The Liam McEneaney Experience

I'm not a big fan of Lenny Kravitz.
He just strikes me as the kind of guy who jerks off to his own music.

The Republican National Convention is coming to town.
And they'll be headquartered in Madison Square Garden.
Which is appropriate, because that's where the circus is held every year.
The only difference - at the circus, one or two of the clowns aren't scary.

Now that Bush is actually spending time here, do you think he's sorry he cut terrorism funding to New York?
I just want him to stand on 8th Avenue and think, "I sent more money to Wyoming? What am I, some kind of an asshole? What kind of crap terrorist would attack Wyoming? I might as well have allocated money for protecting Santa's workshop!"

When I was growing up, my mom valued honesty very highly.

The problem was, she would ask me these questions where I would get punished for giving an honest answer.

"Your room is a pigsty. Is this how you want your room to look?"
Well, yeah.

"Do you want me cleaning up after you for the rest of your life?"
Well, yeah, actually that sounds great. I didn't know that was an option.

"Do I look like your maid to you?"
Well, you are cleaning up after me all the time.

And I would get punished for being "smart," which was nothing compared to the punishment for "playing dumb":
"Do you know what time it is?"
Um, no?
"Well you can skip dinner and stay in your room until you learn how to tell time."

The thing was, my mom would have the weirdest standards of honesty:
"You better not tell a lie, because if you do then Santa Claus won't bring you a present."
Who's Santa Claus?
"He's a big elf who lives in the North Pole and magically flies in a sled giving out presents. And he hates liars."

Of course, there was no Santa. I think the most interesting thing was, the more tired my mo mgot, the weirder her threats were.
Like, when she was wide awake, it was like, "If you don't go to bed, I won't let you watch the Muppets tomorrow night."
OK, mom.

But then, if she was super-tired, the threats got really weird:
"You'd better go to bed, because there's a monster living in your closet and he sucks the eyeballs out of bad little boys."

And then I'm in therapy. And my mom has the best way of excusing her weird threats: "That never happened."
Yes it did.
"I would never say that."
You did. And you better be honest, or Santa won't bring yo ua present this year.

Herpes.

No, really. Last year, I got a gift - a free series of karate lessons.

Now, I don't knwo if you've ever taken karate before, but when you walk into the dojo, the first thing they do is give you a set of pyjamas and tell you to change.
I'm like, "Whoa, are you coming on to me?"
Because, what's the message there? "Here, slip into something a little more comfortable - before we wrestle for the next two hours."

So i get into the classroom, and the instructor says, "Okay, before we start, I want to give you an idea of what you'll be able to accomplish if you stick with my karate lessons."
So he has this board laid out and he goes HIIIYAAAAAA!
And he breaks the board with his bare hand.

And he has a brick and he goes HIIIYAAAA!
And he breaks the brick with his bare hand.

And I say, "Excuse me, that's great if I'm ever attacked by a house. But what do I do if I get into a fight, like say I'm in a bar and I don't like the way some guy's face looks?"

And the instructor says, "Listen, the reason you learn karate is so you may never use it.

Thing is, I already know how to not use karate.
Unless "karate" involves a lot of crying and slapping, I'm pretty good at not using karate.

I just don't want to be in a situation where I have to say, "Hey back off. I may have learned karate. Or I may be about to bleed a lot. Either way, you're gonna want to watch your jacket."

So I do the lesson for three or four weeks, and I'm getting good at it. I've already progressed - well, you know how a black belt is the hghest belt you can achieve? I got a black-and-blue belt. Which means I'm almost good at ducking.

So I'm walking home one night after a karate lesson. I turn into a dark alley, where I am attacked out of nowhere by a vicious gang of unemployed carpenters, all of whom are armed only with wooden boards and large cinder blocks.

I get into my karate stance. And the guy with the board gets scared and runs away.
And I turn to the guy with the large brick and I go HIIIIYAAAAA!
And manage to break my hand using only a bare brick.

