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In 1700, Peter the Great, along with the kings of Denmark and Saxony, expected to take candy from a baby. But the baby almost killed them. The candy was actually Sweden and the baby was its teenage king. Today’s Sweden is the kind of country that would make a perfect suburb: placid but sophisticated. (Many of us fondly remember that Swedish films had nudity when Hollywood still apparently believed in storks.) But three centuries ago, Sweden was the bully of the Baltic. With the best army and navy in the North, the overachieving Swedes had won control of Norway, Finland, the Baltic States, and most of the area that would have been Poland’s and Germany’s coasts.

However, Sweden’s resentful neighbors saw their chance for vengeance and territory when a fifteen year-old ascended the throne in Stockholm in 1697. His youth was not the only perceived handicap of Charles XII; the young man was very strange. Some thought him “backward”; we might diagnose him as autistic. He never mastered the charm or the etiquette of the Court; he had no interest in the pleasures and vices that were his royal privilege. All Charles ever wanted to do was to play soldier; but, as it turned out, he was very good at it.

When, in February 1700, Russia, Denmark and Saxony declared war on Sweden and its callow king, the allies must have based their strategy on an accountant’s assessment. Their amassed armies far outnumbered Sweden’s forces; the Swedes would inevitably be overwhelmed. However, Charles did not wait for the inevitable. He attacked. Denmark’s proximity was its misfortune; by the summer of 1700 an overrun, devastated Denmark was suing for peace and ceding more territory to Sweden. In fact, Denmark was lucky that Charles acceded to a peace treaty. He didn’t like treaties because they required him to stop fighting. At least, Charles found solace in that he still had a war with Russia and Saxony.

A Russian army threatened to wrest Estonia and Latvia from Sweden. Peter the Great commanded an impressive number–40,000 men–but the invasion had accomplished little more than trespassing. Cannons and muskets require aiming, but no one had provided the Russian horde with adequate training. Furthermore, many of the Russian soldiers did not even have muskets; they were armed with clubs, axes and halberds, weapons only fairly effective in the 15th century. (But Peter’s officers had the latest fashions in uniforms.) Charles felt that 10,000 of his highly trained soldiers could handle the Russian horde, and he proved it this day–November 30– at the battle of Narva in 1700.

With half of his force dead or captured and the rest scattered, his country at the mercy of an unscathed Swedish army, Peter was prepared for any demand and every humiliation; but he still was amazed by Charles. The Swedish king simply marched away to begin an invasion of Saxony. This was not an act of mercy or generosity but contempt. Charles thought so little of Russia that he snubbed it; he wanted his enemies to have some fight in them. So Russia could recuperate before Charles would demolish it again.

Peter certainly had underestimated the young Swedish king; but now Charles underestimated the Tsar. Having seen–and barely surviving–a highly trained army, Peter proved an apt student. Over the next few years, while Charles was rampaging through central Europe, Peter rebuilt the Russian army along the model of its Swedish nemesis. If Ikea had a military catalog, Peter would have bought out the store. By 1703, the Russian army was ready for a rematch, and this time it successfully invaded the Baltic States. On newly acquired territory along the gulf of Finland, the Tsar ordered the construction of a fortress-with room for expansion–named St. Petersburg.

Yet Charles ignored the reviving Russian menace. He was preoccupied with a relatively unimportant but endless campaign in Saxony and Poland. Did it really matter who would be the next figurehead king of a powerless Poland? Inexplicably, it did to Charles. By 1708, however, he finally turned his attention to Russia; and this time he was going to oust Peter. To do so, Charles would lead his army into the heartland of Russia, through the Ukraine and on to Moscow. At least, that was the plan. His over-extended, precarious supply lines might have seemed an obstacle, but Charles expected to be feted, supplied, and reinforced by the Ukrainians and Cossacks. They were known to hate the Russians, so wouldn’t they regard Charles as their liberator? If so, their gratitude did not extend to fighting along side the Swedes.

Of course, Charles stayed on the attack. What did it matter if the Russian army at Poltava was three times the size of his force? Vell–as they might say in Swedish, eight years of training did make a substantial difference in the Tsar’s army. Most of Charles’ army was either killed or captured. Now, if Charles wouldn’t end a war when he was winning, imagine how he felt when he was losing. Riding south, he avoided capture and managed to get to the Ottoman Empire. There, the celebrity refugee convinced the Turks to declare war on Russia.

