sham s positive corner

The next thing I knew, my wife, my son, and I were on an Amtrak train heading for the Big Apple. We were looking forward to two events -- being in Times Square when the countdown to midnight started and gorging ourselves on the Stage Delicatessen's version of health food.

We pulled into Penn Station about 9:30 p.m. All we needed to do now was go up to the street level, walk a few blocks, and we'd be in the heart of Times Square. "Hey," I thought to myself, "this spontaneous stuff is cool."

To our surprise, after walking a few blocks up Seventh Avenue, we ran smack into a barricade manned by an army of New York's finest. They directed us, and thousands of other people, to head toward Eighth Avenue -- the opposite direction from Times Square!

The next thing we knew, we were trudging up Eighth Avenue in a scene right out of the movie "Escape from New York." Hoodlums, street people, schizophrenics -- you name it -- were coming and going in every direction. The thought crossed my mind that they might be Howard Dean diehards who had not yet gotten over the fact that he himself had lost his mind some months earlier.

I felt like we were drowning in a sea of tattoos and earrings. Every kind of tattoo you could imagine. One guy had a tattoo on his forehead that was either a serpent or Hillary Clinton, but I couldn't tell for sure which one it was.

But the earrings were even wilder. Earrings in noses; earrings in tongues; earrings in eyelids; earrings in belly buttons.

I stopped at the belly buttons. I didn't want to think about where else the earrings might be located. The only thing I was sure of was that I would never again buy my wife a pair of earrings.

We tried to go back toward Seventh Avenue and Times Square every few blocks, but at each entry point we were turned back by a bevy of police. Finally, we reached the end of the line -- Central Park. No luck there, either. The barricade ran from Eighth Avenue across Central Park South to the end of the earth.

Resigning myself to the fact that we were not going to see the ball drop in Times Square at midnight, I concluded that it was time to throw in the towel and head for the Stage Deli. Once there, we could drown our disappointment in saturated fat, cholesterol, salt, and lots of sugar (disguised as strawberry cheesecake).

Only one problem: I forgot that the police had blocked off all entries to Seventh Avenue, and the Stage Deli is located on Seventh Avenue, between 53rd and 54th Streets.

Not being able to celebrate New Year's Eve in Times Square was one thing, but keeping me from my fair share of corned beef, chopped liver, dill pickles, and cheesecake was a clear violation of my civil rights. I thought about calling Jesse Jackson on my cellphone to help me form a picket line.

But once my responsible nature took control, we ended up at an Italian restaurant on Eighth Avenue. The food was somewhere on a par with the culinary offerings at Abu Ghraib Prison. The only thing missing was the nudity.

We left the restaurant and again wandered through the sea of tattoos and earrings on Eighth Avenue. Suddenly, at 54th Street -- at about 1:00 a.m. -- I saw that the police were beginning to remove the barricades.

Mental flashbulb: We'll go to the Stage Deli for cheesecake dessert! It would be a perfect ending to a less-than-perfect night. Before you knew it, we were turning the corner at 54th Street and Seventh Avenue and marching resolutely toward the Stage Deli.

When you see through the windows that the chairs are stacked up on the tables, it's not a good omen of things to come. The door was locked and the sign hanging on it was fairly easy to understand: CLOSED!

Once again, my civil rights had been violated. I had a right to that cheesecake I was looking at through the window. After all, wasn't it guaranteed by some constitutional amendment?

Something like, "Congress shall make no law prohibiting people from eating cheesecake whenever and wherever they please." I'm almost sure I read about that amendment somewhere. Come Monday, I'd have to check it out with the ACLU.

We arrived back at Penn Station in time for our 2:45 a.m. departure. Three-plus hours of trying to find a comfortable position . . . dozing off and on . . . stuffy, stifling heat . . . clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Mercifully, our New Year's Eve trip to New York and back came to an end at around 6:00 a.m.

The only thing I love more than learning is refresher lessons that keep me on my toes. That's why, as George Orwell put it in his classic book "1984," the best books are those that tell you what you already know.

Learning, relearning, and motivation are like eating: You have to do them every day. For me, spontaneity is not a healthy way to fill one's needs -- but even I manage to slip every five or 10 years and do something impulsive.

I know that millions of people live by the philosophy of "let it all hang out," and "live for the moment." I can only speak for myself, but what works for me is using my intellect and avoiding impulsive action.

I like to check and double-check the facts. I like to be in control of events rather than allowing events to control me. I like to know when, where, and how things are going to happen.

None of these traits detracts from my being an action-oriented person. I move pretty fast, but not so fast that I risk moving backward.

Above all, nothing gives me a greater feeling of control than religiously following a routine that works for me. In his book "Ageless Body, Timeless Mind", Deepak Chopra lists a regular daily personal routine and a regular work routine as two factors that retard the aging process.

In truth, my little tale about my New Year's Eve experience was more comedy than tragedy. But if one engages in a steady diet of impulsive action in either his personal or business life, he's sure to end up with far more of the latter than the former.

On that note, I'd like to end with a toast to your greatest asset -- your intellect. May it consistently triumph over your emotions in 2005.

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