He laughed so hard he ended up choking to death. Proving that you can win a fight not using karate.

is a red daffodil with thorns.

Always want to know what you're looking at.

They can be pantsless in Times Square, holding a duck and screaming about how the CIA is programming them to kill chickens.

But if you look at them, it's like -
"THE CIA HAS BRAIN WAVES THAT - what are YOU looking at?"

- Uh, just wanted to see the guy all my CIA buddies keep talking about. So you're the guy who gets the chicken-kill brain-wave patterns.

What am I looking at? I don't know, the duck is weirding me out.

And then they always have the same excuse -
"Well, they called George Washington crazy."
No they didn't.
"Yes they did."
No they didn't.
"Yes they did."
No they didn't.
"Yes they did."
When?
"When he stood pantsless in Times Square holding a duck.
Ooh, check and mate my friend.

it's a warning to the rest of the world - "I am an asshole."

Cigar Afficionado magazine kills me. It's a Douchebag Accessory. -
"Man, I'm making everyone around me sick. But it just isn't enough. If only there was some way to spend even more money letting the world know what an asshole I am."

Because let's face it. If you're so lacking in taste that you light something in your mouth that smells like a dog just took a dump on a garbage fire, you probably aren't an afficionado of much else.

I certainly wouldn't trust your taste in wine: "Mmmm, tastes just like horse piss. Can't wait to get my next issue of Horse Piss Afficianado"

There are other magazines whose names are a trifle misleading:

Playboy - a Playboy is a man-about-town who dates beautiful women and lives the good life. You, on the other hand, are masturbating to pictures of Rachel Hunter.

Starlog - I think that any magazine dedicated to the Star Trek series features many kinds of people, very few of whom can be described as "stars."

Popular Mechanics - If any of the mechanics in this magazine were popular, we'd all have home-made garbage disposals and hand-crafted spice racks.

Variety - With article after article about movies, there's very little actual variety in its contents. Anyway, the best thing they ever published was a paid ad from Richard Gere saying he was not gay man who had stuck a gerbil up his ass.

Soldier of Fortune - Most of this magazine's readership live in SROs decorated in Late Period Empty White Castle Container. If that's the "fortune" you can make from being a fake mercenary, I'll stick to collecting aluminum cans from the garbage.

It's official; my hairline is receding.

It's weird. It's like your hair's trying to escape - "Holy crap, this body's falling apart! Abandon ship!"

That doesn't happen to other body parts. Your hand doesn't start to fall off when you get older -
"Yeah, I've got Male Pattern Amputation. My dad died with one and a half stumps."

If it did, you bet science would have a way to cure it. There's be no one missing any limbs if they didn't want to.

Also, beauty magazines would have articles like: "Armed for Love! Missing fingers are sexy!"

As intellectual as you may think yourself to be, as a human animal, deep down inside you only care about one thing - the one thing we all care about, deeply and truly: Britney Spears' love life.

First of all, she lost her virginity to Justin Timberlake. I wish there was something funny i could add to that.

Then she had to apologize for having a quickie Vegas wedding.
Frankly, it made me happy. Did you see that guy? If he could get britney, I could get Britney.

Now she's engaged to this Federline character, her backup dancer.
First of all, she stole him from his pregnant girlfriend, and yet the pregnant girlfriend is the real winner. Have you seen this guy? He looks like his nickname should be "Kevin, That Dude Who Sells Skunk Weed Out of His Mom's Basement."

And through it all, the folks I feel sorry for ar the reporters who cover these stories.
They spent years of their lives, and thousands of dollars, going through journalism school. Spending years grappling with moral issues and learning the perfect style.
Only to get out into the world so they can type a sentence starting with he phrase, "Britney's spokeswoman announced today..." with all the stentorian seriousness of President Roosevelt announcing the Pearl Harbor attacks.

So the next time you enjoy a Britney update, remember: you are reading a dream deferred.
A small seed of hope stamped. A tiny flickering flame extinguished by the cold winds of stupidity.

