Spill the Wine [May 2]

At age 26, I was firmly embedded in the music business. I caught a break from a well-established Boston band called Orchestra Luna. This required a location changed. My mother was used to this; for years my only address was hers as I gallumphed around the world.

[To read more about this fabulous octet, please see The Best Band Ever under the April posts in right-hand column]

I left my gig as musical director at a small theater, packed everything I owned in my van and headed from Connecticut to The Hub. This, once again, was no big feat. I had already traversed the country (to LA) twice in this fashion. I didn't buy my first piece of furniture until I was almost 30.

My contract with Luna included housing. This was provided by Diana Reddy, who was the band's publicist. I was to board with her mom and stepfather in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I had my van, my drums, my meager Hab und Gut, a few bucks and a slip of paper with an address on it. Done. Oh, plus the true spirit of dash and recklessness. The house was a gorgeous old colonial, a few blocks from Harvard Square. Diana welcomed me and showed me my digs. I had my own atelier on the third floor, perfect.

Diana's mother, Sigrid, also welcomed me. She was a delightful woman, one who had traveled the world with her parents, who were missionaries. She told me that my rent (paid by the band) included my run of the house, including the kitchen and fridge. Summing up, she mentioned, "We have dinner every night, which you are welcome to share with us when you are in town. Tonight, we shall have cocktails at half five and dinner at six. Thereby, you can ablute as you wish."

Ablute? What?

Well, I abluted--then fretted over what to wear. I may have had a sport jacket at the time, but certainly no tie. I struggled trying to find a collared shirt. Arriving downstairs at the appointed time, I noticed that Sigrid and Diana wore dresses. The majordomo, Dr. Paul Watson (a professor of psychology at Harvard), sported a blue blazer and charcoal flannels with a crease worthy of a Bavarian cutlery maker. I have thanks that he didn't wear a tie.

We assembled in the living room. A largish sidebar was festooned with all sorts of alien-looking bottles and an assortment of mixology accessories. The Doctor shook my hand and said, "A cocktail, perhaps?" A cocktail? Up to that point, I was experienced in only beer and cheap wine.

"Er, I'll have what you're having."

Sigrid bustled in and out of the room, readying our repast. Heady fumes of strange foods wafted from the dining room. The conversation was muted, devoid of controversy. I silently thanked the Jesuits for boosting my vocabulary.

The dining room could have been conjured by an Impressionist. A huge crystal chandelier provided a muted glow, augmented by candles. Linen everywhere, plus an assortment of heavy utensils that looked like they came from a surgery. In my semi-wobbly state, I was grateful to have Diana on my left, who guided me through the meal, particuarly the myriad hardware.

I had never been in a restaurant this soigné, much less a domestic dining room. A largish silver vessel sat in the center of the table, warmed by a candle underneath. "A light consommé ," said Sigrid, as she doled out ladlesful of a clear broth into ridiculously delicate china bowls.

Then she said, "Oops. The wine. I think we should let our star boarder do the honors." A swaddled bottled sat in a sweaty, silvery ice bucket. Unsteady, almost doddering, I got up and made my way to Sigrid's side of the table. I cradled the Pouilly-Fuissé as if it were a newborn. The gods were with me as someone had already uncorked the wine and attached a silver spout to it. Diana also pitched in, pantomiming keeping the napkin under the bottle to avoid spillage.

The silence in the room was oppressive, I think the lights dimmed. Sigrid slid her glass toward me.

I was still in foreign territory. I tried to dispense the fluid gingerly. Despite the spout, I managed to dribble a little bit on the damask.

Nooooooooooo! Had I botched my first test?

Sigrid assuaged my fear. Gently pulling my elbow, she leaned toward me and whispered, "Pour boldly."

And so I did, effecting my job without error for the rest of the meal. For the next nine months, I sat with the family for a score or two of dinners. Viands from around the world: Asia, India, Africa and more. I learned to become a passable sommelier: uncorking, chilling and pouring.