Peter welcomed this additional war as a chance to advance Russia’s southern frontiers to the Black Sea. He was so eager that he repeated the same mistakes that Charles had made at Poltava. Now, it was a Russian army deep in enemy territory, with its supplies cut off, and badly outnumbered. There was one difference, however, in Peter’s disastrous loss at Pruth in 1711. He, along with his entire army, was captured. The Turks were in a position to exact any terms that they wanted; and their ally Charles was insisting on the restoration on everything he had lost. However, after two years of Charles, the Turks realized that they did not like him, either. All they asked of the captured Tsar was that he return any territory that the Russians had previously won from the Turks…and that Charles must be allowed safe passage through Russia back to Sweden. Yes, the Turks were that eager to get rid of him. In fact, they placed him under house arrest until he got the message.

When back in Sweden, Charles simply scrounged whatever he could to continue the war. He was oblivious to the fact that the war was irretrievably lost, and that his strickened country had neither the manpower nor the resources left to accommodate his bloody hobby. Of course, Charles would not be content until he was killed in battle; in 1718, in a pointless siege of a Norwegian town, someone finally obliged him. The marksman is unknown; it might even have been an exhausted Swede.

History has had a number of great yet self-destructive generals. Charles XII is unique among them in that he is so colorless. Perhaps that is the consequence of being Swedish. He also could have been an idiot savant whose savoir happened to be war. History remembers him as “The Lion of the North.” He may have had the courage of a lion but he had the common sense of a lemming.

November 24th

What was Charles Darwin writing? It had been five years since he had mesmerized Victorian Society with his latest revelation on the life of barnacles: “A Monograph on the Fossil Balanidæ and Verrucidæ of Great Britain.” Yes, it was a hard act to follow, the public was insatiable and Darwin himself was daunted by the prospect. But, after four treatises on barnacles, the critics were starting to dismiss Darwin as a one-subclass-of-crustaceans hack. That hurt.

He did have some notes from a sea voyage that he had taken 20 years earlier, and he had long pondered his observations of the wildlife of the Galapagos. That was it! Darwin would write a cookbook of finch recipes. The Galapagos natives had dozens of ways to prepare the bird, and the cuisine varied from island to island. In fact, he was amazed by the number and disparity of recipes; how and why did they originate? Darwin concluded that there was a scientific explanation for the evolution of all cuisines: an evolutionary process called “nutritional selection.” And so Darwin presented his theory in “On The Origin of Spices.”

(By no coincidence, the daguerrotypes of the prepared dishes would showcase the tableware of a certain British manufacturer. But that flagrant product placement was the least that the grandson of Josiah Wedgwood could do for his trust fund.)

Unfortunately, the publisher rejected Darwin’s manuscript explaining “The English public has never been interested in food, but we do love an animal story. Perhaps if you rewrote your work with an emphasis on the finches–and without eating the more likable ones–I am sure that you can do for those plucky little fellows what you have done for barnacles.”

So adapting his work to the publisher’s whims, (How else can a writer survive?) Charles Darwin wrote “Origin Twist: The Evolutionary Adventures of Phineas Finch.”

All right, it did not quite happen that way…although the gentle Mr. Darwin might have found it a more congenial approach to introduce evolution to Victorian society. Darwin had no delusions as to the public reaction to “On The Origin of Species”: the outrage, the personal attacks and the less than flattering caricatures in Punch. At least, the Church of England could not burn him at the stake. In fact, the dread of the ensuing controversy had deterred Darwin for many years from publishing his research on evolution. He probably hoped to avoid it altogether, keeping evolution a secret among the scientific community.

Yes, Darwin did not discover evolution; he merely divulged it. By the 19th century, science had becoming increasingly skeptical of the Bible’s explanation for Creation. If nothing else, the growing variety of fossils was raising doubts and questions. Geologists discovered fish skeletons in rock layers on mountains. Genesis did not explain that. Biologists were finding ample evident of extinct species. Had Adam killed them all or had the animals drown in Noah’s Flood? But science preferred to regard the accumulating data as anecdotes on a ribald topic that would only shock the public.

