I've only had about five minutes to adjust to the Mets' postseason defeat, but so far I'm feeling pretty sanguine. I've got a new way of looking at things when it comes to my futile, fervent hopes that this team or that team will become World Champions, reap millions of dollars in endorsements, receive truly hideous diamond man-rings and be feted at ticker-tape parades in the Financial District. Actually, several new ways. First, of all, what the fuck do I care whether a bunch of Republican steroid-injected probable date-rapists experience a few euphoric moments of homoerotic joy ultimately culminating in a parade down a so-called "Canyon of Heroes" that is, in truth, a Canyon of Murderous Capitalist Pigs? But since I do sometimes to my great chagrin get swept up in the fortunes of these steroid-injected probable date-rapists, I have to find a way to deal with the emotional highs and lows of the thrills of their victories and the agonies of their defeats. And so I take the tautological position that if you are a champion, you will play like a champion. The failure of the Mets to play like champions tonight simply means that they are not champions. I realize that this is somewhat circular reasoning, but it takes the painful stress out of the second strike with two outs in an elimination game.

For the duration of Carlos Beltran's final at-bat, Rebecca and I placed our wineglasses firmly on their coasters and were sitting in little knots of anxiety on the couch. "If he deserves to be a champion," I muttered, "then he'll do what a champion does and end this game with a walk-off home run, or at least eke out a walk, or bat in a run, or something. And if he can't do that, then neither he--nor this 2006 New York Mets team--is a true champion."

Champions, I have decided, don't strike out looking. Champions at least swing for the fences, whether they connect or not.

I must confess, I feel like the Mets' loss tonight is kind of my fault, for two reasons. First, I am enough of a megalomaniac to believe that it is in fact my personal belief in a team that enables them to win, and quite frankly, I just didn't believe in this 2006 team. I mean, I believed, because the slogan is "You Gotta Believe" and I am surprisingly susceptible to catchy slogans, but I am not sure I believed at the very deepest level of my very soul.

The problem could be that it is becoming increasingly evident to me that I am not so much a Met fan as a 1986 Met fan. I believe in the 1986 Mets. That was a championship team. On the last strike of the last out in their elimination game, I believed with all my heart that they would not lose, because I willed them not to lose. And they did not lose. It was then that I discovered that I have the power to change the course of history with my own mind. I use this power judiciously and carefully, and I am not sure I was moved to call upon it tonight. Also, in 1986 I was in Queens, while right now, I am in Brooklyn. I am willing to concede that it is possible that while I do have the power to change the course of history with my mind, I can only change the course of history in the same borough.

The second reason I am responsible for the Mets' loss tonight is a little more grave. I fear that beyond failing to fully believe in the Mets, I may have actually cursed them. Earlier this year, inspired by my fond memories of the sweet success of the Red Sox 2004 World Series victory, I entertained the fantasy that the Mets would endure a similar drought, an eighty-plus year drought leading from 1986 to sometime late in the 21st century. Why would a Met fan fantasize about such a thing? Only for perverse and selfish reasons. I was thinking that if the Mets were to endure such a drought and then win in the later part of the 21st century, and if I were to live a long, healthy life, I could be one of those random old people interviewed on the local news about my memories of the now long-past original World Series victory, in this case the 1986 World Series, a.k.a, the pinnacle of my undistinguished career as a sports fan. Footage of me reminsicing would be interspersed with the final out of the '86 World Series. Perhaps a childhood photograph of me in my blue plastic Mets batting helmet would fade into Jesse Orosco falling to his knees at Shea, and then fade again into the perfect coda to my life and the next chapter in Mets' history, the long-awaited late-21st century Mets World Series win. Now I am afraid my idle and pointless fantasy is about to become an example of the old and rather disquieting adage "Be careful what you wish for..." I didn't mean it! I want to share the glory of a Mets' World Series victory with my dad, and Rebecca, and the city of New York, while we're still young enough to know what's going on!

If I have in fact cursed the Mets, it's a good thing I use a pseudonym on this web site, and the majority of my friends either hate sports or aren't Met fans. To the few who are, I apologize for the inconvenience of the eighty-plus year drought (if there is to be one) but I remind you that I did win the '86 World Series for us with my mind, and that has to count for something.

"I need to be home by two a.m.," I said to my drinking companions.
"It's past two," they replied.
"Three, then." I said.

Three a.m. is an hour I know well. Nine a.m. on a Sunday is not an time I often see. But I was up at this hour the very next day to capitalize on a rare earning opportunity for the mid-priced New York City SAT tutor. Mid-priced New York City SAT tutor is a form I take when in need of money with which to buy drinks and fancy sandwiches. If I pound the pavement and overbook my schedule, the autumn can yield just enough funds to pay my way to foreign shores and untold adventures while ensuring that if I'm broke when I return, at least I'm not in horrible debt. If I stick to a reasonable curfew of two a.m., nine the next day is not quite so disagreeable. But as anyone who's taken the SATs--or for that matter, gone out drinking--knows all too well, keeping track of time is hard.

