport, but will force me to wonder what sort of sex you've had (and possibly even to picture it).

If your parents or other relations own unoccupied properties in locales that conceivably could be considered desirable, by all means say so. Don't fail to inform me about a vacant flat because you blithely assume I "don't like London." I do like London. Especially South Kensington.

What I don't like is human selfishness. B.F.F.s share. Everything: popcorn at the movies, secrets, stock tips, and, above all, a sense that we're there for each other. Why else have I loaned you an encrusted cellphone? But if, let's say, you're worried about a promotion at work, ask yourself if I, as a matter of course, would be interested in this facet of your life. (If you labor in the financial services industry at a (pre-promotion) salary below $125,000, probably not. If, however, you work with people I went to high school or college with and happen to know their salaries (regardless of size), do give me a ring.)

The same applies to your personal life. Having trouble with a girl- or boyfriend? If you're gay (particularly lesbian), I'm all ears to any details you may wish to furnish. If you're straight, think things through before phoning me (particularly after 6 PM). Is the one with whom you're intimately involved "just a person," or does he or she have some allure that makes him or her worth discussing with me? (Examples: he or she is on the masthead of the "New York Times" (editorial; not business); owns more than three successful restaurants in Manhattan (museum cafes excluded); earned more than $3.6 million in each of the last five fiscal years or possesses a house in Amagansett or better (neither heavily mortgaged nor north of the highway); currently serves or has more than a passing acquaintance with someone who currently serves on the board of the Brearley School.)

After our series of lunches has ended, the two remaining finalists will accompany me to Central Park for a gantlet of sack races, tug-o'-war, bark-and-insect munching, and finally to a bed of hot coals on which each will be expected to tread for a minimum of 20 minutes. At the conclusion of this day, the most worthy will have been selected and my new B.F.F. and I can go out for a celebratory dinner. Probably to Savoy.

The Game

The Princeton Football Association committed to a special fundraising effort that improved the...experience of attending a Princeton Football game. The PFA raised $500,000 to reimburse the University for the state-of-the-art scoreboard; which is unmatched in the league--December 2009 letter from Anthony P. DiTommaso, Jr. '86, President of the Princeton Football Association

It's been a difficult year for America and particularly for our Tigers. Just as many in our nation are hurting, our team also suffered some tremendous setbacks with numerous injured players and tough losses on the field. When a restaurant has problems, it seeks a new chef; rest assured, we have begun the search for a new head coach.

This is our final solicitation of the year and I would like to take this opportunity to remind you why supporting football at Princeton should be your highest priority. How often has someone remarked in a tone of astonished delight, "You went to Princeton?" (Particularly if that person is also an alum.) Some of the highlights of my life have been spent in the elevator at the Princeton Club on West 43rd Street reminiscing about all that makes our alma mater such a distinctive place: eating clubs and the bickering process by which prospective candidates are excluded from them, old Nassau Hall, and of course, football.

Show me a young man who can kick a pig's bladder between two uprights from a distance of 45 yards and I'll show you a future senator. Show me a running back who can carry for 37 yards on 4th and eight and I'll show you a future president. Show me a quarterback who can thread the needle and find an open man in the end zone amidst a swarm of Dartmouth defenders and I'll show you someone who will someday put this entire planet in his back pocket and sit so firmly upon it that the noise released from this collective human whoopie cuishion will blow the biggest of holes through the ozone layer.

Hunger is important; health care is important; housing is important. But what's truly important? Princeton Football! Who bleeds black and orange? We do! Who wants a new coach pronto? We do! We're going to provide our coaches with the enhancements necessary to compete for student-athletes and get the Tigers back to the top. We're going to fund spring recruiting and opponent scouting. We're going to furnish program enhancements for players and coaches. We're going to enhance the Bejesus out of all seven other teams in the Ivy League.

The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. And that's just a high school! The CEO of an average S&P 500 company earns 319 times more than a production worker. The mean compensation for a Princeton grad in such a position is 412 times greater and the amount earned by a Princeton-educated CEO who played football on campus is 586 times greater. Are we building leaders or are we building leaders?

You're at the Game: Princeton vs. Yale. You care more about its outcome than any future verdict you'll help render while serving on the Supreme Court, any inoculation you'll patent, any museum you'll design. It's pouring rain; the field is a pit of mud. The distant stands are a sea of blue and white umbrellas held by the wimps from New Haven. We wear our black and orange raingear but we do not protect our heads. We show solidarity with our warriors on the field: men with noble Princeton names from the heart of Pennsylvania coal country: Maliszewski, Iacavazzi, Vuono, and Avallone.

Our soldiers are on their own 16. All odds are against us when a slow roar begins to build, a deafening chant of commitment and determination: Tigers! Tigers! Tigers! A completed pass. You squeeze the arm of the gorgeous woman next to you: raven-haired, dark-eyed, from a prominent Houston family. You will someday marry this woman and inherit one of the leading liquor distributorships in the Southwest. All made possible by a chance encounter during Freshman Orientation at Princeton! But you do not care: all is dross. Another completed pass, quarterback sneak, out of bounds, the clock is stopped.