Who the hell am I kidding? I'll read Page 6 tomorrow.

So I was taking these karate lessons, and the thing is, you have all these moves and positions.
At first, I was into it; The Crane, The Fish, The Angry Dog.

But then I felt like the instructor was making up positions, because he'd run out.

He'd be like, "Okay, assume the Chunky Monkey. Now the Chubby Hubby. Go into the Cherry Garcia."

I amde the mistake of calling him on it, and he said, "I have a position for you. You start bending at the waist, like a deep bow. Now lift your head. Now extend your lips. Now wait until I turn around so you can kiss my ass."

There's nothing funnier than the gift a child gets on his birthday from someone who obviously hates his parents:

"There you go, Tommy. A drum set. Better start practicing. Maybe if your parents really love you, they'll pay for lessons."

Nothing better than the look on the parent's face, either:
"Oh look, a video. 'The Magic of Irish Clog Dancing'. Thank you so much."
- "And look, free clogs included."
"How nice. We'll have to have Tommy come over and give you a lesson."
- "No, that's okay. Don't want to put you to the trouble."
"Oh, no trouble at all."

I used to get these gifts as a child.
They always played the song "Pop Goes the Weasel," and they always ended up "magically" disappearing after three days.

My parents always used to blame their disappearance on a ghost.
"The house is haunted by a scary ghost who gets really irritated hearing th same goddamn song every two minutes."

MY UNCLE
loves dogs. Which is why he went to jail the first time.

My uncle adopted a puppy last year. They tried, but my aunt couldn't conceive one the natural way.

My uncle wanted a dog he could play frisbee with. My aunt wanted a rat. So they compromised and got a chihuahua.

It's name was Sir Fluffy Muffins Mitten Rascal. Named after my great-grandfather, who was a knight.

It was this miserable little dog. I think it was the only chihuahua in the world with a shedding problem. It just ran around yapping all the time, and biting my ankle.

So one day, my uncle tells me he has to go out of town for a convention. The American Federation for the Advancement of the Blind.

My uncle isn't blind, but he is a great lover of the handicapped. Which is what got him sent to jail that second time.

Actually - and this is true - he speaks fluent Braille. Every year, he does an all-Braille rendition of Shakespeare. I still remember his famous turn as Hamlet: "Dot -dot-dot-dot space dot."
Clearly I'm not doing it justice; I'm no dramaturge.

So he asked me to dog-sit for him. I like dog-sitting even for a miserable little rat-dog, housesitting for other people, because they generally own nicer things than I do. Most people I know can afford things like cable, Internet, pots, pans, furniture, heat.

And before he left, I said, "Noncle, is there anything I can do for you while you're gone?"
And he replied, "Take care of my dog's shedding problem."

So while he was gone, I had his dog laminated. Pressed, flattened laminated in plastic.

You're thinking, "Problem solved," right? Some people just have no gratitude.

Admittedly, I didn't tell my uncle. I just folded Sir Muffins into an envelope and mailed him.

But my uncle's happy now; he finally has a dog he can play frisbee with.

MY UNCLE IS A VERY WEALTHY MAN
He invented a stop sign written entirely in Braille for blind drivers.

Sure it sounds dumb. In fact, it was so dumb that the only buyer he could get was the NYC board of transportation who paid him twenty-five million dollars.

* Here is info that could save your life:
IF YOU ARE CHOKING: Make sure to clear your windpipe of obstructions. Problem solved!
IF YOU ARE GETTING SHOT AT: Try not to get hit by any bullets. Believe it or not, but bullets are the major cause of death in shootings.
IF YOU ARE ABOUT TO GET BEATEN UP: Dodge the other guy's fists.
IF YOU ARE ABOUT TO GET BEATEN UP BY A GUY WITH NO ARMS: Try to dodge his feet. Also compliment his pants (if he's wearing any).
IF YOU ARE IN A CRASHING PLANE: Make a baby cry very loudly. Then the other passengers will stop being upset about the crashing plane and start getting mad at the parent of the baby. This won't save your life, but it will unite everyone, making their last minutes a little more pleasant.

