Here's a link to my latest column in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, a true story about running into a Llama Roadblock...

I don’t know which restaurant chain manager thought of the idea of singing “Happy Birthday” to customers. Whoever it was should die a painful and torturous death while having “Happy Birthday” sung to them. The problem is not with the singing, which is usually bad, but with the fact that no one checks to see whether or not it is the recipient’s actual birthday.

This can sometimes lead to trickery.

Someone alerts the waitress, who alerts the staff, who come bursting from the kitchen, covered in tomato sauce, mayonnaise, blood and chopped onions to sing “Happy Birthday” in its loudest possible form, take a blurry Polaroid and add that nine dollar slice of cake to your bill.

All you have to do is ask.

The songs vary from dining establishment to dining establishment - from the very quiet and reserved candle and cake you receive at the Grand Concourse to the frantic, off-key wailing done at any Chi-Chi’s. Sometimes they take your photograph. Other times they’re smart enough to walk away backwards.

It’s not an easy task for the staff. It’s not enough to try and juggle nine meals, all ready at the same time, heading to four tables with a stop at the bar for three vodkas (one with lime, one with a twist of lime and one without any lime at all). In the middle of all this comes the command from the head waiter that you better get your butt in line, look cheerful and sing on key. Now.

The person receiving the birthday song and the people singing the birthday song are, for that one brief moment, connected. The customer doesn’t want to hear the song. The staff doesn’t want to sing it.

But before either can get up guts enough to voice this sentiment, it’s too late. They’re coming. As you take a bite of your meat and cheese stuffed something or other, you hear the clapping. You glance up in hopes that it’s not aimed at you. As they get closer, they begin to sing, or chant. And with utmost terror you realize it’s aimed at you.

“Happy happy happy birthday, happy happy happy birthday, happy happy happy birthday, to you, to you, to you, ole!”

Ole? What’s with the ole? My friends, I have been to Mexico. I have been to Spain. I am here to report that song does not exist there (or there). I’m not sure what song it is they sing at Spanish birthdays, but it isn’t that one.

It’s an amazing concept. No one asks questions. The customer asks, the cake is wheeled out, the sombrero placed on the head, the song is sung and the photograph taken. It has now gone on so long and has spread to so many restaurants that I fear the people asking to have the birthday song sung are sometimes not celebrating birthdays at all. I know this for a fact. I am one of those people. It took me a long time to understand the true power of the birthday song. Once I understood, I gained a new respect. The birthday song is an important tool. A weapon, if you will.

I had a last date with a girl once. I knew it was a last date before we ordered an entree. Nothing had been said, but after two dates where she never laughed, never smiled and never touched anything I was born with, I knew it wasn’t going to work out. Most people realize this immediately. I am an optimist. I asked for a third date.

We were at a chain restaurant, eating. As we headed towards dessert, I was preparing my speech about how she was nice enough and all, but it wasn’t really going anywhere, so, apologies, but, I’d like to get back to being happy and by the way, I’d enlisted and was going away forever. It was at that moment she decided to tell me about how nice I was and all, but she wanted someone better looking.

Better looking?

I was going to be a bit more subtle, but I had to admit to myself that it got the job done. “Excuse me, you superficial bitch,” I said to myself. To her, I said, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” and headed towards the restroom.

On my way out the door, I asked the head waiter, if it wasn’t too much trouble, to bring his rib bunch over to the table over there. Pointing to my date, (looking at her reflection in a wine glass) I told the man it was her birthday and she really liked it when everyone knew. As I got my coat and headed for the car, I heard the clapping begin. It rose to a crescendo at about the same time I started the engine. Happy, happy happy birthday, happy happy happy birthday. Happy happy happy birthday to you to you to you! Ole!

And to think, I’d always believed restaurant birthday singing had no purpose. Just goes to show how wrong you can be.

I sometimes wonder what she did with that photo.

And now, a story about people you and I have probably never heard of and probably won’t hear about again until they’re dead. Unless, of course, we can convince them of our undying love.

While cruising the internet for flotsam and jetsam the other day I came upon the story of the poor Duchess of Alba, no relation to Jessica Alba and certainly, judging from the photo, not to be confused.

The Duchess of Alba, the story explained, wanted to marry the guy she’s been sleeping with for the past seven years or so. She’s a widow. He’s single. In most cases, the children, her children from her previous two marriages and at least one from an affair she had with a Sevillian flamenco dancer, would not be opposed to their mother spending her remaining days with the man she says she loves.

After all, she is 82.

The problem for the Duchess’ six offspring was that they fear the man in question, 58-year old family friend Alfonso Diez Carabantes, was only pretending to be in love with Mom in hopes of getting his hands on her fortune after she passes.

The fortune of Maria del Rosario Cayetana Alfonsa Victoria Eugenia Francisca Fitz-James Stuart y de Silva, the Duchess of Alba and possessor of 44 noble titles and 150 hereditary ones including but not limited to the 11^th Duchess of Berwick, Countess of Monterrey and 11^th Baroness of Berwick, is estimated to be between 850 million on the low end and 5 billion on the high high end.

