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  “How would you describe your face shape?” she asked me.

  “Like a potato,” I said. “Or possibly an eggplant.”

  “How would you describe your lifestyle?”

  “I spend most of my day obsessed with my own tedious problems, my fear of failure, and looming death,” I said. “You got any glasses that will make me look like Woody Allen in Annie Hall? Or perhaps somewhat Norwegian?”

  I tried on roughly 681 frames. Amazingly, no matter what their shape or color, I still looked like a fat, white, bald guy in glasses.

  “I see you in something sleek and intellectual,” the consultant said.

  “You mean like a Lexus with a Harvard sticker?” I said.

  She chose frames that were almost square, with a kind of an upsweep “to match the contour of your face.” (That turniplike contour, I think she meant.) They had that Elaine Benes stylishly small feel. I decided to order the blue-tinted lenses that get darker in sunlight, because I thought they were really cool, and they might make me attractive to a fifty-year-old woman with astigmatism. I also made my consultant promise to send me a customized “idiot chain,” so I could wear the glasses around my neck. That way I wouldn’t misplace them, sit on them, and squash them within an hour.

  She said my glasses would arrive in the mail within a week. But they never came.

  Six months passed. My vision got worse. One night I was watching television, holding what I thought was the remote. Much to my children’s amusement, I was trying to change channels with a Nokia cell phone.

  So I called and asked, “What happened to my glasses?”

  “You never got them?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Have you looked?”

  “Have I looked? Even if they were in my house, at this point I couldn’t see them anyway.”

  Turned out, the original glasses were lost during delivery. So now I was going to get that pair and a new pair—two pair for the price of one!

  When they arrived, I proudly modeled them for my pals at work. I stood in front of my friend Nancy, eager to see the look on her face—except when I put the glasses on I couldn’t see her face. It was a blur.

  “Those glasses are hideous,” she said. “And they don’t seem to be helping you see.”

  I moved backward to try to get her in focus.

  From a certain distance, at a certain angle, the new glasses helped me see more clearly—but I had to cock my head the way my dog does upon hearing dry food being poured into her dish.

  Nancy stared at me, shaking her head slowly.

  “It’s not you,” she said. “It’s just not you.”

  “Who is it? Is it someone better than me?” I asked hopefully.

  My boss, George, came out of his office to get a look. George wears glasses with the approximate thickness of a bridge abutment. George’s eyes are so bad that he doesn’t actually see things, he sniffs them.

  George was wiping his glasses as he looked at me in my new glasses and pronounced them “good.”

  I smiled at Nancy in triumph.

  Then George put on his glasses, looked at me, and began laughing in wild, uncontrollable seal barks.

  I felt awful. They hated my glasses. They hated my dainty ebony-link idiot chain. (“Where are the rhinestones?” Nancy asked.) They hated my Hollywood blue-tinted lenses.

  “I’ll have you know these glasses were picked out by a woman who’s a fashion consultant,” I told Nancy.

  “Really? Well, she picked out very womanly glasses for you. You look like Mrs. Doubtfire.”

  (Actually, as my friend Gino later remarked, “Mrs. Doubtfire’s glasses are more manly than yours.”)

  I pointed out to my colleagues that I was getting two for the price of one.

  “How much did they cost?” Nancy wanted to know.

  “Two hundred forty-one dollars,” I said.

  “You’re a complete sap.” Nancy took off her glasses and handed them to me. “Try these.”

  They were perfect. Womanly, yes, but I was used to that by now—and I could see. I didn’t have to cock my head like a deaf beagle.

  “Ten bucks,” she said. “Aisle four, near the shampoos. You can’t miss it. There’s a huge overhead sign.”

  On the Line: My Reputation

  Here’s the highlight of my week: I was a lifeline on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

  I was a “phone-a-friend” for a guy who not only isn’t my friend, I don’t even know him! His name is Ken Krantz, and he reads my columns. Out of the blue I got a fax from him asking me if I’d be his “phone-a-friend” in sports, an area where he felt weak. (I didn’t know how weak. This is how weak: I asked Ken what he thought of a possible Michael Jordan comeback. He said, “He’s never been the same since leaving Tito, Jermaine, Marlon, Jackie, and La Toya.”)

