What were you doing the day that rock n’ roll died? As for myself, well…I was enjoying a Shiitake mushroom plate, nestled atop a bed of white rice and lightly garnished with a mélange of seasonal squash and strips of ginger. To my left was seated renowned news broadcaster and journalist extraordinaire, Mr. Geraldo Rivera. Youthful enthusiasm had me convinced that Rivera was there to see with his own eyes the up and coming journalists of tomorrow. Old age and old morals had Rivera convinced that I was there seeking the expert advice of an experienced news veteran. But the pride and prejudice that accompanies both young and old alike prevented both of us from realizing what we were really doing at the flamboyant and festive Cheesecake Factory. That son-of-a-bitch Al Roker had set us up on a blind date! Say whaaaat?!

Initially, flirtation grew between us like moss on a damp surface, but without the stench and health problems that accompany it. I have to admit that I was the one to break the ice first. “Geraldo?” I teased, with a giggle. “Where’s Waldo?”

“You’re so hilarious, darling,” he answered back immediately. “But the real question is: where is the moral fiber that used to hold this country together?”

“I’m sure you can find it in a banana, or in a bowl of Fiber Oats!” I said, batting my eyelashes and taking a sip of my Jamaica-me-Crazy chai tea blend.

Geraldo, man that he is, picked up on my romantic lead with a vengeance. “Where is Osama?” He asked, quietly but coyly. “More importantly, girl, where is your mama? Tell her to get over here so I can tell her what a fine job she did raising you.” Geraldo raised his glass of first-rate Merlot, and looked into my eyes soulfully. I watched his bosom heave, his chest swell and his eyes glaze over. I watched him grab for his heart and cough violently. At that point, I stopped watching. I allowed Geraldo a moment to recoup and regain composure. “I’ve been to Afghanistan, you know,” a huffy Geraldo said, and sat back down to a gigantic dish of seared Alaskan Salmon with a side of “Fettuccine Afraid-o.” For several minutes, we ate in silence. I diligently forked the famous “Tirami- Don’t su Me” desert (a spin-off on “First-Degree Murder by Chocolate”) while Geraldo applied a feminine nibble to his Alaskan Salmon. “Jesus H. Chrysler!” the man suddenly exclaimed. “You have got to take a bite of this frickin’ Eskimo fish, here! It’s frickin’ fantastic!” And so I did. And so I did.

The fish was frickin’ fantastic, but as for the date? I would have to tell the Master Chef (the Big Guy Upstairs, that is) that he left out an essential blend of spices when he cooked up our main man, Geraldo. Unfortunately for me, Rivera was served lukewarm, hairy and far too tart for a woman of my societal standing. Not even dousing him in mustard could salvage our evening together. In fact, I believe that it was indeed my playful Grey Poupon prank that really put the cap on our open bottle of (blind) date juice. Date juice: A healthy dose of fiber, you say? Yeah, tell that to Mister “I’m so used to the bland taste of mayonnaise that even a little mustard seed in my eyes is enough to make me wet myself and cry like a little girl ” Rivera, over here.