The clock is stopped because Princeton players are agile, swift, and tough, but above all, Princeton players are smart. When we're behind by two points and there are 34 seconds left in regulation time, we stop the clock. (Of course, we are playing Yale so they're intent on our not stopping the clock.)

Your chest is pounding. There are 2,783 institutions of higher learning in America, four of which are any good. You're at one of them! You are at (given the high incidence of TAs at Harvard) the best! But it doesn't matter: if we lose today, we're doomed.

You glance at the raven-haired creature beside you, at the woman you adore and you cannot remember her name. You're in a trance. Pick-up of six. Lateral pass: gain of eleven. Your face is wet: rain, tears, sweat. This is your Waterloo. Nine seconds left. We're on their 24. Out comes Blaschewski. First name or last? You're not sure.

Then your eyes turn to the most beatific sight on God's earth: Princeton's new state-of-the-art scoreboard. They ain't got one of them in Cambridge. Through the pelting rain, you note the nostril-width of the Yale fans. They actually resemble bulldogs.

The name flashes on our glamorous new scoreboard: Czeslaw Blaschewski. Go Czeslaw! Make us proud! Boot that pig's bladder through the goal posts and ensure your future in global arbitrage at one of the three remaining Manhattan investment banks. The ball is snapped, the bladder is booted, and like the perfect ending to a much-loved fairy tale, the ending is oh, so very happy. You kiss Daphne (you've remembered: Daphne Huntington) and wrap your arms around her. Christ Almighty, life is good.

Missing Missing Me

My main regret about the fact that I must die some day is that I won't be present to hear the posthumous praise others will have for me. I truly will be missed in my small community in Missouri, where I have been a fixture for the past sixty years.

What is so special about me? Many things. I'm tall, athletic, an avid lover of art and literature, and possess a wicked wit. Truth be told, I often prefer my own company to that of friends and neighbors. My daughter says that's because I live in the Midwest ("broad lawns and narrow minds"), but I think Gary Boone at the post office put it best when he told me, "You're always thinking about something."

Am I more interesting than other people? Probably so. Of course, with the flood of computers, hand-held contraptions, and what-not, the populace has become increasingly dull, but, nonetheless, even when compared with members of my own generation, I do hold a certain fascination.

I think of myself as a baby who enjoys having sex with grown women. This image is jarring, but bear with me. Despite considerable success as a businessman due to undeniable savvy, I have retained a sweet innocence (what the Italians call dolcezza) and naivete which makes me all the more appealing to the opposite sex.

My son once brought me up short when we were walking down Main Street, our arms loaded with packages. "Dad, look at all this stuff you've bought me," Robert said. "Do you even know what today is?" I shook my head no. "It's your birthday, Dad. And you've spent it buying me gifts." True story.

I suppose kindness is simply second nature to me. While I can't claim to have invented the $10 SMS for aid to Haiti, I can tell you I was the first one to reach for my cell phone when this method of donation first flashed across the screen during an NFL broadcast. "You exert so much energy thinking of others that you have none left over for yourself," is a comment that could well be uttered with reference to me.

I don't know how many of you are familiar with the riad. Some may confuse this word with foreign currencies (South Africa's rand or Iran's rial), but it is actually a sort of Moroccan townhouse built around an interior garden.

In Marrakech several years ago, I was with my family at Les Jardins de la Koutoubia (The Gardens of the Koutoubia), an upscale hotel with two swimming pools. My brother Henry (a mid-level employee for the State of Arizona) had joined us with his brood. Unfortunately, they were staying not at Les Jardins de la Koutoubia, but at a riad in the medina (a confusing and somewhat frightening warren of lanes thronged with Arabs selling almonds, dates, and pounded brass).

I could see that Henry's children were terrified to be in the midst of the medina and also knew that a bothersome problem with the plumbing meant that their riad stank of fetid sewage. I therefore took it upon myself to arrange for my brother and his children to spend the day with us around the smaller of the two pools at Les Jardins and to partake in a traditional Moroccan luncheon buffet (delicious!) entirely at my expense.

Bountiful, beneficent, open-hearted, magnanimous: these adjectives will see heavy use at my funeral. V.S. Naipaul was once told something of immense importance by a cab driver: "Always pleasure the woman first." Before I die, let me say, "Thank you, V.S. And please extend my gratitude to the cab driver if you are still in touch." Thank you from me and the numerous women in this area who have found fulfillment in the bedroom of this humble widower.

There are two ways to do things in life: in a brusque, brutal manner (the firing of Jimmy the Greek from network television many seasons ago), or with charm and dignity (the gracious tour of the White House George and Laura Bush provided to the incoming Obamas after the 2008 election).

Once my wife and I decided to rent a small outbuilding on our property with unusually low ceilings (5'4") to a young, unusually short family from El Salvador. We preferred, however, that they not trespass on our lawn on their way to and from work, school, etc. Margaret wanted to post a "Keep Off The Grass" sign on their fridge. I counseled restraint and penned the following: "While you are free to view our lovely garden, we ask that you and your offspring kindly restrict your movements to the driveway. In this way, you will have the best of both worlds: you may enjoy the splendor of the lawn while not troubling yourselves with its maintenance."