If evolution was science’s dirty secret, then Charles Darwin was–to put it a Sixties’ context–the kid with the best collection of Playboys. With his studies on geology, British barnacles and the wildlife of the Galapagos, he was the acknowledged expert on “you-know-what.” Among his scientist friends, he was even sharing his theory of an underlying principle of (not to to said aloud) evolution. Of course, he knew and dreaded the the reaction if his theory ever began public. Natural selection was tantamount to denying God’s precise blueprint of Creation. Darwin was an affable man of fragile health, so he lacked both the temperament and the strength for controversy. To avoid the uproar, he was quite content to keep his theory a secret among friends. It remained so for more than ten years until 1856, when Darwin found himself forced to choose between infamy and obscurity.

That year, Darwin learned that a young British naturalist in Borneo had arrived at a theory of evolution based on a natural selection of the fittest member of a species. This unexpected rival, Alfred Russell Wallace, could not have known of Darwin’s long-standing but secret theory; the two men did not frequent the social drawing rooms. However, using the same empirical perspective, Wallace simply had arrived at the same conclusion as Darwin. Furthermore, being young and unestablished, Wallace was not the least reticent about being the center of controversy. He contacted the British scientific societies about his proposed paper on evolution, and that news reached Darwin.

Even then, Darwin was loathe to react and risk any uproar. He first wanted to see what Wallace actually had to say. Ironically, within a year, he knew. Wallace had written to him with an outline of his ideas. In his communications with the scientific community, Wallace had been told of Darwin’s expertise in evolution. So, looking for guidance, the chicken wrote to the fox. In fairness to Darwin, he never discouraged or disparaged Wallace; he analyzed his rival’s work with a remarkable and laudable objectivity. Wallace actually appreciated Darwin’s help and continued the correspondence, never realizing that he had goaded Darwin into writing his own work on the subject.

Evolution was no longer going to be a secret. Darwin had long hoped to avoid the controversy, but he would be damned if Wallace’s research would take precedence over his. Resigned to the infamy, Charles Darwin finally published his findings, “On The Origin of Species”, on November 24, 1859.

As for Wallace’s barely remembered role in history, “survival of the fittest” apparently applies to scientists, too.

November 23rd

If you were reading the death notices from 505 years ago, you would have been intrigued by Bona of Savoy’s obituary: she was almost Queen of England and sorta Duchess of Milan. Perhaps Bona (1449-1503) was born to be an underachiever and runner-up. She did have the abysmal timing to be a younger child in the Ducal House of Savoy. The older siblings got the properties and the better marriages. For instance, her older sister Charlotte was married to the King of France. True, he was old (20 years Charlotte’s senior), creepy and cheap; but he still had a status job. (He was also a superb king, but that would be of interest only to his subjects and historians.)

But then Prince Charming–or at least his ambassador–promised to rescue Bona. In 1464 the precariously throned Edward IV of England needed a wife, preferably one who could include a powerful ally in her dowry. The French had been lending support to Edward’s Lancastrian rivals, but a marriage to Bona might alter the Gallic bias. Edward’s chief advisors were encouraging the match, especially the Earl of Warwick. In fact, Warwick was in Paris to negotiate the marriage. Bona should have been enthusiastic about the prospective union. She would not only get a throne but a chance to finally outdo Charlotte. King Edward was young and said to be the most handsome man in England. Warwick, Bona and the French Court thought they had reached an agreement when some contradictory news arrived from London. The most handsome man in England had just married the most beautiful woman in England. Edward had affronted Bona, sabotaged a French alliance and betrayed the Earl of Warwick–and all for a penniless widow with a large, ravenous family.

France would continue to support the Lancastrians, and the Earl of Warrick was about to change sides. The next round in the Wars of the Roses was ready to begin.

However, our concern is Bona. Whether as compensation for the aggrieved or banishment of an embarrassment, the French Court now eagerly sought some acceptable marriage for her. The ruling family in Milan was receptive; the Sforza welcomed any class and legitimacy they could get. Francesco Sforza, a successful mercenary commander, had taken control of Lombardy in 1447. While his power could not be disputed, he was not acknowledged as the rightful Duke of Milan. (Of course, people addressed him as Duke to his face; if Al Capone demanded to be called Mayor of Chicago, would you have argued with him?) Francisco was illegitimate as was his wife; so the status-craving Sforza were eager to have an aristocrat–with royal connections–for a daughter-in-law.