  Apparently you’re allowed five “phone-a-friends,” designated in advance.

  This got me thinking whom I would choose to be my “phone-a-friend.” Obviously, Catherine Zeta-Jones. I don’t care if she doesn’t know squat. This is my only chance to get her home phone number. If I got a hard question on “international political leaders,” I’d certainly call George W. Bush. The leaders would be fresh in his mind, since he’s just recently learned their names. Oh, and I’d make sure at least one of my “phone-a-friends” dialed directly into an escort service. Regis: “Hello?” Phone-a-friend: “You’ve reached Sorority Sluts.” Hahaha.

  I called Ken: “You’re crazy to ask me to do this. I can’t be trusted. What if I deliberately give you the wrong answer and you lose everything?”

  He said, “Then the next column you write will be published posthumously.”

  So I felt good, at least, that we’d established parameters.

  Ultimately, I agreed to do it. In a couple of days I got a call from a woman who briefed me on the rules:

  On the day that Ken was going on Millionaire, I had to be available by phone from 4:00 P.M. to 7:00 P.M. There was no guarantee Ken would make it to “the hot seat.” But if he did, I had to camp near my phone.

  “What if I need to go to the bathroom?” I asked.

  “Can’t you hold it in?” she said.

  (Good thing for her Ken’s phone-a-friend wasn’t Marion Barry.)

  Between 4:00 and 7:00 I had to let my phone ring three times, and then pick up.

  “You’ll receive a call that your friend is in the hot seat,” she said. “The next call will be from Regis. When you answer, say, ‘Hello.’ ”

  (So that’s how it works. That explains why when Regis says, “Hello, this is Regis Philbin calling from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” nobody says, “Yeah, right, Jocko, and I’m Kathie Lee.”)

  “Can I make small talk with Regis?” I asked.

  “What???”

  “Can I tell him a joke? You know: A rabbi, a priest, and Frank Gifford are in a spy plane over China, and—”

  “No. Don’t tell Regis any jokes,” she said. “Pay attention to the question. If you don’t know the answer, or if you’re making a guess, tell your friend. If you’re certain, let him know. After thirty seconds the call will be automatically terminated. Do you understand?”

  “I’m scared I won’t know the answer,” I said.

  “Oh, come on, Mr. Kornheiser, you’re a professional sportswriter. Most of our sports stuff is simple. Here’s one from last week: ‘Who holds the Olympic record for consecutive bulls-eyes in the women’s rapid-fire-prone rifle event?’ Heck, you probably know the answers to all the riflery questions, not just the easy ones.”

  (Gulp.)

  “Well, sure, I’m a professional. But let’s say I inexplicably have a brain lapse. Can anyone be in the room with me to help?”

  “Sure. You can have as many people as you want. But you only have thirty seconds. And only you can speak over the phone.”

  I thanked her for her patience. Then I went to towel off. I had enough water running down my spine to irrigate the Negev.

  I
went through the sports staff at The Washington Post and lined up eight experts to help. The plan was I would say the question out loud, recite the possible answers, then look to them for the correct answer.

  “We could look it up on the Internet,” someone said.

  “We only have thirty seconds,” I said. “That’s not enough time to do a search.”

  “Can’t you buy some more time?” someone asked.

  “Buy some time? Like Wheel of Fortune? ‘Oh, Regis, excuse me, I’d like to buy another thirty seconds.’ Of course not. God, I’m sweating like a pig.”

  “Tony, you are a pig. How well do you know this guy?”

  “I don’t know him at all. He’s a fan. He called me blind.”

  “Well, who cares then? No matter what, just tell him ‘B.’ Then let’s order some Chinese.”

  I sat by the phone. Each time it rang, my heart stopped. At 5:00 I got the call from Millionaire.

  “Ken is in the hot seat. The next call could be from Regis. Are you ready?”

  “Am I ready?” I said. “I was born ready.”