That family was with us 14 months and I like to think I still have a place in their hearts. For others who've known me longer, my absence will be a grave blow. Something in my character is so extraordinary that many have felt compelled to share their feelings about me in poerson. But as for those more tight-lipped, I just can't help wishing I could hear what they say when I'm gone.

Camp Bad Ass

Generally, the more money you have, the less time you're forced to spend with your adolescent children: there's boarding school throughout the academic year with ski instructors lightening your load during winter holidays. Students at independent day or strong suburban schools have a battery of athletic coaches, psychotherapists, SAT tutors, and private college counselors to keep them out of your hair. For some of you, however, the recent economic downturn has put a crimp in your plans to offload the kids this summer. Meet Camp Bad Ass.

You've all had the experience of chastising your child for low grades or shoplifting only to see him or her press the remote and channel surf in the midst of your lecture. And you've watched your offspring lose six retainers in four months and lie on the bed with their finger up their nose for hours at a time. Treat yourself this summer: let Camp Bad Ass do the heavy lifting.

For a fraction of the cost of traditional camps, we at Bad Ass entertain your teenagers from the minute school lets out until it begins again in the fall. We're far and away the most popular camp on the East Coast and are oversubscribed each summer.

Our counselors don't have years of classroom experience, lifesaving badges, CPR training, rock climbing certification, or Outward Bound qualifications. But they, unlike you, love hanging with teens. And they also realize your daughter's going to get a tattoo on her lower back, smoke dope, and date people from lower socioeconomic groups and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

We don't bake bread, press olives, or savor our homemade bread in hand-pressed oil. We don't lead nature walks, visit animals in their natural habitat, or identify moose droppings. Nor do we pick up litter on stretches of Maine highway as some sort of penance for living in Tribeca. We don't take kids out on a three-masted schooner, construct wigwams, or explore acquatic life in tidepools. The word "service" (eco-, community, or otherwise) is absent from our mission statement. We don't foster, share, or nurture anything. And above all, we never, ever try to "teach" your child, having conceded long ago the futility of such an endeavor. What is our ethos? Fun.

We have no dormitories, playing fields, or facilities whatsoever. We group kids by musical tastes, then pile them into brightly-colored buses tricked out with water beds, laptops, HDTVs, and killer stereo systems. We drive around for eleven weeks goofing off and getting to know each other. Think Partridge Family without shared chromosomes. And better tunes.

We have longstanding relationships with all major theme parks which allow us to enter the grounds an hour prior to other groups. Before the sun begins baking and just as others are starting to queue for their first ride on Ragin' Cajun, we've already been twice, exhausted Superman Tower of Power, and are on our fourth jaunt down the Xcelerator. In a given week, we'll visit Six Flags three times (twice at night), view four first-run movies (60% of which star Will Smith), and squeeze in a couple of Acqua Parks.

A typical day might be music, a breakfast Grand Slamwich at Denny's, a three-hour nap, a leisurely lunch at KFC, a flick, and maybe some late-night bowling followed by pizza. If we drive by a lake and people feel like a dip, fine, we'll stop, but there are no icy early morning swims, no archery, relay races, ghost stories, or other lame stuff.

We don't piously collect all cellphones the first day and keep them in a painted wicker hamper until "call home day." If our kids want to phone home, they phone home. (Don't worry, they won't: they'll be having too much fun.) Our campers are online, on Twitter, on their cells, or planted in front of some sort of screen most of the summer. We distribute BlackBerries to whoever needs one.

As for food, most of what we eat is fried. New England is fried clams. We're an all-steak camp, heavy on the breakfast meats, and all our meals are consumed in restaurants. We don't gather wood, build fires, cook together cooperatively as a unit, or do dishes.

In our 28 years' experience, we've learned one thing: hog the good times while you're young because they slip away real fast. No one wants to spend his or her summer "learning." That's why there's school.

Diary of a Mad Housewife

Al Qaeda leaders in Iraq's Anbar province have imposed a prohibition on women buying cucumbers, deemed too suggestive of male anatomy--The New Republic

Being married to an Al Qaeda operative is most demanding. There are many dos and don'ts and lately, according to my husband Fawwaz, I am always doing a don't. These days he is more obsessed than ever with acquiring a dirty bomb. I have told him (for reasons of hygiene) that if he ever finds one, I do not want it in the house. Monday morning he burst in angrily, his face as red as a radish, and demanded, "Where is my surface-to-air missle launcher?" I told him: "Right next to the bed where you left it this morning. Why do you ask?" "Because, woman, I want to shoot down that unmanned drone above us whose low hum is driving me crazy."

Here I am, trapped at home day after day with the sound of unmanned drones constantly in the background, and Fawwaz claims it irritates him. Anyway, he will never be able to bring it down (he can't even see it and thus always misses).