Nonetheless, the negotiations took four years; the Sforza knew how to bargain. But in 1468 Bona became the wife of Galeazzo Sforza. He succeeded his father as the self-proclaimed Duke of Milan and showed himself to be a patron of art and torture. His assassination in 1476 may have only been a surprise to him. Galeazzo’s body was treated as a pinata, but the Sforza family was still in control. (They apparently did not miss him, either.) During the marriage, Bona had produced the prerequisite son, and the 7 year-old was now the sorta Duke of Milan. Bona was supposed to be Regent, but her brother-in-law Ludovico Sforza really was not one for formalities. After a short civil war, Bona was exiled and Uncle Ludovico established himself as regent for his nephew.

Would you be surprised that Uncle Ludovico outlived his nephew? Actually, to Uncle Lud’s credit, the young “Duke” lived for 18 years in comfortable confinement; those comforts included considerable latitude because the young man apparently died of syphilis in 1494.

As for Bona, she was a has-been at 31. Since she did not possess a conspiratorial nature, she was never involve in any political intrigues and so she also never had to hire a foodtaster. In the remaining two decades of her life, she was content to be a patron of the arts. And today’s museums would indicate that she had good taste.

p.s. What happened to the most beautiful woman in England? Her name was Elizabeth Woodville–England’s first queen Elizabeth–and in 1483 she found herself in a similar plight to Bona’s. Edward IV had died, leaving a young son as his heir and a fight-to-the-death over who would be the regent. Elizabeth also had a hostile brother-in-law; and her sons would not live long enough to get syphilis.

On this day in either A.D. 170 or 223 St. Cecilia died; even the Church can’t keep track of all its virgin martyrs. However, St. Cecilia’s death should have been memorable. She died three days after her decapitation. The patron saint of music evidently had mastered breath control. (A Wagnerian soprano might last two weeks after a decapitation.) And Cecilia really gave a farewell performance, spending much of her last three days in song. You or I might use our miraculous powers to regenerate a neck, but that is why we are not saints.

If Cecilia was a virgin martyr, at the very least her husband was a saint, too. His name was Valerian. On their wedding night, Cecilia told him that she had a wonderful surprise for him if he converted to Christianity. The young patrician promptly did, and an angel then appeared to explain the bliss of chastity. Valerian apparently never convinced Cecilia of the need for charity. The Church records Valerian as a saint and martyr–but not as a virgin. There may be limits to what you can ask of an Italian man.

Cecilia turned their home into a church and that certainly violated Roman zoning ordinances. Of course, the law blamed Valerian; the husband is supposed to be responsible. When Valerian refused to make a sacrifice to the Gods, he became the sacrifice. The matter might have ended there. Roman authorities were not really interested in prosecuting aristocratic women for their religious eccentricities. In fact, the government regarded Christianity as a females’ religion; good works and virtue were perfectly compatible with a woman’s domestic role in Roman society. The danger of Christianity was if the men became less bloodthirsty or if the slaves demanded justice.

Of course, Cecilia would not let herself be ignored. She continued to preach and sing. In planning her execution, the authorities first showed her the consideration due an aristocratic lady. Being sealed in a steam bath was said to be painless and therapeutic; you suffocated while enjoying all the benefits of a facial. (This particular form of execution was even considered Christian; the Emperor Constantine applied it to an unfaithful wife. It only fell out of use when bathing did in the sixth century.) However, as seems to be the rule with all of these martyrdoms, the first attempt always fails. Cecilia survived the steam treatment, and Romans then tried decapitation. That eventually worked.

You now may see St. Cecilia’s head in Venice, Italy. Unfortunately, it no longer takes musical requests.