MONDAY, AUG. 9th
Get Up Stand-Up
The Flat Lounge
16 1st Ave
(Between 1st & 2nd Streets)
DOORS: 8:00 (Promptness implies seatititude)
SHOW: 8:30
COVER: $5.00

Host: Liam McEneaney (28 years old)

WITH:
* TED ALEXANDRO- (Late Show w/ David Letterman, "Dr. Katz")
* DC BENNY (Comedy Central Presents 1/2 hour special, Montreal comedy festival)
* ALLISON CASTILLO- (US Comedy Arts Festival, Backstage's 10 Comics Worth Watching)
* DAN CRONIN - (Comedy Central's Premium Blend, "Late Night w/Conan O'Brien")
* JOEY GAY - ("The Sopranos", "Law & Order," former strip club owner)
* ERIC KIRCHBERGER- (Comedy Central's Premium Blend)
* PAUL MICHAEL MECURIO - (Comedy Central Presents, Emmy-winning writer, "The Daily Show")
* BOBBY TISDALE - ("Invite Them Up!")

Produced by Angela Bowers & Liam McEneaney

A DANGEROUS JOURNEY TO THE HEART OF THE ARCTIC
by Capt. Liam McEneaney, Ph.D.

In November 2002, Scientific America gave this reporter $200,000 to lead a team of researchers to the North Pole to see what new forms of comedy he might discover there. Unfortunately, the expedition's first stop was Atlantic City, where they lost most of the research grant in a high-stakes game of Solitaire. So no Arctic report (my bad!).

Instead, please enjoy this account of his dangerous journey to the Central Park Zoo's penguin exhibit.

Day 1 I find myself standing at a cheap turnstile, waiting as my guide, Sir Frederick Fotheringay of the British Arctic Institute, negotiates our admission to the zoo. As he dickers with the sullen teenage gatekeeper, I can't help finding the inhabitants of Manhattan - long rumored to be an island of friendly, if strong-willed natives - a rather surly bunch.
I pick up the occasional muttered comment from the line behind us, forcing me to ignore more than one sotto voce utterance like, "Hurry the fuck up," which I do believe was meant for ears other than my own.

Fifteen minutes later, Fotheringay returns to tell us that the keepers of the Zoo demand that we pay "The Full Price," or we will not be guaranteed safe passage. As I hand over a large sum of money (they insist we pay in American dollars, much stronger than whatever toilet paper currency they use here), I shudder as I imagine the things they demand of the children who must enter this stronghold. Into the Heart of Darkness.

We walk past the Island of Sea Lions and, using maps, compasses, and the ancient technique of Asking For Directions, make our way through the crowds of adults (nannies hailing from countries as diverse as England and Sweden) and chocolate-smeared children. Then we are upon it: the Legendary Lost Entrance to the Hall of Arctic Life. I find out later that the Hall of Arctic Life is actually in the Museum of Natural History uptown, but by then it is too late, much too late.
We enter the cavern of Arctic Life. As my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, I spy a glass enclosure containing our quarry - penguins, those Waddling Demons from Nature's Icy Bowels! Their eyes are full of a kind of blood-lust; a thirst that can not be slaked, and a hunger that cannot be satisfied with a mere diet of raw fish. I tremble as I approach, and I lock eyes with a fierce black-and-white king monster.

I know that this is a key moment; if I look away or in any way indicate fear, then I shall lose the beasts' respect with undoubtedly fatal results. Arctic killers prepare for blood-feast. That is when we lose the first member of our expedition: Carlos, a simple peasant graduate student from Columbia University. He absent-mindedly lights a cigarette; the red glow of the flame playing over his fine Hispanic features.

Just as suddenly a security guard appears from nowhere, gliding from the murky shadows like the Specter of Death. He informs Carlos that he has violated the Code of the Citadel; the Laws of the Ancient Ones forbid smoking indoors. Damn these primitive superstitions! Before any of us can act, Carlos is escorted through a door marked "EXIT," a final egress from which he was never to return for ten minutes.