At lunch that day, Fawwaz saw me peeling a cucumber and his face darkened. "Where did you get that?" he asked angrily. "The same place I get everything in our village of 46: the bazaar." "You are never to buy another cucumber," he erupted. "But Fawwaz, you love cucumbers." "I may love cucumbers, but I have a profound aversion to your buying them."

I married a man who speaks in riddles. I said, "I have two questions for you: What is meant by 'profound,' and what is meant by 'aversion'?" Enraged, he stared at me for a full minute. "You know the population of our village, but do not know these two simple words?" "I was forbidden from attending school, Fawwaz. Do not expect me to possess an impressive vocabulary." He then thundered, "Women are subordinate to men and cucumbers are subordinate to women." Ah, finally there is something subordinate to me in my culture!

Tuesday, more anger at lunch: "Where did you buy these carrots?" "Fawwaz," I responded, "if you want to know where I've purchased something, the answer will be the bazaar. Until, of course, we decide to move back to Karachi." "No carrots," he bellowed. "And no cucumbers." Obviously, Fawwaz has has not spent much time in the bazaar or he would realize that he's vastly restricting our diet.

Wednesday brought wrath like no other: "Woman, is this a sausage I see before me? Have you forgotten we eat no pork?" I informed Fawwaz that this was a newly available, low-calorie chicken sausage. "And you handle it freely?" he glared. "Yes, Fawwaz, do you expect it to find its own way to the pan?"

Fawwaz and his associates may have located a dirty bomb. I'm happy for him, but wish he hadn't thrown a tirade during yesterday's breakfast. "You no longer care for bananas, Fawwaz?" He sat in stony silence, then said,"I do not want my wife to buy bananas." "Are you suggesting I steal them?" "What I require from you," he announced, "is silence."

On Saturday, Fawwaz declared he had to travel to South Waziristan. "No wonder you've been grumpy," I teased. "Where will you sleep?" "In a cave," he answered. (What else is new?) "At least let me offer you something for the journey, perhaps a sandwich." "A sandwich is a symbol of Western decadence," Fawawz intoned. "Then just some bread and cheese?" I offered. He nodded his assent.

As he adjusted his turban, preparing for the journey to South Waziristan, I brought out his food. "What in the name of Allah is this?" he shrieked. I was distraught: "Don't tell me you're off cheese now." "Not the cheese, this blasphemy here on the table. What is it?" "It is bread," I stated simply. "In the shape of a serpent?" "Yes, Fawwaz, it is called a baguette. Apparently they're eaten in France." "Since when is that a recommendation?" he screamed, raising the baguette and striking me with it.

All is still now. I lie on the floor, the bent baguette beside me. I hear only the hum of an unmanned drone, which I actually find comforting. Eleven days without Fawwaz: I will not miss bathing his feet and then drinking his bathwater. In fact, I resolve to try Sprite. And to host a Ladies' Night here for Adara, Basmah, Firyal and the others. When they ask what they can bring, I won't hesitate to answer: zucchini.

You Can't Eat Prestige

I have made a number of sacrifices in my life for which I take full responsibility. As I sit at my aged desk, chipped coffee mug beside me, I stare out from my porch in the Berkeley Hills and ponder my future.

It has been said that "A" students become professors while "B" students end up working for "C" students. This wisdom was shared by a self-admitted "C" student who occupies an 8,000-sqare-foot house further up Shasta Road from me. His remark rang true: I was that "A" student; I am that professor.

We Berkeley faculty have been asked to take furlough days amounting to pay cuts of four to ten per cent. These furloughs have increased the gap between the annual salaries of senior faculty and those at comparable private institutions like Harvard and Princeton (with whom we vie for professors) from $29,000 to $48,000.

If one is a partner at a Greenwich, Connecticut hedge fund and discovers that another partner has taken home $48,000 more in the previous year, there are probably no hard feelings. Neither knows precisely what he or she has "earned"; it's merely known to be seven or eight figures and $48K is acknowledged as a three-day weekend in Mustique.

But I earned only $142,000 last year and when I bring in my old Volvo for servicing, I must scrutinize the bill. I decided long ago that I could either be a nurturer or an exploiter. I chose the former and have never regretted it. But I do regret a pay cut. In fact, I resent it.

I don't teach at an Ivy League university: I labor in the public sector. I have faithfully offered students (many from low-income families) one or two courses per semester (not counting sabbaticals) for the past 27 years. I am now rewarded with a mandatory furlough. I don't want additional time off. Though I teach Turedsday and Thursday mornings and host an office hour Wednesday afternoon, I nevertheless find time to conduct my research and to write.

I wonder if my fellow cultural anthropologists at Stanford have their wastepaper baskets emptied once every two weeks. Such is the situation here at the University of California. The other Ph.D.s and I are often forced to compress the trash with our feet so that the bin does not overflow.

Yes, I'm fortunate to teach in California in the Bay Area at the state's flagship university. Yes, I appreciate residing in an airy, Japanese-inspired home which boasts rock garden, small ornamental koi pond, and many floral varieties. Indeed, the 335 days of sunshine each year are a balm to my weary soul. But an 8% reduction in pay? When all is said and done, those striking Yale clerical workers put it best those many years ago: "You can't eat prestige."