Sigrid, thank the Lord, is still with us. Diana, who has lofted herself from roomie into the staunchest of lifelong friends, is somewhere in Indiana.

My checkered past has morphed into a cloudy future.

But those two words continue to serve me well.

Andy Dipitula -- [May 1]

Fore words: This is the first in attempt to deposit daily scribblings—at least for this month—in this space. I certify that each story is true, as best as this tattered brain can remember. Names are rarely changed. Some of the pieces might even entertain. Per usual, brickbats and treacle welcome.

I was hoping for a quick game—and got one. Two Senior League baseball teams, one visiting from a tiny upstate hamlet of which I had never heard. Senior League is what it implies: Little League for big kids. I was umpiring the bases on the “big boy” field: 90-foot bases, etc.

Per usual, I didn't care who won. Even here, in the state tourney, my job was safe/out, fair/foul. Maybe ringing up an unchecked swing. Unlike Little League, few spectators showed. Clots of sturdy adults, folded into flimsy chairs, looked on indifferently. Seems that when little Shannon starts with the Shick, he's not worth the effort.

Good, I thought. No screaming, espadrille-clad moms spieling their Saab stories at us arbiters. And so it went.

As was my gig, when the sacks were empty, my station was Slot A, in foul territory past first. When the visitors took the field, I strolled away from first, lest I get conked by an errant warmup toss by Mason, Logan, whomever.

I used to wonder, when did parents begin using surnames as given names?

But this bottom of one was different. From the first pitch on, I began to hear a buzzing, almost apian sound from my right. Between pitches, I reconnoitered for insects—truly an umpire's enemy. The coast was clear.

Finally, a batter reached first. This caused me to pivot into the infield grass, between the second sacker and his base: Slot B. The sound intensified, this time from my left-rear. The pitcher made a couple of paltry pickoff attempts, requiring me to turn and take notice.

As I spun, the buzzing became words.

“ANDAAAY! ANDAAAY! ANDAAAY DIPITOOOLA!”

What?

The “buzzer” was the second baseman. His incessant infield chatter bounced around my ears. The voice was that of a baritone Munchkin.

After an out was made, the visiting manager exhorted his team to watch for a bunt. Some infielders, including the second baseman, hustled to the mound to confer with “Andaaay.”

As the second baseman returned to his post, I got a first good look at him. It was hard not to eyeball, taboo for an umpire.

The young man stood five-two, maybe -three. He looked like a character Tolkein might have dreamed up after a night of bad plonk: a head like a prone almond on an unseen neck; nigh-Vulcan ears flopping lazily in the twilight; impossibly short arms akimbo on a high waist; stockinged sticks stuck from uniform pants. I didn't want to examine for tufts of hair peeking from a shoe tongue.

Yes, his voice matched his body.

The game wore on in unremarkable fashion. But my little buddy did not waver in his support. At times, he sounded like a sportscaster: “THAT'S ANDAAAY. ANDAAAY DIPITOOOLA. HE'S ANDAAAY!”

After one break, I confronted the commentator: “Say,” I said, “what's that pitcher's name? He's pretty good.”

“That's Andaaay. Andaaay Dipitula.” On cue. A small grin, to boot, revealing tiny, well-spaced dentition.

I trotted to the scorer's booth and peeked at the official book. There stood the actual name: Andy Deptula. Given, of course, its own inflection by his teammate from another planet.

In the middle innings, I was hoping for a home-team runner to reach first, just to better hear the patter. This was truly bad form for an umpire—losing focus. Luck smiled on me; there were no close or controversial calls the entire game.

The intrigue ended in the last frame. As the visitors, up by three or four, entered the field, I noticed a new pitcher. I couldn't wait for the inning to start, to catch what spin Gregor Samsa would impart on the chucker's name.

And all I got was: “Joe. C'mon Joe.”

The Baum voice was subdued, perhaps down a half-octave, almost disinterested. I felt my shoulders sag. Three quick outs and we were done.