The armies of science must march on, no matter how many comrades fall by the wayside. I contemplate the penguin; so royal in appearance, so bloodthirsty in deed. No wonder they're called the Lions of the Arctic!

(Okay, so I am to learn later that they live in the Antarctic. But I have hard, scientific proof that penguins are originally native to the North Pole, and several thousand years ago they migrated south on crudely fashioned rafts following some sort of natural catastrophe. I shall publish it in an upcoming monograph to be titled, Going With the Floe: Migratory Patterns of the Penguin.)

I know that if I am to study these fierce aquatic creatures, I must get to know them intimately. Which means living as they live, sleeping in their environment, and eating the raw fish they eat. But how to get past this glass barrier, this force shield protecting the casual traveler from these tuxedoed Birds of Prey? For five minutes I ponder this Sphinx' riddle, until my group despairs of ever reaching that Nirvana they begin to talk of: the fabled Men's Room.

Just then, as if guided by the hand of fate, I see it: a native in the uniform of the Penguin Caretaker leaving through a door in the exhibit. One moment, there is naught but seamless wall; the next it is transformed into a void of blindingly muted grey light. With catlike reflexes, I insert my foot into the door and keep it from locking behind her.

Saying a prayer to Saint Algernon, the Patron Saint of Scientists, Cosmetologists and Janitors, I walk in. Through an anteroom I walk, an anteroom that reeks with the twin scents of fish and fear. Into the exhibit. As I enter, the penguins run towards me as if in a feeding frenzy. I recoil, thinking that I am done for; the little monsters would surely tear me apart with their razor-sharp beaks after stunning me with their paddle-like feet.

But seeing that I had not come laden with fish, the watery warriors wander away disinterestedly. From there, they refuse to have anything more to do with me, no matter what sort of entreaties or promises I make.
Soon the truth hits me like the smell of half-rotted herring: Although I have always considered myself half-mountain man (my spirit having always been that of the untamed animal), the other half enjoys too closely the comforts of the academic life. It must be that which they could sense, this too-civilized scent that lays upon me. And it must be this scent which is keeping them at bay.

As quickly as I come upon my plan of action, I decisively spring to action: I remove all remnants of civilization from my person. Shoes, socks, glasses, shirt, belt, fanny pack, pants, and upon reflection, yes, even my underwear are swiftly removed. By this point, there is a large crowd gathered around the glass enclosure (who says that John Q. Lunchpail is uninterested in academic inquiry?).
I can see that the foreign nannies, having spied their first example of the American masculine form, are leading their wards away in a fit of intimidation and sudden cultural self-loathing. I then position myself on the simulated ice, cross-legged and extending my hand in interspecies friendship.
Literally.
Imagine me, sitting naked, holding my rapidly-bluing hand out to the horde of curious man-eaters. I try to fill my entire being with the same sense of peaceful purpose that radiated from my spiritual forebears; Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Jesus Christ. Just as these great men extended the olive branch to their enemies, I was constructing a bridge of understanding across the gulf separating man and his natural enemy, the penguin.

Just when a breakthrough in human/penguin relations seems within my grasp several security guards enter the enclosure; ugly brutish cousins to the first we had encountered. Within seconds they are dragging me from the scene of my scientific conquest to a small office deep in the bowels of an unnamed Parks Department building.
As I am being viciously manhandled by these savages I explain my scientific credentials in a loud voice, calling out to my comrades to verify the truth of what I say. In a moment of cowardly self-preservation, they act as if they have never heard of me, or, indeed, met each other before this moment.

The surly teen gatekeeper is summoned to verify that I am, indeed, the "troublemaker" she had complained of, and I am banished from the Central Park Zoo. I am told to never again attempt shining the light of Reason, Rational Inquiry, and Scientific Study into their dark Cave of Ignorance.