One tires of hearing how "lucky" one is every time one picks up the newspaper. Barack Obama earns $400,000 per year and has perks too numerous to mention, but I can assure you he doesn't tamp down his watepaper basket every other week. For eight years our president was a blithering idiot and Obama's arrival was heralded as manna from Heaven. "How grateful we are to have a brilliant president," swooned the press. Forgive me for saying so, but I am one of the few people in these United States who's actually as smart as Barack Obama. And yet I earn less than half his salary. Where is the nation's gratitude for my presence on campus, for my years of public service?

If I were to defect to Penn or Columbia or even (God help me, Austin), my department would never be able to fill the resultant gap. Not at less than $150K per year and ever-diminishing pension funding (my TIAA-CREF annuity yield is currently down to 3.15%).

Anthropology is a little-understood field (often confused with archeology by the unlettered). Allow me to clarify my achievements. I graduated summa cum laude (this means with highest honors) from Haverford College (an elite school on the outskirts of Philadelphia). I then did graduate work at Cambridge (the one in England) and my thesis was published by Oxford University Press (again, in England). Do you still believe I am worth less than 1/87th the average salary of an adequate major league relief pitcher?

Unfortunately, I'm a sentimentalist and know that I'm not going to find a koi pond in Princeton. Maybe on the Seward Johnson estate, but even there it would freeze over four months per year. I love the bougainvillea that tumbles down my hillside, being greeted personally by Alice at Chez Panisse, my wild rose bushes, my bonsai, teak outbuildings, and, yes, I love (a few of) my (graduate-level) students. Perhaps, I'd best just wrap my kimono tighter, grit my teeth, and stay.

Psyched

A resident in psychiatry at the Yale school of Medicine is on leave after he was charged with two counts of illegal possession of an assault weapon. According to the police incident report, he appeared to be intoxicated, was bothering patrons at the restaurant Dolci, and then "began yelling that he 'loved violence' and that he wanted 'to kill everyone.'" His attorney's explanation for the "arsenal of firearms, ammo, and gear/food items" found in his client's home is that he "grew up in the West and has an interest as a collector."--Yale Alumni Magazine

I ain't never fully understood my rejection from Harvard Medical School. The interview seemed to go mighty fine and I thought my personal essays revealed the complex currents that course through my personality. I recall asking the receptionist at the Harvard Admissions Office if I might photocopy a receipt for a sniper rifle and her asking for my full name and ten cents, but beyond that I have no insight.

Just the other day, while working with post-traumatic stress disorder patients at the Veterans Administration Hospital in West Haven, I emphasized that the human psyche is an extraordinarily fragile mechanism. Then I got Larry, who has a plate in his skull, to set off the metal detector in the Proctor Wing while Stevie and I raced to the cafeteria and shot soda bottles, three windows, and a food service worker in the arm (luckily for her (and unluckily for us) she ducked). I may not get another crack at her now that that tattletale of a bartender at Dolci called the cops on me.

So I breached the peace? So I carried a pistol without a permit and toted a firearm under the influence of drugs and alcohol? So shoot me.

Where I'm from in Texas, gettin' rowdy's just all part of a Saturday night. Yale's damn lucky I'm from the West. If I was from the East (as in Middle East), this'd be all over Twitter: "Whooee, we got us a terrorist down on State Street!" The whole University'd be in lockdown: bullhorns, flak jackets, the works.

These people out East are wusses: gotta have a fern by their heads to drink a beer. Act like they ain't never seen a gun. I grew up with guns: ate my damn cereal with a Luger in my lap. And I been collecting right up until the day I aced the MCATs: .45 Long Colts, 5.56 NATOs, .38 S&W Specials, .357 MAGs, .38 Supers, .22 LRs, and .455 S&Ws. Not to mention 45,000 rounds of ammo (a good part of which is hollow-point).

Do you know those cowards didn't even have a warrant? Nobody touches my assault weapons without a warrant. Last time somebody did that, I blew up her cat with a bicycle pump. She boo-hooed plenty but I later heard she sold the critter for vivisection to the psych. lab.

You know what New Haven needs? A tank. Not a sensory deprivation tank where you can lie in the dark and think violent thoughts and focus on events from movies like a tongue bein' ripped from a live person's mouth, but a real, honest-to-God tank. The kind you see rollin' down the aisles of a Wal-Mart in east Texas on a Thursday afternoon and nobody bats an eye. The kind we're deploying to Iraq, Afghanistan, and, hopefully, Haiti.

I never realized how much I hated preppies till I came to New Haven. My medical school advisor told me: "If you accept a residency spot at Yale and become a psychiatrist, most likely you will run across some preppies." Run across is right: in my tank. I'd love to flatten a few of them as they scurry like rats, fumbling with the Davenport College gate combination locks late at night. Especially the ones who use the escort service. You mean to tell me you're Mr. Valedictorian/Swim Champeen who's climbed Mount Everest and you need a ride 'cause you're scared? A guy like that back in east Texas? We stick a pole up his ass and roast him. If I see one more goddamned building covered in ivy, I'm gonna blow it up. And not with no bicycle pump.