  Then I threw up.

  I gathered everybody in my office. At 5:30 the phone rang. I picked up on the third ring and said strong and clear, “Hello.”

  I heard, “Tony?”

  And I said, “Regis, how are you, buddy? How’s that dopey solid-color shirt-and-tie thing working out for you?”

  Except it wasn’t Regis. It was a guy from Millionaire calling to tell me, “Ken used his lifeline, so you’re free to go.”

  “He used his lifeline? On what?”

  “On a music question. That’s all I can tell you.”

  I was crestfallen. I know music! Gerry and the Pacemakers, “Ferry Cross the Mersey.” Little Millie Small, “My Boy Lollipop.” I even know the long-lost third Righteous Brother, Olaf. Ken could have called me.

  The show was taped, and it airs this Tuesday. My dear friend Ken was sworn to secrecy, and I have no idea what happened. So I’ll be watching. Um, if you know which one Ken is, point him out to me.

  Something Special in the Air

  As most of my faithful readers know, I’m somewhat anxious about flying. I recently made a list of things that scare me most about flying, and I narrowed it down to three: takeoff, landing, and the part where we’re in the air. Other than that, I’m fine. I’m a hoot at curbside check-in, for example.

  My friends who frequently fly tend to complain that airlines don’t treat you with civility. They don’t like it when airlines make you suffer through long delays without explanation, or when you check a two-suiter and they return it as mulch. And, oh yeah, when airlines sit you next to a dead man.

  Excuse me, Tony, when you say “dead man,” do you mean like someone who drank too much and passed out?

  No, I mean a dead man. As in rapidly decomposing.

  As in, “I don’t think you have to worry about this guy snagging the last Budweiser.”

  Newsweek recently had a cover story on “Seven Ways to Fix Air Travel.” Fairly high on that list I think would be: Make Sure the Passenger in 16-B Is Breathing.

  This happened recently on a Continental Airlines flight from Bali to Hawaii: The plane put down on a remote island in Micronesia and took on a middle-aged man in a hospital gown and two attendants. Seated across the aisle was the Beaulieu family from British Columbia: Donna, her daughter Teresa, and son-in-law Dale Alexander. According to an account in the Gazette of Montreal, Donna had a hunch the man wouldn’t make it through the flight. Donna said, “I got to see him choking and gagging and frothing and everything.”

  (Hey, that’s my bit! I usually begin to froth before they complete the oxygen mask demonstration. By the time we’re on final approach, they could use my accumulated froth to coat the runway in case of an emergency landing.)

  Where was I? Ah yes, the patient was choking, gagging, and frothing. “And his leg kept coming out into the aisle beside me,” Donna said. “We were trying to push it back so the food cart wouldn’t run over it.”

  (Gasp.)

  Let’s back this up a bit.

  1. What is this guy doing in an aisle seat? If anybody can be moved to a middle seat, it’s a dead man. It’s not like he’s going to complain about lack of leg room. At this point you can stuff him in the overhead.

  2. They’re serving?

  “Oh, miss, can I have some extra cashews? They’re not for me, they’re for my friend here, when he wakes up (wink, wink).”

  Reportedly, the man died after three hours on the flight. (Actually that’s not bad longevity for coach class.)

  In a written complaint to Continental, Dale Alexander said he had to go to the back of the aircraft and persuade flight attendants the man had passed away. Well, sure he had to persuade them. The in-flight movie was Dude, Where’s My Car? Most people closed their eyes and tried to sleep through it. Only the lucky ones actually died.

  Donna Beaulieu said airline personnel returned the dead man to an upright—and locked?—position and proceeded to serve the meal: “They sort of propped him up with a pillow under his head, and tucked him in like he was having a nap.” (What, they should hang him up front, where they put the suit bags?)

  Okay, Tony. This really has gone too far. Don’t you think this is insensitive—even for you?

  Wait. I got one more: So I pictured him belted in there, with the food still on his tray—and me in the seat next to him, saying, “Hey, you gonna eat that?”