Day 2
Needless to say, I am now forced to wear a disguise if I want to penetrate the zoo's perimeter. I blend in seamlessly with the rest of the crowd wearing a large beard, movie star-style sunglasses, Bogart fedora, and long black trenchcoat. I pay the gatekeeper - who stares at me for a long time before suspiciously pressing a ticket into my palm. This one may be brighter than she appears, and bears further scrutiny.

The rest of my company has quit with typical cowardice; they complain of their fear that they will not "get paid," and demand an "advance." This, of course, being moneys I will not be able to spare until I receive the kind of "Hollywood cash" I'm sure the movie rights for this exciting narrative will fetch.

But that's the thing I've learned about vultures: they would draw blood from a stone if only they could. So I press on alone. Striking camp in the confines of the gift shoppe, I make my plans for the day's assault. I know that the door to the penguin exhibit will be jealously guarded by zookeepers; my natural rapport with the animals apparently having an invidious quality. There is no need to look up the word "invidious;" it is real and I have used it correctly.

I have given up all hope of ever continuing my research when a chance light - as if a guiding Finger from Heaven - falls upon something small, and soft, and white. A doll. And I am filled with an innate understanding of this divine message. Kids prepare to meet their best friend. I make my way to the Polar Bear Environment.

I first attempt to befriend the beasts by stroking their fur lovingly from the observation deck, but a natural chasm (probably caused by an earthquake long-forgotten by all but the most aged and revered greybeard) keeps me at arms' length. Since the bears are ignoring my earnest petitions to come closer (note to self: is deafness an inherent trait in the species?), I pull out my secret weapon: from the depths of the trenchcoat, I produce several fish I have laid in store in the event of just such a contingency. The bears respond at once, coming so close that the tourists behind me flee for fear of their miserable and ignorant lives. Nature's Furry Friend preparing for his next round of hugs.

Unbeknownst to me, the same team of brutes who had persecuted me the day before have been trailing my expedition from a discreet distance. I am halfway over the rail when they tackle me to the ground. This time, they call the police. Although the coverage on the New York Post's front page will undoubtedly help me in obtaining funding for future expeditions of this type, the mug shot splayed prominently all over the tabloid will undoubtedly help park police enforce the 50-foot restraining order the judge slaps on my person that very afternoon.

Thus ends my exciting narrative of both scientific and self-discovery. Check these pages next month for my stimulating and educational travelogue: Around the World in Eighty Dollars: Exploring Global Cultures in Epcot Center.

Liam McEneaney is a captain of the Leonard Rothstein & Sons Accounting Firm Softball Team. He owns several sweatshirts from Harvard and Princeton.

A DANGEROUS JOURNEY TO THE HEART OF THE ARCTIC
by Capt. Liam McEneaney, Ph.D.

In November 2002, Scientific America gave this reporter $200,000 to lead a team of researchers to the North Pole to see what new forms of comedy he might discover there. Unfortunately, the expedition's first stop was Atlantic City, where they lost most of the research grant in a high-stakes game of Solitaire. So no Arctic report (my bad!).

Instead, please enjoy this account of his dangerous journey to the Central Park Zoo's penguin exhibit.

Day 1 I find myself standing at a cheap turnstile, waiting as my guide, Sir Frederick Fotheringay of the British Arctic Institute, negotiates our admission to the zoo. As he dickers with the sullen teenage gatekeeper, I can't help finding the inhabitants of Manhattan - long rumored to be an island of friendly, if strong-willed natives - a rather surly bunch.
I pick up the occasional muttered comment from the line behind us, forcing me to ignore more than one sotto voce utterance like, "Hurry the fuck up," which I do believe was meant for ears other than my own.

Fifteen minutes later, Fotheringay returns to tell us that the keepers of the Zoo demand that we pay "The Full Price," or we will not be guaranteed safe passage. As I hand over a large sum of money (they insist we pay in American dollars, much stronger than whatever toilet paper currency they use here), I shudder as I imagine the things they demand of the children who must enter this stronghold. Into the Heart of Darkness.