You know what I'd like to do with those wimps at the Drama School? Waterboard 'em in cow piss and then make 'em watch an entire season of their "work." Since when do face painting and ballooons have a place in theater? And if I want to see a nekkid lady, I'll get me a "Penthouse" or pick up some gal at Dolci.

Now they done put me on administrative leave. Didn't even have the guts to tell me in person. Sent me an email asking me to turn in my ID and lab coat. I wrote 'em straight back: "Say it to my face."

But they all scared 'cause I drank a tad too much and said I wanted to kill everyone. They actually take me seriously. How am I gonna kill everyone? Six-and-a-half billion people? I ain't even got enough ammo for the lobby of a hotel in China.

And now my lawyer's telling me we gotta work on my psychological profile. "We"? I'm a goddamn psychiatric resident at Yale. I think I can do my own profile! I'll just have me a dip into the "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" and give myself a platter of auditory hallucinations, paranoid and bizarre delusions, and a side order of disorganized speech and thinking with significant social and occupational dysfunction.

In the meantime, I'm gonna get me a slick suit for my arraignment. Probably that sharp pin-striped number down there in the window at J. Press.

Hostages

June 11th--Junior year of college finally over. Am excited to begin work as a counselor at Give Peace A Chance Camp. This amazing initiative, founded by Mr. and Mrs. Saul Berkowitz, brings together Jewish teenagers along with their Palestinian, Egyptian, Jordanian, Syrian, Lebanese, and Saudi peers for a summer month of living and learning. Couldn't agree more with Mrs. B.: "Children are our future and their hearts are much less hardened than those of their elders." Am keen to make new international friends, spend time in rural New Jersey, and to possibly get a strong personal essay for law school out of this experience.

June 14th--Counselor orientation has been a blast. Learned tonight that there may be some flight delays from the Middle East (specifically, Royal Jordanian, Egyptair, and Syrianair). Can't wait to meet the kids.

June 15th--El Al flight arrives 25 minutes early at JFK. Israeli contingent has an impressive command of English. Other counselors note with concern that the group is choosing cabins that may be considered most desirable.

June 16th--Gang's all here (almost)! Evening Meet & Greet a great success. The Berkowitzes lay on quite a spread. I eat way too much falafel. Syrians arrive tomorrow.

June 17th--Team-building exercise doesn't go as planned. In an effort to shatter preconceptions, we encourage kids to cite stereotypes people harbor against Arabs and Jews. When Egyptian Na'ima Malouf offers, "Jews hog everything," Atir Brennerman responds, "Yeah, like Nobel Prizes." Na'ima counters with: "I was thinking of my great-grandfather's olive groves and your cabin facing the lake."

June 19th--I notice at breakfast that Israeli campers tend to take their meals in the center of the dining hall surrounded by Arab teens. I suggest re-arranging furniture in a more inclusive way. Head of food services loses patience: "There's only so much I can do with six tables and 48 chairs."

June 23rd--Have taken an ardent dislike to Atir Brennerman and believe he is somehow responsible for Egyptian students' decision to boycott today's tug-o'-war.

June 25th--Two Israeli girls join two Palestinian boys on a rowboat excursion, but when I attempt to videotape them, they flip me the bird and contort their faces. Still, trust is being forged between campers, if not between campers and staff.

June 28th--During sharing session, Na'ima asks if Jewish campers realize she and the other Arabs will be returning to bleak futures in dusty, backward towns while they return to Israeli prosperity. When I mention that Na'ima's father holds a high government post in Cairo and that she will be spending several weeks with her cousins in Newport Beach at the conclusion of camp, she calls me a Zionist and storms out.

June 30th--Reports of a scuffle in the Aikido studio. Atir again. I feel like knocking the crap out of that kid and the kibbutz he rode in on.

July 4th--Four Israeli kids announce they want to perform as a string quartet, claiming, "We're classically trained and we brought our instruments." Mr. B. does not think this a good idea and suggests, "Let's just celebrate Independence Day listening to CDs." During S'mores, Na'ima declares independence is an alien concept to most Arab campers and circulates flyers in support of Palestinian statehood.

July 7th--Am not taking a shine to Na'ima, who insists mattresses of Israelis are higher quality. Am tempted to push her in the lake. Or boiling oil.

July 9th--Those Lebanese sure can play wiffleball!

July 12th--The alteration on the dining-hall chalkboard at lunch ("Intifada Enchilada") seems to be the handiwork of Atir.

July 14th--Reports of stones thrown at Israeli cabins; outing to the Mall at Short Hills cancelled. A shame, as many of the campers were looking forward to getting their tongues pierced and I was hoping to pick up some jeans.