The fecundity of Queen Victoria and the diligence of Prince Albert produced nine children. In fact, their first child was born 40 weeks after the wedding. Princess Victoria debuted this day in 1840. Of course, she went into the family business and was married off by the time she was 18 to Frederick the Crown Prince of Prussia. Although named for her mother, Princess Victoria was the transgender replica of her father. She possessed an intelligent mind, a sterling character, industrious nature and progressive political sentiments. Otto von Bismarck immediately regarded her as an enemy and kept her and the like-minded Frederick isolated and powerless.

The ruthless chancellor even determined the upbringing and education of their children, becoming the seminal influence on the young Hohenzollerns. The future Wilhelm II was imbued with Bismarck’s mannerisms, militarism and politics; he just never acquired the Old Chancellor’s genius. However frustrated, Victoria and Frederick awaited their inevitable succession to the throne, when they could undo the worst of Bismarck’s polices. And wait they did. The reigning Kaiser Wilhelm I proved adamantly long-lived (1797-1888). When Frederick finally succeeded, he was dying of cancer. His reign lasted 88 days. Bismarck’s reign continued, in person until 1890, and in influence until 1918. Victoria, the Dowager Empress of Germany, really didn’t like her son and spent much of her later years staying with her far more congenial family in Britain. She and her mother, two elderly widows, kept each other company. Both Victorias died in 1901, the daughter six months after the mother. With more love of pomp than filial affection, Wilhelm gave his mother a state funeral and interred her in the dynastic tombs at Potsdam.

The influence of Wilhelm’s English heritage can be succinctly summarized: he spoke the language and he wanted a navy.

Today is the anniversary of the grand opening of St. Peter’s Basilica. So, if you are in Rome, drop in for the festivities. Free Eucharist gelato! Watch the Swiss Guard make balloon crucifixes for the bambinos. And today only, there will be no penance for sitting in the Pieta’s lap. (Come on, you know you always wanted to!)

According to legend, on this day in 326 the Emperor Constantine was at the groundbreaking ceremony and shoveled full 12 bags of dirt, one for each apostle. He really might have had a need for consecrated ground, if only to bury his recently executed trophy wife and oldest son. (The young man and his stepmother apparently got along too well, and Constantine never mastered the Christian concept of forgiving. To his credit, however, Constantine had had a trophy stepmother, too, and he never hit on her; in fact, he didn’t even slaughter his half-siblings when he finally got the chance.)

And, if Constantine had been in Rome for the groundbreaking of St. Peter’s, that must have been a miracle. The Roman army, a second army of contractors and slaves, and the uprooted populace of Byzantium had the impression that the Emperor was among them, laying the ground for a new city modestly named Constantinople. However, Constantine at least was in Rome in spirit and money, financing the new basilica. He even furnished the new church with a supply of relics and artifacts, purchased by his mother Helena on her legendary shopping expeditions. For example, one of his gifts was a pair of columns from Solomon’s Temple.

Of course, those columns were actually Greek and a thousand years younger than Solomon’s Temple, but the Imperial Mother was not exactly a classical scholar. In fact, she was a Greek barmaid who had become the concubine of Constantine’s father–and dumped when Pater needed a more prestigious mate; but Constantine proved a devoted son. So Helena was a gullible customer; but like most nouveau riche, she also could be a terror. When the Imperial Mother wanted the relic of a particular saint or some sacred artifact, it had to be supplied or else. A luckless merchant was tortured until he disclosed the location of the True Cross. He finally remembered that the holy wood was located at the bottom of a well. (As the holy terror of sale clerks, St. Helena might be the patron saint of Jewish Princesses.)

So, with Constantine’s money and Helena’s decorating, St. Peter’s Basilica began construction. It took seven years to complete, and allowing for accumulated additions over the next thousand years, the basilica stood until 1506. By then, the Church did not meet Renaissance standards and so was torn down. The replacement, the one we know and tour, took 120 years to complete. (The Holy Roman Emperors just weren’t as generous as the real Roman Emperors.) But with a commendable sense of history, the new St Peter’s reopened for business on this day in 1626.

On this day in 1918, Western Civilization gave itself a slight respite from self-destruction. The Armistice lasted 20 years, allowing sufficient time for the toddlers of 1918 to grow into their boots and helmets. (And during that respite, corporals and sergeants promoted themselves to Fuhrers and Duces.)

We Americans did actually win the First World War simply because we still had a breathing generation of draft age men and we showed up in France at the right moment. Had the Chinese sent one million men to France in 1918, they could have won the war, too. Timing is everything.