In case you wondered how much it would take to sleep with an 82-year old Duchess, you now have an answer.

There is an entire circle of people like the Duchess, whom you and I have never heard of and who only pop into the news when something seamy and sordid happens in their lives. When I saw the photo that accompanied this story on line the other day, I actually recognized this woman. She had been in one of my wife’s magazines, the women’s magazines that are thick and smell like the perfume counter at Macy’s – or more precisely, the perfume counter saleslady at Macy’s, the one who sprays you as you walk by at Christmas then asks, “How do you like that?”

I recognized the Duchess of Alba because she quite literally looks like Johnny Depp’s version of the Mad Hatter in the latest Acid-dripped Tim Burton telling of Alice in Wonderland. Pancake white makeup. Bozo-like hair. Utterly crazed look behind her heavily make-upped eyelids.

I have a memory for crazy people.

I remembered her.

Had I read the caption that accompanied the photo I probably would have learned that this woman was, shall we say, a wild one. During World War Two she, shall we say, slept her way around England. During her marriages and accumulation of titles and wealth, she had less than the most control when it came to men.

And then, suddenly, at age 82, she wanted to marry her 58-year old lover.

So she did, against the wishes of her many greedy children.

There is a chance that it won't work out.

I don’t have a title per se, but people have called me things from time to time.

And I’m 52.

If you go that young.

I will pause now, allowing the listeners to say, “Ewww.”

Done?

I have two words for those who would doubt my love for Maria del Rosario Cayetana Alfonsa Victoria Eugenia Francisca Fitz-James Stuart y de Silva.

Five.

Billion.

I love you, dammit

Though I do not want to

When I see some of the things

That you do

I love you, dammit

What can I say?

Though sometimes I wish

You would just go away

You snore and you whine

And I do hate your mother

Who always tell me

I’m not as good as your brother

You’re nasty when you’re drunk

You are downright mean

Always bitchin’ at me

‘bout how I am not clean

I love you, dammit

I have for years

Though there have been times

I have said “Kiss my rear”

I love you, dammit

You are my spouse

Now, come on, baby

Let me back in the house

I love you. Dammit.

Valentines Day. How did we get here? 

Ever since Adam stared at a naked Eve and asked, “Hey. What happened to yours?” men have been trying to trick women into doing the nasty with us. The first man noticed a structural difference in the two sexes, which lead to impure thoughts, which in turn lead to banishment from Eden and, eventually, the invention of internet porn.

Early man discovered how nicely tab A fit into slot B. Since that moment we’ve been trying to impress women with this wonderful concept. Unfortunately, like baseball, the Three Stooges and open marriage, it is a concept some women do not find amusing.

Man soon realized that woman does not have the same sex drive as man (or, if they did, were much better at concealing it). Early man soon turned to his brain to provide an answer. After all, if he could harness fire, invent the wheel and strike up a friendship with Barney, the guy in the next cave, early man could certainly come up with some trick to get early woman into an early bed. So, man developed a series of instruments to assist him in the conquest.

The first of these inventions was the club, the first known aphrodisiac. Ancient man, it is believed, would walk up to a young woman and tap her on the head with a large tree branch. This act, he found, would render her unable to sort her sock drawer or receive a “visit” from her “friend”. The main problem with the club method was not the instrument itself but the person wielding the instrument. It was a matter of leverage. If the man tapped the woman too softly on the head, she would merely scream and run away. Conversely, if he tapped her with too much force she would just lay there.

For a long time.

Then came booze. Historians claim that monks were the first men to understand the principles of fermentation. Supposedly, these chaste men of God invented wine, beer, grog and jell-o shots. It was a great leap forward over the club in the mating ritual. All men had to do was get women to drink. The next morning they invented the hangover.

Another great moment in the history of man was the discovery of the compliment. Middle age man, during the age of enlightenment, realized that if he told middle age woman she did not look fat, tab A could indeed find lodging in slot B.

Please do not become confused. I am speaking of middle age man, who lived in the time period just before the Renaissance and spent his time thinking. Do not confuse this term with “middle-aged men”, who live in front of the TV and spend their time arguing sports trivia.

The invention of the compliment was followed quickly by the discovery of flowers, chocolates and the tickets to movies about feelings. While each of these inventions worked for short periods of time with some women, there still had been no breakthrough in the battle for control of all the women and their many and varied slot Bs.

Until now.

Scientists from Great Britain revealed they’ve come up with a spray that makes women lustful. The aerosol “Spanish Fly” contains testosterone, which is absorbed into the skin over a 24 hour period. Originally designed for post-menopausal women with low levels of the male sex hormone, it is now believed to work for young women with low libidos.

Much better than a club to the head, much less expensive than a dozen long stemmed roses, the spray does, however, have its drawbacks. Raising testosterone levels too high could cause beard growth, hair loss, greasy skin and acne.

Let us then refer to earlier in this presentation. Exhibit B: alcohol. Originally invented to trick women into sex, the monk’s delight will now find a modern day use. Drink enough and the bearded, bald, greasy, pimple-skinned female next to you in the cave will seem just like a woman.

And, if not, there’s always the club.