Following umpires' tradition, my partner and I left the field via the winners' dugout. I caught the eye of the second baseman and winked, pointing to Andy.

He winked back and then proffered me a full-blown smile, the corners of his mouth seemingly reaching pointy ears. He said, one last time, “That's Andy. Andy Dipitula.”

I never found out the second baseman's name.

The Best Band Ever

I can blame it all on one Karla Jayne DeVito. She of Mokena, IL. A friend recommended that I go see her in concert with a band called Goodnight Louise. She didn't take over the stage that night. She owned it. A high-stepping, song-belting vamp on one hand; sonorous balladeer on the other.

Some months later, she called me from Boston. She was involved in another project. They needed a drummer. Would I like to give it a shot? I would play with her in a vial-laden alley in Bed-Stuy.

I trundled up 95 to The Hub. I met Karla and six others sardined in the dining room of a three-decker on a Saharan day. The band didn't show me any songs, but, in their wisdom, snipped passages for me to assay: regal rock, gnarly punk, hints of funk. Plus skatey-eight other feels. Three excellent instrumentalists, plus four on vocals.

This was Orchestra Luna.

That night in Kenmore Square, I received my first dose of Luna-cy. Not just music, but poetry, dance, costume changes. A mêlée on stage. Songs about Tennessee Williams and kids on the short bus. I was sold.

The band arranged for me to bunk in with their publicist, Diana Reddy, and her mom, the learned, soigné Sigrid Watson. I had made some "cheat sheets" for the songs, trying my best to decipher them from board cassettes. The pieces defied musical notation. Sometimes, I'd have to wait for a body to fall (or wings to flutter) before we would launch into the next part. I ended up with a sheaf strewn with arrows, doodles, arcs and covenants. It presaged a Hogwarts textbook.

Somehow, I ended up absorbing the myriad movements. A few weeks into my stint, we played at CBGB, the dung-infested home of new music of the day. As I schlepped a hi-hat and music stand into the venue, a vulpine-looking guy from the Tuff Darts said, "What the fuck is THAT?"

The band, at the Rusty Nail in Amherst, MA: Seated, far left: Peter Barrett•; arc in rear, l-r: Rick Berlin (nee Kinscherf, Bob Brandon, Liz Gallagher, Steven Paul Perry•, Karla Jayne DeVito, the author; groveling: Chet Cahill•
• deceased

The gigs rolled in. We were the punk/theater/vagabond/commedia dell'arte darlings of the eastern seaboard. I learned to deal with songs that careered through multiple grooves, sometimes skidding on the edge of the road, but never falling off the cliff.

The octet itself was a clump of Legos. If Gumby had designed them. The parts would meld together in an odd formation, then split apart and reassemble, sometimes within the same piece.

Bob Brandon, years before a reliable electric piano was invented, held down the keyboard end masterfully, jumping from etude to rag to Jerry Lee. Chet Cahill stood tall with a Rickenbacker bass that could at once soothe, keen and growl. Steven Paul Perry simply shone on guitar. He was one the few players I knew who could play melodically and then kafkafy magically into a death-metal reaper.

Peter Barrett, up with our "front four," could be a wife-beater in one song and a failed Superman the next ("flattened on the sidewalk like a frying pan"). Weighing about as much as a damp jockey, he would contort, distort, bug-eye and slither through traffic jam onstage. Liz Gallagher, often the sultry soubrette, supplied the musky alto voice, rounding out OL's harmonic mishmosh. She served as the perfect foil for the brash, impulsive Karla DeVito, who could kick a Camel from an onlooker's maw at any moment.

Front and center, this seemingly rudderless ship was masterfully guided by Rick Berlin (nee Kinscherf). Lanky, lean and full of gusto, he wrote many of the songs ... and sang them as if he had to leave a part of his soul onstage. Able to move his limbs and hair in five different directions, he would grasp the mike as if it were a lifesaver, barely able to stay afloat within the tune. His boundless energy and willingness to work without a net set the standard for us other seven.