America was barely involved in World War I. We entered the War in 1917, missing all the excitement of Gallipoli, the Somme and Verdun. More doughboys died from influenza than Krupp munitions. Our chief casualties may have been Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish, who were constantly escaping “a fate worse than death” from the Hunnish clutches (or whatever the pertinent organ) of Erich von Stroiheim in Hollywood’s depictions of the War. (It should be noted that in her long film career Miss Gish was also nearly raped during the French Revolution and the American Civil War.) Given our limited participation in the Great War, we commemorate November 11 as a catch-all day for all of our Veterans.

However if you really want to honor the veterans of the most futile war in history, you can do so any day on Turner Classic Movies. Just turn on a film from the Golden Age of Hollywood and look at the British actors. To a man, they served in a far more harrowing theater than all the terrors of working with Bette Davis. Many of them were left scarred. Herbert Marshall had the unique distinction of being a leading man with a wooden leg. Claude Raines was blind in one eye. When you see Ronald Colman’s fencing in “The Prisoner of Zenda” you wouldn’t know that he had a kneecap shot off. Lieutenant Nigel Bruce was machine-gunned in the buttocks; that is not the kind of wound that gets the Victoria Cross. If Leslie Howard seemed introspective and other-worldly, shellshock can do that. In fact, to save time, let me recite the British actors who somehow avoided being maimed in France. Well, Leo G. Carroll was wounded in the Middle East; at least, he had that originality. And Captain Basil Rathbone, decorated for courage, really should have been awarded for remarkable luck: not a scratch!

The most veteran of the British veterans was Donald Crisp, the kindly father figure in so many films of the Thirties and Forties. (He did have an incestuous interest in Lillian Gish in “Broken Blossoms”; but you know, I am starting to have my suspicions about Miss Gish. Did the woman gargle pheromones?) Crisp fought in the Boer War and then served again in the Great War.

If you want to see a microcosm of British history, watch the 1940 production of “Pride and Prejudice.” The middle-aged actors–Edmund Gwenn and Melville Cooper– had served in the Great War. The younger members of the cast–Laurence Olivier and Bruce Lester–were to have their turn. The Armistice was about to end.

And Erich von Stroiheim was about to threaten a new generation of actresses.

Well, I still have not had a chance to make anyone a Millionaire. Once again I was a Phone-a-Friend; but this time I was not even called. I wish that I could tell you how much fun it is to watch cobwebs grow on your telephone. At least my first experience–way back in 2000– was not an exercise in futility. Published in the Chicago Tribune, here is that saga.

Regis Philbin finally called, and 30 million people were eavesdropping

After two days of an anxious vigil by the telephone, I now had the opportunity
to humiliate myself and bankrupt a friend.

Who wants to be a “Millionaire” lifeline? I had acquired some doubts.

How did I end up such a morbid, neurotic mess? A week earlier, I had felt
nothing worse than a mild case of envy. Stephanie Girardi, a close friend of my
wife Karen, was going to be a contestant on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.”

Possessing a Mensa mentality and the Episcopalian equivalent of chutzpah,
Stephanie had defied odds and obstacles to win a seat next to Regis.

Every day, 250,000 people somehow get through the show’s jammed phone lines and
take the qualifying quiz. Approximately 3 percent of these aspiring contestants
pass the three-question test. A number of these survivors are randomly selected
to take a second quiz, consisting of five questions. Of those who correctly
answer the five questions, the 10 fastest competitors are invited to be on
“Millionaire.” Stephanie was one of them.

For those of you pretending not to know the details, “Millionaire” permits its
contestants to have three lifelines for help with answers. Stephanie asked me
to be her “phone-a-friend,” the mystic sage who could answer any confounding
question within 30 seconds. A contestant can choose five people to be a
“phone-a-friend” but Stephanie needed only three to supplement her knowledge
(the other two were an astrophysicist and a librarian with a specialty in
sports). Why choose me? To be honest, I am an idiot savant. Although I can’t
remember my wife’s phone number at work, I possess an unnatural command of
historical and literary details.