"Why," I moaned to my favorite counterman, "Why do we do the things we do?" "Awwwwwww," he chuckled. "You'll be all right. Here." He put two extra lumps of sugar in my espresso and stirred vigorously. I hoped against hope that two lumps of sugar were a miraculous Italian hangover cure.

Unfortunately, they were not. The two lumps of sugar were just two lumps of sugar. With a sweet coffee taste in my mouth, I walked toward the subway, unable to pinpoint the symptoms of my horrible malaise except to say that every aspect of being alive was more painful than I remembered it being the day before.

I emerged in the West Village to quiet and sunshine and visibly richer people beginning their Sunday. Realizing I was early, I wondered what people do when they are early. (I am never early, even when not violently hungover or inebriated in any way. As it becomes increasingly evident to me that I can't bend time, a growing pool of ridiculous excuses becomes necessary to justify my chronic half-hour of lateness. "L train," (followed by eye roll and nod) is one of my favorites. "I had to take an international phone call," is another, though I'm not sure exactly what that's supposed to mean. So far I've held back on what is often the truth, which is, "I injured myself with surprising severity in my own kitchen.")

When people are early, I decided, they probably go to the nearest park and take a nap. And so began my day of vagrancy, interspersed with posing as a not-violently hungover mid-priced SAT tutor.

There is a lovely park on the corner of 13th Street and Eighth Avenue where I took my first nap. It is often filled with vagrants and this Sunday morning was no exception. Everyone else who was sleeping on the park benches had clearly been there all night. I found an empty bench in the shade and curled up on it. Using my satchel and the Sunday Times as a pillow, I slept for fifteen blissful minutes before the alarm I had set on my cell phone started vibrating and ringing in my jacket pocket. The nearest vagrant stirred, but didn't wake. I struggled to my feet and encouraged myself in the third person, which I always do when faced with insurmountable tasks. "Steady, Weinstein," I mumbled. "Just stay upright and the trigonometry will take care of itself."

I made it through the first two and a half hours of tutoring without vomiting in the well-appointed house of my first client, preserving my spotless record in that area. Then it was uptown to Upper West Side, where I also did not vomit in the townhouse of my second client. Feeling good about myself and my ability to not vomit on expensive New York real estate, and also slightly better in my physical body, since apparently time heals even the wounds of excessive drinking, I treated myself to a quick lunch of comforting dim sum before the final, dreaded step in my day, the Metro-North train to Westchester.

The Metro-North train to Westchester turned out to be a great place to be a vagrant. The seats are chushy and the view is fantastic. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep all the way up the Hudson, and was once again surprised by the piercing alarm in my jacket pocket when it awakened me in an idyllic suburban hamlet. I got off the train and found myself in a beautiful park right on the river, filled with the most inviting and delightful benches. Realizing I was once again early, I remembered that early people fill their extra time with naps. Assuming my now well-practiced posture, I fell unconscious once again, this time to the sound of the Hudson river lapping at the shores of suburbia.

I awoke to my insistent alarm and considered throwing my cell phone into the Hudson so I could finally nap in peace. But then I remembered that my trigonometric services were required in this idyllic suburban hamlet, and if I could just stand up from this bench, get in the Mercedes-Benz that was coming to pick me up at the train station and not vomit on this kid's antique dining room furniture, I could go call it a day and not be broke. I weighed "not be broke" against "throw cell phone in river and nap on bench for rest of life." Sure, it was lovely now, but the sun was going down and soon it would probably be cold on that bench. I still had most of the Sunday Times, but thick and inviting as it was, it wasn't the 600 thread-count sheets I treated myself to the last time I wasn't broke. Though I may be too weak to be a teetotaler, I'm also too weak to be a vagrant. This left me exactly in between those two poles as a violently hungover mid-priced SAT tutor with competing but not incompatible tastes for expensive bedding and gin cocktails.

I stood, stretched and made for the Mercedes and the high-strung high-school senior inside it. The hour of difficult math passed without incident and the high-strung high-school senior dropped me back at the train station. With another half-hour until the next train, I went back to my bench and drifted in and out of sleep while the sun slipped below the cliffs of Rockland County. I caught more than one look of disgust and disapproval from the joggers, dogwalkers, couples and old folk along the waterfront. Why is it that sitting and standing in public places is so accepted and lying down is not? Westchester, I sniffed, is a very judgmental place. In a small town in Peru I lay down in the street and slept for two whole hours and no one looked askance--just one more reason I hope to one day give up my citizenship in this backward nation. Even if I am only a sometime vagrant, I cannot live in a society in which public narcolepsy is so actively discouraged.

The sky darkened, the train came and I returned to the city. For the second week running, I went to the home of my personal physicians, who once again fed me chicken and got me stoned. Every vagrant needs a hot meal now and then, especially one that stands up to a nice pinot noir.