Holding us together were Lennie Rosengard on sound and Mike Scopino on everything else. Still, during my first few weeks with the band, not everything was smooth sailing. Especially offstage. Enter one Billie Best, a longtime friend of Karla. Instantly, she became our drill sergeant, fixer, tampon finder at 3 am, bully and dear friend. I subsequently met tour managers and other staff who couldn't come close to matching her nerve, guts or organizational skills.

Somehow, we made it to our gigs. Big shots would come see us. Max's Kansas City. The Ocean Club. And nearly every club of note in Beantown and Cambridge.

Then we were selected to be the pit band and chorus for the Jim Steinman play, Neverland. A rockish Peter Pan musical, the event was slated for preview at The Kennedy Center in D. C. I didn't realize that when we were playing songs like "Bat Out of Hell," millions would be listening before long.

However, the album deal that had loomed so large on our horizon never materialized. I had recently flown out to LA to play on a friend's album. This is what I wanted to do. In the hardest decision I've ever had to make, I gave the band my notice.  The parting was teary, bleary and difficult. I was glad that the best gig came last: a memorable concert at Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center.

After moving to the Coast, I got my wish. Sessions started coming in, along with tour work. No more lugging my drums around. Playing in stadiums. Limos, autographs, women. My own road digs ... and not in a ramshackle hotel, where OL would pancake four to a room.

I rubbed elbows (and worked with) Ronstadt, Rebennack, Midler. I drank with Tom Waits. A record went gold.

But something was missing. As OL soldiered on, through days of Luna and The Berlin Airlift, I often reminisced about the band.

We lost Peter Barrett, Chet married Billie, but also left us too soon. Steven also succumbed recently. Karla, you know about. Rick's Nickel & Dime band out of Jamaica Plain continue to amaze. I think his spark is indelible. Addendum 4.21: Karla has informed me that Mike Scopino passed some years ago. He of the sharp wit and the "get it done" attitude.

I am grateful for the photos and other ephemera that have resurfaced. I write now. The picture above served to jog my memory and force me to sit down and tap out this little piece.

I realize, now more than ever, that I will never recapture the magic, the verve, the sheer effrontery and especially the art that was Orchestra Luna. Luna was, simply, the best band I ever played with.

And they ... were ... fabulous.

Our Survey Says ...

I'm not usually all about online surveys. This one is cribbed from a HuffPost article about 35 things that engaged couples should agree upon. Since I have no desire to be engaged, I thought it would be perfect for me to indulge. All answers are true ... or close to it.

Does the toilet paper go over or under the roll?
Over. But no big deal.
Cats? Dogs? Both?
Neither, for now. Like cats better.

Can you eat breakfast for dinner?

Absolutely. Especially omelets.

Cold pizza: yes or no?

Yesiree. Especially from Beverly Pizza in Black Rock.

Is it acceptable to open presents as they arrive or do you have to wait for the actual birthday or holiday?

NEVER OPEN EARLY!

Should the dirty forks and knives go in the dishwasher with the handle sticking out of the utensil tray or down in the utensil tray?

Handle up, so you remove it hygienically.

Is it acceptable to leave dishes in the sink to "soak" overnight, or do they need to be cleaned before bed?

Soak. Especially if postprandial canoodling is involved.

Toothpaste: cap on or cap off?

On.

Again on the toothpaste: roll it from the bottom or just squeeze really hard?

Both. First squeeze hard. Then roll up as it gets lower. This technique can be used in many situations.

Are towels a one-time use item or do you use the same towel until laundry day?

I air-dry towels properly so I can reuse.

How about washcloths?

Simply put: They shkeeve me. My sea sponge is my sole ablution implement.

Road trip or flying?

Road trip unless destination involves crossing water.

What's the right thread count for sheets?

Flannel. All cotton. I ain't counting.

What brand of toilet paper?

Scott.