Consider this example. A lady once mentioned to me that “This is St. Anthony’s
Day.” I asked if she were referring to St. Anthony of Thebes or St. Anthony of
Padua. How does a Jewish boy know that? My cognitive quirks have even earned me
fame and fortune. In 1987, I appeared on “Jeopardy!” and won $70,000, a vacuum
cleaner and 14 bags of chocolate chips.

In case you were wondering, Regis’ call is not a casual occurrence. I was given
instructions and indoctrination that made me feel as if I were paper-trained by
Pavlov. My first order was, on the day (a Wednesday) that Stephanie first
appeared for a taping, to wait by a telephone between the hours of noon and 3
p.m., and 4 and 7 p.m. Since I am a freelance writer and work from home, I
could accommodate that ridiculous schedule. At approximately 1 p.m., the phone
rang and I found myself being interrogated by a droning assistant from the
show.

No, I was not an employee of ABC or any affiliates. No, I was not an employee
or related to any employee of “Millionaire.” (If I were, wouldn’t she have
remembered me from the holiday party?) No, I had not been on another game show
within the last year. No, I had not been anyone else’s lifeline. (You can only
be a lifeline twice in a year’s time, so I can’t make a career of it.)

Having survived the initiation, I was now drilled in the protocol of the show.

1. I was to be by a telephone from 4 to 7 p.m. that day. I could not use a
cellular phone. (Why? They did not say.)

2. I was the only person allowed to answer that phone.

3. I had to answer the telephone on the third ring. (Again they did not say
why.)

4. I was “not to make small talk with Regis.”

There was nothing else to do but wait. At 4 p.m., the telephone rang and, with
heroic restraint, I picked it up on the third ring. It was only another
production assistant, telling me that the show now was being taped, and
reminding me to be available for the next three hours. I resumed the vigil.

At 10 minutes to 7, the phone rang. I picked up the telephone on the obligatory
third ring and heard the production assistant exclaim that Stephanie had made
it into “the hot seat.” The day’s taping was nearly over, however; so I was
asked if I would be available the following day from 4 to 7. Later that
evening, Stephanie called from New York to tell us all the details. She asked
if I was ready for the challenge. I lied and said, “Yes.”

In fact, I was imagining everything that could go wrong.

In an average week, no one rings our doorbell; but when Regis calls, it would
be the most sadistic time for a Jehovah’s Witness to drop by. What, if for some
inexplicable reason, our pugs awoke and started barking while I was trying to
hear Stephanie? At least, I had a solution for these potential crises: My wife
could handle them.

A few minutes before 4 p.m., I isolated myself in the bedroom. At 4:30 p.m.,
the telephone rang and I discovered one of the immutable laws of the universe.
In such circumstances, a relative or friend will telephone. “Have they called
yet?” I believe this was the first time my sister-in-law Barbara heard me
hyperventilate and stammer. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Karen coped
with it. I had become acutely aware of my heartbeat.

Then the phone rang.

“Hi, Eugene. This is Regis Philbin.”

I could barely hear him. “Our friends at AT&T” could improve the acoustics. I
greeted him and, since this wasn’t a private conversation, I added “Hi
America.” Stephanie was contending with a $125,000 question and she needed my
help. She began reading the question, and I could only discern a few words:
painting, California, swimming pools. Then, she began reciting the possible
answers: David Hockney. . . . I interrupted with an emphatic, “Yes.”

She continued with the other possible answers (Chuck Close, Jasper Johns, Andy
Warhol).

Then I repeated, “California swimming pools . . . David Hockney.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

“I’m obnoxiously certain,” I replied.

How could she doubt me? Stephanie answered “David Hockney” and won the
$125,000. She then went on to win $500,000. Stephanie knew that Mick Jagger
went to the London School of Economics and that the island of Rapa Nui is
better known as Easter Island.

Let’s deal with the ugly and obvious question: Everybody asks, what’s my cut? I
was motivated by vanity not venality. We never discussed what I could expect
for answering the question. Let’s just say: Stephanie is a gracious person.

As for me, my breathing has returned to normal and I remain the most successful
“Jeopardy!” player from Rogers Park. Now I find myself frequently asked a
question I can’t answer: When am I going to be on “Who Wants to Be a
Millionaire”? I guess I will have to find out.