I knew a guy once who liked to belly up to the bar. But every time he bellied up, he got a little more belly. Finally he’d bellied up so much and his belly got so big he couldn’t belly up anymore.

So he said he was done with it. Gone dry now forty-eight hours and running. Best thing. Had one of those bad cholest’rols; felt no good; liver shot; blood pressure off the scale.

After a while he began to lose his belly. He began to think of that cool party where somebody knocked over the punch bowl, while forgetting that it was him who stumbled drunkenly into it. The excitement of that moment when he was asked to entertain at a party, while forgetting how he was so wasted he had to quit after several ill-fated tries.

Now he thinks he can re-capture those euphoric moments with just a little sip. Not a problem. He can totally control it better.

I knew a guy once who liked to belly up to the bar…

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All this happened way back in the early days when my pal Dave was married to his first wife—Rest her soul. He and I would often get together to play guitar and, um…imbibe of the herb that’s not oregano. Sometimes—Bless her heart—his wife would have some with us.

Well, he’d gone out one night to get us each a small resupply. I noodled around with this or that on the guitar. When he got home, we watched the beginning of an old movie, and I went home.

At home I turned on the rest of the movie, laid back, rolled up a “pinner”, and considered impure thoughts with Donna Reed. The phone rang and I  distractedly reached across and picked it up.

God! James! Don’t use any of that stuff I gave you. You hear me?! Don’t use it! That stuff was meant for my wife! I…uh, Rest her Soul.

And that’s how Dave saved my life. How will I ever repay him?

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Steven has a friend up in Montana who makes his own “sour mash” whiskey, and Steven’s offered to bring me some.

Is he kidding? I’ve always been a vodka martini man. He knows that. You give me sour mash whiskey tonight and tomorrow I wake up feeling like somebody flossed me through the ears with a strand of barbed wire.

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My extremely smart neighbor across the street has proved to be something of a scoundrel.

While I’ve been over here awaiting arrival of my long-deserved Publishers Clearing House check—he shows up with a new Beemer, Marc Jacobs sunglasses and a leather Sharks jacket.

I guess I should have been more suspicious when he asked for my autograph last week.

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An old friend of mine’s wife told him he’d been talking in his sleep. She wanted him, naturally, to stop.

He said he never talked in his sleep, never has. Told her that when he was a young stud-muffin he used to date four/five women at a time. Some of them married. If he talked in his sleep, he said, he’d be dead.

Yeah.

Now nobody knows whether he talks in his sleep or not. He’s sleeping somewhere else.

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My life-long friend, Steve Jones, owns the Radiator Doctor, down on Park. He’s remained profitable, even in these hard times, because he’s knowledgeable, personable, and honest. It’s a good recipe for success.

So he goes down to Vegas for a little vacation, and stays in a big Strip hotel. And just for a hoot, he decides to register as Dr. Steven Jones. Then he goes off to see a show, try the tables, whatever.

Pretty soon he’s bushed, been a long day, and he goes up to his room for a little shut eye. About an hour later…BANG!…BANG!…BANG!… there’s a security guy at his door.

“You the doctor?” he asks.

“Well, not exactly. I’m not a med—”

“You the doctor or not? There’s a guy downstairs who collapsed. Manager says could’a had a heart attack. Tells me to bring the doctor.”

“RD…” Steven says, “not MD… I’m a radia—”

“Look, pal. I don’t care if you’re Dr. Seuss. Manager says bring the doctor, I bring the doctor—or it’s my [mild expletive]“.

It takes a while to get everything straightened out and find a real doctor, but eventually, Steven gets back to bed.

He says he learned a very important lesson from this experience.

Next time, stay at a different hotel.

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