Mayo or Miracle Whip?

MW got its name because it is a miracle than anyone would eat that shit. This would be a deal-breaker for me. Addendum: Duke's mayo, if you can find it.

Pepsi or Coke?

I don't drink soda.

Can you eat the holiday candy out in the display bowl or must it be left there for display?

First off, I don't say “holiday” instead of the day's/season's actual name. I rarely eat candy and have never displayed it.

What is YOUR definition of camping?

Very simple. In no particular order:

• a secure, cozy cabin, fenced in to deter varmints
• no farther than five miles from shopping, excellent food and drink, and a decent liquor store
• excellent central heat and A/C
• a real fireplace, preferably with a plush rug nearby for secret moments
• a massive TV in great room with cable/sat, DVR and full collection of DVDs that aren't The Sound of Music
• smaller version of same in huge bedroom, which, by the way, has an outdoor porch with famously scenic views, perfect for breakfast
• a Brobdingnagian bed for separate, sound sleep OR spooning, with aforementioned flannel sheets and umpteen pillows for fort-making
• a bath and a half, the small one for me to get busy; the other has shower, Jacuzzi and shvitz with plenty of room for two
• a gourmet kitchen with an AGA stove, Viking appliances and a pantry stocked from Balducci's
• a wet bar, with Pilsner Urquell on tap, a nice selection of Pinots Noir, and a hogshead of Woodford Reserve bourbon

That's all.

Turn the thermostat down when you go out or leave it alone?

Down, of course. Like I own an oil company?

At what point is a garbage bag too full to stuff more trash in it?

Five minutes before removal folk arrive.

How many times is it acceptable to hit the snooze button?

I don't own an alarm clock. So there.

Thrift store shopping: great deals or gross?

Great deals. Dollar and “junk” stores, too. I revel in them.

How far in advance is it OK to plan a vacation?

One hour.

Restaurant reservations: necessary or too restrictive?

If I'm going to get world-class food and service, I have no reservations about making reservations.

Roller coasters: love 'em or hate 'em?

They nauseate me. I don't believe in paying money to get sick and frightened. I don't actually HATE the devices, though. Honey, you can ride the Kevorkian Loopdy Loop (made in Latvia) all you want. I'll be in the beer garden.

More chocolate chips, less cookie or more cookie, less chips?

Meh. Okay, more cookie, fewer chips

How much orange juice must be left in the container for it to be returned to the fridge?

One deciliter. And I don't drink directly from the box, thank you.

Chip clips or just roll the bag up?

I use these guys, and then hang 'em by eyehooks. Ingenious, eh?

Call the doctor or just take some medicine at home?

See final camping note: Woodford Reserve is a world-class panacea.

Where is the prime location for the TV remote to stay?

Under my sofa blankie.

Is it OK to have a TV in the bedroom?

OK? It's mandatory. We can turn it off. But I might want to watch Masterpiece Theater while you're immersed in Glee.

Should folded clothes be put away, or is it OK to just pull as needed from the basket of clean laundry?

I prefer to stow clean clothes.

Do you need to write a grocery list or just wait until you're walking around the store to figure out what you need?

I could live happily without any sort of list.

Making the bed: must-do or waste of time because you're just going to get back in it?

Single: permissable. Couple: wait and see. What if, say, after a terrific breakfast and co-shower, we might want to revisit the sheets?

Is it OK to shave/clip toenails in the living room?

Never. I use the back porch for that. Finches love 'em.

Why Baseball Is the Best Sport ... Ever

Submitted for your (dis)approval...