We walk past the Island of Sea Lions and, using maps, compasses, and the ancient technique of Asking For Directions, make our way through the crowds of adults (nannies hailing from countries as diverse as England and Sweden) and chocolate-smeared children. Then we are upon it: the Legendary Lost Entrance to the Hall of Arctic Life. I find out later that the Hall of Arctic Life is actually in the Museum of Natural History uptown, but by then it is too late, much too late.
We enter the cavern of Arctic Life. As my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, I spy a glass enclosure containing our quarry - penguins, those Waddling Demons from Nature's Icy Bowels! Their eyes are full of a kind of blood-lust; a thirst that can not be slaked, and a hunger that cannot be satisfied with a mere diet of raw fish. I tremble as I approach, and I lock eyes with a fierce black-and-white king monster.

I know that this is a key moment; if I look away or in any way indicate fear, then I shall lose the beasts' respect with undoubtedly fatal results. Arctic killers prepare for blood-feast. That is when we lose the first member of our expedition: Carlos, a simple peasant graduate student from Columbia University. He absent-mindedly lights a cigarette; the red glow of the flame playing over his fine Hispanic features.

Just as suddenly a security guard appears from nowhere, gliding from the murky shadows like the Specter of Death. He informs Carlos that he has violated the Code of the Citadel; the Laws of the Ancient Ones forbid smoking indoors. Damn these primitive superstitions! Before any of us can act, Carlos is escorted through a door marked "EXIT," a final egress from which he was never to return for ten minutes.

The armies of science must march on, no matter how many comrades fall by the wayside. I contemplate the penguin; so royal in appearance, so bloodthirsty in deed. No wonder they're called the Lions of the Arctic!

(Okay, so I am to learn later that they live in the Antarctic. But I have hard, scientific proof that penguins are originally native to the North Pole, and several thousand years ago they migrated south on crudely fashioned rafts following some sort of natural catastrophe. I shall publish it in an upcoming monograph to be titled, Going With the Floe: Migratory Patterns of the Penguin.)

I know that if I am to study these fierce aquatic creatures, I must get to know them intimately. Which means living as they live, sleeping in their environment, and eating the raw fish they eat. But how to get past this glass barrier, this force shield protecting the casual traveler from these tuxedoed Birds of Prey? For five minutes I ponder this Sphinx' riddle, until my group despairs of ever reaching that Nirvana they begin to talk of: the fabled Men's Room.

Just then, as if guided by the hand of fate, I see it: a native in the uniform of the Penguin Caretaker leaving through a door in the exhibit. One moment, there is naught but seamless wall; the next it is transformed into a void of blindingly muted grey light. With catlike reflexes, I insert my foot into the door and keep it from locking behind her.

Saying a prayer to Saint Algernon, the Patron Saint of Scientists, Cosmetologists and Janitors, I walk in. Through an anteroom I walk, an anteroom that reeks with the twin scents of fish and fear. Into the exhibit. As I enter, the penguins run towards me as if in a feeding frenzy. I recoil, thinking that I am done for; the little monsters would surely tear me apart with their razor-sharp beaks after stunning me with their paddle-like feet.

But seeing that I had not come laden with fish, the watery warriors wander away disinterestedly. From there, they refuse to have anything more to do with me, no matter what sort of entreaties or promises I make.
Soon the truth hits me like the smell of half-rotted herring: Although I have always considered myself half-mountain man (my spirit having always been that of the untamed animal), the other half enjoys too closely the comforts of the academic life. It must be that which they could sense, this too-civilized scent that lays upon me. And it must be this scent which is keeping them at bay.