This morning I celebrated this holiest of holy days of my so-called people by making a lovely bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich. On a croissant. A sugary, buttered croissant. This act was not my irreligious act of choice, but it would have to do. What I really like to do on national or religious holidays is take hallucinogens in a city, state or national park, but I had to perform a different form of sacrilege to the religion I don't practice today; in addition to eating--and non-kosher foods at that--I worked, and therefore my perversions were confined to the realm of food and drink only. Luckily, being that Yom Kippur is a holiday based on fasting as an act of repentance, eating a giant bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich on a buttered croissant was enough of a sacrilegious act to satisfy me.

Holiness is a real problem in my life. The things I find holy, the rest of the world finds depraved and threatening and the things the rest of the world finds holy, I find at turns numbing and perverse. Life thus consists of a series of unintelligible fuck-yous to all the people, places, things and ideas I perceive to be offending me. Sometimes these fuck-yous take the form of giant signs that say, "Fuck You." Other times they take the form of bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches consumed on holy days of fasting.

But before you judge me too quickly, let me say this: Despite my remarks to the contrary, I already observed Yom Kippur this year, and a week in advance at that. I am so pious and repentant that I fasted last weekend, and for 36 hours instead of the usual 25. Yes, I did stay up all night on Sunday debauching myself and found a lack of appetite for the next day and a half to be a serious but not entirely surprising after-effect. Still, I didn't eat for a long time and that has to count for something. Now I do realize that spirituality and purification have to do with some sort of conscious intention, but as I understand it, a lot of religion rests on going through the motions--otherwise why would those Chabad guys be so excited to get someone else to light the menorah? So while I may not have been consciously thinking about starting the new year off with a pure and clean soul and in fact was doing my best to start it with a spectacularly toxic liver, I did--however inadvertently--do exactly what Torah tells me to. Let's just say I did the right thing for the wrong reasons. And believe you me, by midday on Monday, I was definitely well into some process of repentance and being punished for some sins I must have committed. Atonement need not be an annual thing if you live your life in a certain way. Sinning and atoning is a continual process that at some point just becomes daily life.

It's hard to say whether I've taken special pains to profane the holiest of holy days in the past, or whether it's just worked out that way. All I know is that the past few Yom Kippurs have consisted of such wholesome pursuits as eating pepperoni pizza, driving upstate and taking cactus mescaline in a state park (Yom Kippur 2004) or eating a salad (with bacon in it) and some macaroni and cheese (with bacon in it) and going to a show (Yom Kippur 2005). I often wonder if in those acts I came just as close to God as everyone praying in an overcrowded synagogue.

Maybe it's a holdover from my secular childhood, in which my parents would use our day off from school to take us apple picking or, if Indian Summer was in effect, to the beach. They never missed an opportunity to tell us that all religion is bullshit and there is no God and no reason to feel guilty. Some might say a little religion would have done me some good. Perhaps if I had ever come to believe that one very old book was holy, I wouldn't be so easily influenced by so many others. Perhaps if I truly believed that those songs and chants were holy, I wouldn't be so susceptible to the songs and chants of people still thankfully alive and not marked by desert wandering or misogyny, or if they are marked by desert wandering, it quickly ends in their arrival at a liquor store, and if they are marked by misogyny, it's only a reaction to an unfortunate turn of events in the realm of romantic love.

Last night, the eve of the holiest of holy days started out wholesomely enough. My personal physicians invited me uptown for a nutritious Sunday meal of roast chicken and vegetables. Just as night was falling, I was getting soundly stoned as the smell of perfectly basted fowl filled the house. Somewhere very nearby other people to whom I'm probably distantly related were praying on emptying stomachs, but I was working up an appetite from within a pleasant reverie. I was remembering the last time I had gotten soundly stoned and eaten a roast chicken--it was actually the moment that ended a decade of vegetarianism. It was my sophomore year of college and some nice boy had invited me to his house for dinner. But when I arrived, the nice boy was nowhere to be found, and instead I encountered his pothead roommates and shortly after that, a beautifully roasted chicken. I think I may have even taken a turn at basting it, and it may have been that moment when I looked upon the bird in a stereotypically munchy haze and said, "I have been wrong for the last decade. That chicken may once have lived and breathed, but now it is for eating and eat it I shall." I ate that roast chicken and never looked back, and that is how I eventually came to have new and porcine methods at my disposal for quietly flipping the proverbial bird to all things guilty and ancient.

"I think it is very important to eat meat," I said as we dug into last night's somewhat illicit roast chicken. "Not only for the protein, but for the violence." My hosts graciously nodded and agreed, but they were busy debating the firmness of their parsnips. I sipped my wine and in addition to being soundly stoned, got quietly drunk and pleasantly full. I contemplated no sins and prayed for no purity. I took a $20 cab ride back to Brooklyn and enjoyed every expensive moment of it.