BASEBALL	FOOTBALL
Heroes	Statistics
Players judged by talent, not championships. Ernie Banks	Players ridiculed for not having rings. Jim Kelly
A great time for the family.	You tell me...
Seventh-inning stretch.	Super Bowl halftime.
Every score counts as one. Very little betting occurs. It's about the game.	If every score counted as one, bookies would be out of business. The sport is driven by gambling.
Affordable, minor-league ballparks.	[None]
Sox bullpen comes to aid of injured Torii Hunter. This is called sportsmanship.	Or, act like a boy named Suh.
Millions watch LL World Series.	Um, the Pop Warner Super Bowl?
In general, fans travel to games and actually enter stadium.	Only sport in the world where party takes precedence over the actual game.
No cheerleaders, just a few corny, fun-loving mascots.	Saucy tarts, one sprained ankle away from careers as trollops.
Willie Mays throws out first pitch at Mariners/Indians game. STANDING OVATION	Johnny Unitas does coin flip at Seahawks/Browns game. GOLF CLAP, AT BEST

And finally, to deal the deal

Bring it on...

The Best Scrambled Eggs in Shamokin

Well, maybe Coal Township and Brady, too. I dare enough to share my first recipe on H&H. And check out the calorie count ... Apologies in advance for TMI.

INGREDIENTS
2 chicken eggs
1 Tbsp. 2% milk
Semi-oily pan spray
1 Tsp. light margarine (I use Oliva)
1 slice Velveeta cheese (yes, you heard me) or scant ounce, shredded
Seasoning of yer cherce

1. I wholly recommend a non-stick pan. Spray that stuff on it. Place over medium heat while you proceed.

2. Whisk the eggs and milk in the proper vessel. Boldly. Jacques Pepin is right--this does not toughen the eggs. When you pick whisk up, the product should fall in a steady, unclotted stream. DO NOT SEASON YET!

3. Pour your perfectly whisked eggs into pan. Swirl to distribute. DON'T GO ANYWHERE. Have at the ready a proper whisk for pan.

4. As soon as some curds begin to form, pull pan from heat and whisk madly. In the next couple of minutes, move pan off and on the heat. You do not want the eggs to scramble too quickly. Keep whisking as necessary to produce the smallest possible curds.

5. While the eggs are still somewhat liquidy, toss in the cheese, which you have previously ripped into dainty shreds. Do not wait too long to do this; the eggs will be cooked and the cheese might not have melted. Whisk again, with vigor, to mix cheese in.

6. Right before you think they're done, add the margarine. Yes, whisk.

7. If you're a hard-core, hard-curd scrambler, please try it my way. I take eggs off the heat when they are very soft, but not runny. Now season; whisk one last time. Place onto a warm plate (I use a silicone spatula to get all the goodness out). Use fork. Ingest. Go nuts. Get back to me with the tons of praise I am expecting.

NOTES: You may laugh at the Velveeta, but it melts divinely. If you don't mess up, you will see no cheese in the final product; everything will be incorporated. I use Tony Chachere's Cajun seasoning blend.

THE GOOD NEWS: 
Eggs: 140 calories
Milk: 9
Cheese: 60
Margarine: 15

= 224 CALORIES!

Q. E. D.

Next: Baba and Maga's mac salad to kvell over

17 Things Every Man Should Learn

… about women. This screed was inspired by this outstanding article from Emma Gray. Strap it on, buck up, and get with the program.

1. Stop thinking with your willy. If all you expect from a partner is Sealy Calisthenics, you are proving your shallowness. You'll never find out the true depth and beauty of a woman by wrangling her onto the percale as soon as possible. Let it be her idea, and then you'll both feel the magic. Addendum: If you need it that badly, go to the Bang Kok rub 'n' tug.

2. Listen. This does not mean “obey.” Especially when she wants to talk about the relationship. Turn the game off (see # 9). Hold her close and let her talk. In the end, you'll have a stronger bond. And, Mr. Macho-Six-Pack-Hung-Like-Hillshire-Farms, this is what you really want.

3. Appreciate the bifurcation of the sexes. Women are different than us, in myriad ways. Instead of lamenting this, celebrate it. For instance, only women can say, “Awwwww.” If you were down in the dumps, from whom would you rather receive consolation (see # 14 ): your mega-farting buddy Sully or the woman whom you love?

