Look at me, Mister. I'm a Star!

Well, tonight it was just like it was 1957. Swifty Lazar walked through Imperial Drug, saw me sipping my cherry coke at the counter and said, "That boy there has star quality."

Shlomo and I went to see the touring production of the Broadway hit The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. We knew before we went that they took four volunteers from the audience to participate in the show. Shlomo was determined that I should be one of them because of my impeccable spelling ability. I really did not care. I had had my moment of glory when I won the school spelling bee in junior high. However, that moment did not last too long as I missed my first word at the county bee. Remembering this tragedy, I decided some vindication was in order.

The way it worked was this. When we came to the top of the stairs in the lobby, a gentleman was standing there who asked if I was a good speller. Shlomo responded with an immediate, "Yes, he is." They sent me to talk to some Anderson Cooper-looking fella who asked me a few simple questions...name, age, occupation, etc. I am trying really hard not to hold a grudge that he marked my age as 35-50 without even asking. Uh, I'm 33, AC.

AC then referred me to a lovely lady at a lemonade stand-looking booth for round 2 of the questioning. Hobbies? Well, I was not thinking fast enough to say "coupon clipping and Chinese cuisine." I went with the arts both visual and performing. She asked if I performed. I responded that while I do star in my own self-created dramas everyday, I have no professional performing experience. She asked a few more boring questions. I dismissed my publicist, Shlomo. She said to meet back at 7:45 for the announcement of the four participants. Shlomo crossed his fingers. I was pretty indifferent.

7:43--Shlomo forces us to the lemonade stand for the announcement.

7:46--Still no Elizabeth (I think that was her name.)

7:48--My name is called third. I will be making my stage debut as a cast member of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee after a brief orientation. Also, I nearly pee in my pants.

8:00--Orientation is over. Curtain will go up in three minutes. I rush to the bathroom. Whew!

8:04--The curtain is up. The show began.

8:08--The first song is over. The additional spellers are called to the stage. I proceed down the aisle and onto the stage. I do not trip. My fly is zipped. It's going to be great. I am going to spell my ass off.

The first act proceeds. Then I am called to the mike to spell my first word. On my way, I hear the announcer say, "Anshel Streisand is the first in his class to grow facial hair." My first word was "Mexicans." They had instructed us that for each word, we were to ask for the definition and then to use it in a sentence. The definition was "a slang term developed by Americans to describe anyone from Puerta Rico, Chile, Argentina or any other country in Latin America." I don't remember the sentence. What can I say? 2,500 people were staring at me. Needless to say, I got it right. Vindication was mine.

Then there were some songs...and dancing. Yep, I had to shimmy in front of 2,500 people. I hope I kept the beat. Choreography is hard.

Then, I was called for my second word. As I was walking up, I heard the announcer say, "Anshel Streisand is recovering from a severe case of the cooties." The word was "sermoncle." Definition: a short speech given by a pastor. The sentence: Sermoncle is not a real word. I knew this would happen. There was no way they would let a civilian win. Therefore I decided to make an interesting choice and possibly go out with a bang.

I decided that "sermoncle" probably started with a silent "P." I don't know where I got that, but I went with it. P-S-E-R-M-O-U-N-K-E-L-L. The announcer said, "I don't know what you spelled, but that is not correct." The grief counselor came onto the stage, gave me a juice box, and showed me to my seat.

So there you have it. Andy Warhol said that everyone would have 15 minutes of fame in their life. I guess I was lucky. I was on stage for approximately 27 minutes. Eat your heart out, Andy Warhol. And, more words really should start with a silent "P."