As quickly as I come upon my plan of action, I decisively spring to action: I remove all remnants of civilization from my person. Shoes, socks, glasses, shirt, belt, fanny pack, pants, and upon reflection, yes, even my underwear are swiftly removed. By this point, there is a large crowd gathered around the glass enclosure (who says that John Q. Lunchpail is uninterested in academic inquiry?).
I can see that the foreign nannies, having spied their first example of the American masculine form, are leading their wards away in a fit of intimidation and sudden cultural self-loathing. I then position myself on the simulated ice, cross-legged and extending my hand in interspecies friendship.
Literally.
Imagine me, sitting naked, holding my rapidly-bluing hand out to the horde of curious man-eaters. I try to fill my entire being with the same sense of peaceful purpose that radiated from my spiritual forebears; Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Jesus Christ. Just as these great men extended the olive branch to their enemies, I was constructing a bridge of understanding across the gulf separating man and his natural enemy, the penguin.

Just when a breakthrough in human/penguin relations seems within my grasp several security guards enter the enclosure; ugly brutish cousins to the first we had encountered. Within seconds they are dragging me from the scene of my scientific conquest to a small office deep in the bowels of an unnamed Parks Department building.
As I am being viciously manhandled by these savages I explain my scientific credentials in a loud voice, calling out to my comrades to verify the truth of what I say. In a moment of cowardly self-preservation, they act as if they have never heard of me, or, indeed, met each other before this moment.

The surly teen gatekeeper is summoned to verify that I am, indeed, the "troublemaker" she had complained of, and I am banished from the Central Park Zoo. I am told to never again attempt shining the light of Reason, Rational Inquiry, and Scientific Study into their dark Cave of Ignorance.

Day 2
Needless to say, I am now forced to wear a disguise if I want to penetrate the zoo's perimeter. I blend in seamlessly with the rest of the crowd wearing a large beard, movie star-style sunglasses, Bogart fedora, and long black trenchcoat. I pay the gatekeeper - who stares at me for a long time before suspiciously pressing a ticket into my palm. This one may be brighter than she appears, and bears further scrutiny.

The rest of my company has quit with typical cowardice; they complain of their fear that they will not "get paid," and demand an "advance." This, of course, being moneys I will not be able to spare until I receive the kind of "Hollywood cash" I'm sure the movie rights for this exciting narrative will fetch.

But that's the thing I've learned about vultures: they would draw blood from a stone if only they could. So I press on alone. Striking camp in the confines of the gift shoppe, I make my plans for the day's assault. I know that the door to the penguin exhibit will be jealously guarded by zookeepers; my natural rapport with the animals apparently having an invidious quality. There is no need to look up the word "invidious;" it is real and I have used it correctly.

I have given up all hope of ever continuing my research when a chance light - as if a guiding Finger from Heaven - falls upon something small, and soft, and white. A doll. And I am filled with an innate understanding of this divine message. Kids prepare to meet their best friend. I make my way to the Polar Bear Environment.

I first attempt to befriend the beasts by stroking their fur lovingly from the observation deck, but a natural chasm (probably caused by an earthquake long-forgotten by all but the most aged and revered greybeard) keeps me at arms' length. Since the bears are ignoring my earnest petitions to come closer (note to self: is deafness an inherent trait in the species?), I pull out my secret weapon: from the depths of the trenchcoat, I produce several fish I have laid in store in the event of just such a contingency. The bears respond at once, coming so close that the tourists behind me flee for fear of their miserable and ignorant lives. Nature's Furry Friend preparing for his next round of hugs.

Unbeknownst to me, the same team of brutes who had persecuted me the day before have been trailing my expedition from a discreet distance. I am halfway over the rail when they tackle me to the ground. This time, they call the police. Although the coverage on the New York Post's front page will undoubtedly help me in obtaining funding for future expeditions of this type, the mug shot splayed prominently all over the tabloid will undoubtedly help park police enforce the 50-foot restraining order the judge slaps on my person that very afternoon.

Thus ends my exciting narrative of both scientific and self-discovery. Check these pages next month for my stimulating and educational travelogue: Around the World in Eighty Dollars: Exploring Global Cultures in Epcot Center.

Liam McEneaney is a captain of the Leonard Rothstein & Sons Accounting Firm Softball Team. He owns several sweatshirts from Harvard and Princeton.