4. Ask her. Out on a date. For a kiss. Her opinion. Not only will she appreciate this, but you'll find out quickly whether she has sentenced you to Friend Prison or not.

5. Lose the hoodie. Enough said.

6. Employ the mini-compliment. Lay off the “you're the most beautiful, gush, gush, blah, blah” shit. This is hyperbole. Notice the earrings, the hair (ESPECIALLY the hair), the shoes. And yes, you like them. Every time. And don't wait for her to mention the item at hand. Detect it, Sherlock. And don't gush.

7. Cook. This does NOT mean grill. Any Natty-Light-swilling idiot can do this. Start with easy dishes (not Ragu!) and work your way up. Yes, this can be used as a ploy, but think bigger. Many women I've known would rather enjoy your veal marsala with a nice Pinot than go to Chez Fancypants. The only time this backfired on me was when a woman told me she was intimidated by my knife skills. Sic transit gloria mundi.

8. Beware of alcohol. Especially in the beginning. Feel this out with her. Do not drag her down to Filthy McNasty's on the first date. Too many times, I have seen a woman toying with her Chard at a table while Datey and his slovenly boys, fueled by multiple Jaeger Bombs, debate the worth of Eli Manning at the rail. See # 9. As far as recreational drugs go, you're on your own.

9. Tame your sports obsessions. Am I saying stop supporting your team? No. But putting your life in total-stop mode to watch endless games can rupture a blossoming relationship. Perhaps she has a favorite game you both can enjoy. If she understands you (and yes, you can foster this by being open with her), going with the guys on an occasional outing won't be such a big whup. Plus: You're, say, 45. Do you really need that $275 custom-lettered official jersey? For the same price, you two can go to a B&B.

10. You can't buy her. Perhaps moneyed investment bankers and washed-up film stars can do this, but it doesn't last. Baubles, gewgaws and other impedimenta should be avoided, especially early on. Too often, you'll embarrass her with something she is hesitant to accept. Later on, surprise her with something small and inexpensive. You'll get a laugh and a hug.

11. If she cares about you, she'll show you. Meaning: Don't expect Sweetie to come out right away and tell you anything romantic. Women are not conditioned to do this. Look at the whole shebang as an adventure, not a chase. For example, on an early date, my soon-to-be gal invited me in and, wordlessly, served us a glass of wine. The same wine we had at our first dinner. Then I knew that this was going to be a BIG ONE. And she was one of the finest women I have ever known.

12. Don't make demands. Corollary to #1. I know an absolutely wonderful woman whom I loved back in the day. I guess I always will, in a way, because she is such a woman of substance. We reconnected a few years ago, and it's been fabulous to have her back in my life. One night she called me, sobbing, to tell me about a guy she had been seeing. After a furious flurry of solid, meaningful dates, he—out of the blue—demanded that they roll about on the Serta. She tried to explain that she was enjoying this nascent relationship but wasn't quite ready to conjugate the verb. This douche-nozzle then abruptly announced this was a deal-breaker and stormed away. If you act like this, stop reading this piece. Right now.

13. Iron. The verb. Especially for her. It's not cryogenics. My grandma taught me this, in about fifteen minutes.

14. Compassion. I think this is one of the most admirable traits anyone can espouse. She might just need a hug, some soothing words … or your veal marsala. If you're both not giving—and getting—this from your partner, something is awry.

15. Cuzzy. This is not my term; it's via my old roomie, Johnny Dateless. It's a combination of snuggling, holding, warming, with maybe a soupçon of osculation. Often, this is just what she needs. Then you'll find out that you're not a wuss because you enjoy it, too.

16. Be noble. Admit your faults without over-apology. Find out what you've done wrong (which may prove difficult) and fix it. Is it really going to kill you to pick up your Jockeys off the floor and put them in the hamper? And if she errs, accept her words, don't berate. Talk. Listen.

17. Remind her. Remind her that she is beautiful and loved. Every day. I wish I had known this when I was younger.