  The worst part would come when the flight was over, and the passengers started filing out. They’d pass this dead guy and start wondering, Hmmm, I had the chicken. Did he have the chicken?

  (I have to confess: Every time I hear an airplane horror story involving serving the meal, I’m reminded of that Wall Street executive who got drunk on a flight from Buenos Aires to New York some years back. When the flight attendants cut him off from any more liquor, he jumped up on the food cart, pulled down his pants, and—how shall I say this tastefully?—rolled a log on that bad boy! Afterward, one of the exec’s pals said in his defense, “It seems so out of character for him.” Really? Who the heck doesn’t it seem out of character for?)

  I told my friend Mike the story about the man on the plane dying. Mike’s a frequent flyer, and he said, “There are a lot of advantages to flying while dead.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Turbulence doesn’t bother you, for one thing.”

  The Beaulieu family is seeking compensation for discomfort they endured during the flight.

  The discomfort ought to be worth beaucoup upgrades, huh?

  The only reason anyone flies now is to get upgrades to first class. Nobody in first class would have cared if there were ten stiffs up there with them—as long as they got the hot fudge sundae and the leg room.

  Personally, I’d welcome flying next to a dead man. Next time I book a flight, I’m going to ask, “Got any dead guys on this flight?” It’s like finding a mouse in your yogurt, or finding that glorious chicken head in your Hot Wings.

  It’s a gold mine. It’s upgrades out the wazoo.

  I’d kill to sit next to a dead man.

  In last week’s column I wrote about being a “phone-a-friend” for contestant Ken Krantz on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. I wrote I was miffed that Krantz didn’t use me as a lifeline on a music question. It turns out the question was: “Who won a Pulitzer Prize for musical composition?” The choices were: Duke Ellington, Charles Mingus, Miles Davis, and Wynton Marsalis. It’s a good thing Krantz didn’t phone me. After thirty-one straight years of losing, whenever I hear the word “Pulitzer Prize,” I froth. P.S.: Krantz won $250,000 on the show. And I am the weakest link. Good-bye.

  State of the Reunion

  I’m back from my “guys only” high school reunion in the Catskills, and I have learned two important things about myself.

  1. I don’t snore, which is a huge plus when you’re sharing a room. I was in great demand because I didn’t snore. Across the hall, John sounded l
ike a moose trapped in an elevator. Two different guys tried to trade their roommates for me. I was the Ken Griffey Jr. of sack time.

  2. I’m tall.

  I never thought of myself as tall. I’m six feet even. But I guess everyone in my high school class has already started shrinking, because I seemed to be the tallest one there—I was even taller than the guys who were on the basketball team! I could eat off their heads (which in the Catskills is considered “brunch”). I was waiting for the guys to start singing, “Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road.” I couldn’t figure out how we ever won a game. Who did we have on our schedule, the Harmonicats?

  I am looking at a photo of the twenty-five guys who attended the reunion, and I can honestly say not one of us looks a day over sixty—and I surely hope that’s true ten years from now when most of us will actually be sixty.

  It was a weekend reunion at a hotel. We all ate together, played some ball, and hung out in a conference room, smoking cigars, drinking Scotch, playing poker, and telling fabulous stories from our lives. Here’s one: Stanley had this dog, a total loser, and it was always running away and winding up in a neighbor’s yard. Stanley was routinely called in the middle of the night to pick up the dog—whom he hated and would’ve happily let loose on the Long Island Expressway. So this one time the dog bolted, and after it was gone for two weeks Stanley gratefully gave it up for dead. Then one day Stanley’s wife was out walking, and she swore she heard the dog barking at her, faintly, from Beyond. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think Scooter is calling to me,” she said. Lo and behold, it turned out the dog was in a manhole. He had been wandering underground through the town’s sewer system for two weeks. Vet bills for the beast ran into thousands of dollars, including delousing. A few weeks later, in the dead of winter, the dog ran away again, and this time they found it in a neighbor’s pool, frozen stiff as Al Gore’s butler.

  You think that’s funny, Tony?

  I guess you had to be there. (And drinking heavily.)