July 16th--At final sharing session, Sa'dun Assaf speaks for the first time. Says he resents the way morons (his word, not mine) Atir and Na'ima have held the rest of us hostage this summer by stirring up trouble while purporting (my word, not his) to speak for others. "Actually," he says coolly to them, "you speak for no one." Receives a standing ovation from all but two campers. A fantastic moment of catharsis for us all. I'm deeply indebted to Sa'dun for standing tall with bold defiance, for seizing on a vital truth that bedevilled his peers and elders, and for giving me the topic of my essay for law school.

Saudi Arabia: It's Intoxicating

"Nightlife can mean anything. We can provide you a very valuable experience that will hit your soul and your mind and send you home sober"--Prince Sultan bin Salman bin Abdul Aziz, head of the Saudi Supreme Commission of Tourism

Unlike some of our Gulf Arab neighbors who boast Western-style nightclubs serving alcohol, Saudi Arabia is not known as a popular tourist attraction. We aim to change that. Pronto. From henceforth, our kingdom intends to publicize its unique brand of entertainment and thereby become a magnet for world tourism.

While we do not supply liquor to visitors, we do offer something far more enticing: camels. Saudi Arabia has 23 million people and six million camels. You could be at zoos in London, Vienna, or Berlin peering at dromedaries through a chain-link fence or you can actually sit atop one here.

Many of you have the mistaken impression that females may not drive vehicles here in Saudi Arabia. Nothing could be further from the truth. First off, a camel's not a vehicle. It's a vehicular animal, which means you ladies are free to drive a camel at specific times in selected towns.

In addition, we have also relaxed restrictions on female bike-riding in two cities. Feel like riding a bicycle, gals? If so, simply drop us a line at the Supreme Commission for Tourism and we'll email you the names of the two cities where you can ride a female-model bike.

Our country's known for a daytime temperature which often hovers near that of an Easy-Bake Oven. What we're not known for is swimming. But we adore swimming. Can't get enough of it. We boast pools for male tourists and pools for female tourists. Often these pools are within a kilometer or two of each other so your entire family can enjoy swimming separately at the same time in the same city. And there is one city in which the two pools are a mere 500 meters apart. Just write us at--that's right--the Supreme Commission for Tourism indicating "pools half a kilometer apart" and we'll divulge the location.

Did we mention we love young people? Well, we should hope so: Saudi Arabia has one of the highest percentages of young people under 30 in the entire world. Many of whom are restless young men. And what do restless young men love to do? Ride camels! Come join them! Their only question for you is: One hump or two?

If you are a child intending to visit, you're more than welcome to wear shorts (up until the age of ten). Ladies will be most comfortable in loose-fitting garments. Shirts that reach the elbow and fully cover your haunches are highly recommended. Pants should come to the ankle--no cropped trousers. Vacation is a time to unwind: no tight clothing. Particularly in the pool.

I scream! You scream! We all scream for ice cream! Yes, we have some of the best in the region, perhaps second only to Yemen's. And while you gals are forbidden from licking ice cream cones in public, there's no law that says ladies can't privately lick an ice cream cone. Make sure to try our pistachio.

Sun and ice cream: what else is missing in the kingdom where it's always summer? Surf? Not on your life. We have miles of glorious beaches where anyone is welcome to stare at our ocean's sparkling allure. Just bear in mind that you're not free to be stared at. The coast guard patrol is prone to ogle ladies in swimsuits, ladies licking ice cream cones, and ladies in swimsuits licking ice cream cones. Hint: save your swimming for our public pools.

For you men, when you tire of driving a camel, rental cars are plentiful. Just take lots of extra petrol and water if you head out into the desert. And don't rent black cars: they get hotter than the Dickens! Remember, the white stripes on the pavement are intended only as "recommendations." In Jeddah, a four-lane road can easily become a six-lane thoroughfare and stoplights also mean significantly less than they do in other nations. While this is an alarming prospect for some, our restless young men absolutely crave it.

Few things can compare to a hot-air balloon ride over Riyadh. After all, Saudi Arabia is the home of hot air. You'll land in the vicinity of a Bedouin village, where you'll partake in a local feast of roast goat and cous cous, before being whisked back to your hotel in an air-conditioned Land Rover. At night, traditional activities for male visitors include shuffleboard, hopscotch, television (Al-Jazeera for those of you fluent in Arabic), and smoking, while for women there's the old-fashioned art of conversation or strolling in groups of two or more.

Things to bring: sunscreen (for your forehead and the area around your eyes), a keen sense of adventure, and an open mind. Things to look forward to when you return home: alcohol, drugs, pork, crosses or other religious symbols, and thongs.

While you're vacationing in Saudi Arabia, it's possible that the Matawuh (religious police) may chase you and click your heels with their wooden sticks if they find you in violation of any of the above. Best not to press your luck.

In sum, we eagerly anticipate your visit. Leave your dancing shoes behind, pack a good, government-approved book (the Koran), a deck of cards, several pairs of relaxed-fit khakis, and prepare to have an experience you'll never, ever forget.

The Lucky Few

A few of us don't know where Africa is. And a few don't know where Mauritius is. But very few of us know Mauritius is one of the most prosperous nations in Africa. My wife Beverly and I know because we own a great deal of it (Mauritius, not Africa).

