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the tears in all the right places.”
    “Most guys don’t want me to take off my hose.”
    “I’m not most guys, Connie. I think you should make yourself comfortable. It’s been a long day for you.”
    “You can say that again.”
    We fell asleep. The next morning I wasn’t sure of the etiquette and wondered if I could offer her some kind of compensation.
    “Oh, no,” said Connie. “This is my calling. It’s my pleasure. I have only one thing to ask of you.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “Take me on the band plane when you fly off today.”
    “I wish I could, but I can’t. Seating is limited.”
    “I’ll stay in the bathroom.”
    “That wouldn’t be pleasant.”
    “Every time the boys had to use the bathroom, they’d be pleasantly surprised.”
    “I’m sure they would be, but FAA regulations are stringent. I know you understand.”
    “Will I see you on the next tour?”
    “If there is a next tour.”
    There wasn’t a next tour. But I’ve never forgotten sweet, sweet Connie, a rock-and-roll legend who knew that there was far more to pleasing a man than sex.

    Back in the land of my coming of age, sexual liberation was nowhere to be found on the Canadian radar. What could be found, though, was another sort of liberation provided by music. I remember, for example, when I was still in high school, a band called the Vendettas—not to be confused, of course, with Martha and her Vandellas—who hailed from Sault Ste. Marie, a river city in Ontario even smaller than Thunder Bay, and had played Toronto but were stranded in TB. We opened for them when they played our hometown hockey rink. Their lead singer, Keith McKie, could pull off a pretty damn decent Ray Charles imitation. In his hotel room, McKie played me Ray’s version of “I Believe to My Soul,” explaining how Ray had sung all the harmony parts himself, thus replicating the Raelettes. I was enraptured by his Ray Charles knowledge, but even more drawn to his stories about Toronto, Ontario.
    “Man,” he said, “the R&B scene in T.O. is hot. Detroit pimps bring their girls up on weekends where those long-legged ladies work the bars. In some of those joints the music gets so funky you can smell it.”
    I wanted to smell it. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to get out of town.
    For a boy of my ethnic and cultural background, there was but one way out: college. Fortunately, my dad’s alma mater was the University of Toronto. That’s where Bernard Shaffer saw me not only matriculating as an undergraduate but, following in his footsteps, going on to attend Osgoode Law School.
    Fresh out of high school, I did not resist the plan. A lethal litigator, my father was no one with whom to argue. I knew better. But late at night, dozing off to sleep, I hardly dreamed of being called to the bar—at least not
that
kind of bar. Instead, my ear cupped to the radio, I heard the distant sounds of WLS all the way from Chicago, fifty thousand watts flying over the Great Lakes. I’d wait till 10 p.m. when the deejay announced the top three most requested songs in Chicagoland: the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations,” the Supremes’ “Love Is Here and Now You’re Gone,” and the Young Rascals’ “Groovin’,” exotic sounds from exciting worlds of which I knew nothing—and yet I prayed they had a place reserved for me.

Chapter 11
The All-Time Greatest Pussycat of the World
    As eager as I am to dramatize the highlights of my college years, I interrupt our narrative to introduce a passion that began well before my career as an undergraduate. To be sure, the passion continued during my time at the university, even as it continues to this day. It is a passion, but also a fascination and, to be candid, an obsession.
    I am, in short—and will always be—obsessed with the marvelous yearly telethons put on by Mr. Jerry Lewis. I am a believer in his cause and a student of his methods. Mr. Lewis is, in short, an idol.
    But even before beginning my paean to Jerry,