Have you ever driven down a long country lane in Wiltshire, glimpsed the many chimney pots of a baronial manor just visible above ludicrously high hedgerows and wondered, "Who lives there?" Beverly and I do. The oriental carpet in our vestibule is larger than the local football pitch and a good bit older. As I told a far less successful colleague over breakfast in the City last month, "I'd count my blessings if I didn't have so many of them!

Anyway, we spend a fair amount of time on our yacht sailing between the Maldives, Mauritius, and the Seychelles. Beverly can never remember one from the other so I help her out by posting little signs about our floating paradise: "Seychelles; large, smooth rocks"; "Maldives: Seychelles without rocks"; "Mauritius: great Mai Tais at the Colony Club."

One decidedly unprosperous African country is Somalia. Oh, mercy me. No Mai Tais there. Think: civil unrest. Think: warlords. Think: when do you think this air conditioner might be fixed? Nonetheless, Somalia, due to its strategic location, has enjoyed its share of self-interested aid over the years from the Soviets and, now, the Yanks.

I have somewhat conflicted feelings about my native land, the United Kingdom, having obtained citizenship in Monaco the other year for tax purposes (my purpose, obviously, was not to pay any tax). I love merry old England, use its hospitals and universities when I can (a daughter currently at Merton College Oxford), but just can't abide paying tax.

All this came to mind yesterday when we noticed a most unfriendly craft approach our yacht 85 miles off the coast of the one that begins with "M" and serves great Mai Tais. Out in this part of the planet, nautical types tend to dress in a manner which Beverly describes as "brisk." One who dresses briskly wears white trousers, often a horizontally-striped shirt (in the style favored by French seafarers, though of a lighter material) and frequently a Greek fisherman's cap. I actually sport all three items and have always felt at home in the world's most fascinating ports (from Portofino to Antibes).

But rarely have I encountered a fellow sailor with a knife clenched between his teeth. We immediately noted that this man, who stood alone on the deck of a rather scruffy craft, was not dressed briskly. He wore a dirty bandanna, sleeveless sweatshirt, a pair of ripped jeans, and was barefoot. Nor did he acknowledge our (admittedly half-hearted) waves of greeting.

Beverly and I exchanged first impressions. She: "I'm sure he's crew. His employer must be below-deck." I: "Why the knife?" She: "Perhaps he's a cook." I: "Why the knife clenched between teeth?"

It's actually quite painful to clench something between your teeth for a long period of time. Up until very recently, I had no familiarity with this practice. I do remember a particularly tiresome day in Wiltshire when I absolutely could not get a knot out of my shoelaces and was compelled to pull forcefully with my incisors. But that took all of 25 seconds. As for true clenching, I had no previous experience.

Now I do. I currently have direct knowledge of many things I had never imagined. For this I am indebted to Jacob (he of the ripped jeans) and his mates (fourteen of whom eventually emerged from the hold).

Frequently yachts are emblazoned with witty, eye-catching names: "The Lucky Few," "$am's $hip," or, in our case, "Beverly's Bounty." Indeed, my wife won our yacht in a friendly wager (she averred England last won the World Cup in 1966; I was sure it was 1970 (alas, Brazil again!)). Jacob's boat had at one time read: "North Korea," until this was crossed out with what Beverly claims is blood.

I have no doubt North Korea is a beastly place. Its ruler is a cruel despot who has men put to death in front of their spouses while the population starves. And yet a part of me found myself wishing the crew of Jacob's vessel were North Korean and even that Jacob himself were Kim Jong-il (if only because his appearance would have improved immeasurably).

But no, Jacob and his colleagues are Somali. Somali pirates, to be precise. For me, pirates have always conjured up dashing visions of peg legs, eyepatches, and hooks in lieu of hands. In point of fact, upon further consideration (and I've had ample time to re-consider, clenching a urine-soaked rag between my teeth for the past seven hours), these are images of mutilation. There's nothing particularly romantic about a missing limb or lost eye. My new perspective may be the only good thing to come out of this ordeal (provided my London solicitor can come up with £5 million in 72 hours).

In the meantime, I fret for Beverly. The world of Somali pirates is not her world. Think: Cheltenham Ladies College. Think: "Tatler." Think: "Fix that bloody air conditioner by lunch or you're fired." It is not necessary to describe my wife's physical attributes; a partial list of men she's been with will suffice: Roger Daltrey, Peter Frampton, Sting, the late George Harrison, Elton John (kidding), and Eric Clapton.

With me bound and gagged in the boiler room, I worry for her well-being with the fifteen ruffians above. Beverly can be snappish with those she deems below her station, a category into which Somali pirates firmly fit. Oh, my God, I hear her screaming now. Footsteps draw closer: they're at the boiler-room door. Beverly is yelling, "Pervis, they don't want me." (Thank Christ for cultural differences.) What's that she's shouting? Oh, no. (Strike that remark about cultural differences.) She's shrieking, "Pervis, they want you!" Blimey.