I’m lucky that I was never cursed with ambition.

OK, maybe “never” is too strong a word. I can recall a time early in seventh grade when I had a drive and ambition or two, but luckily by the time eighth grade rolled around, they were naught but vague and distant memories. After that, though I may have been uncomfortable with the world at large, I was eminently comfortable with myself.

Over the years, I’ve known lots of ambitious people, and I avoided every one of ’em as if they had a huge red A on their chests. I was afraid some of their drive to excel might rub off on me. In reality, there was as much chance of that as there was of me winning the lottery (Just FYI: I’ve never bought a ticket, and never will).

My lack of ambition was reflected in my teaching career. I spent all 40 years teaching almost only freshman English. It was a great fit for me. I believed reading and writing were the most important skills for success in college, and to a certain degree, in life as well.

However, my more ambitious colleagues may’ve taught comp. for a while, but soon smartened up and started teaching much “sexier” courses. Their course titles set hearts a’racing. For example, “The Freudian Themes and Symbolism in Snow White,” “Fun with Faulkner,” “The Graphic Novel as Epic Literature,” and so on.

Those courses fairly reeked status, and those teachers were the Chiefs of Staff in The Army of Academe. By contrast, my piddly Comp. 101 and 102 classes made me a lowly buck private, trudging off to endless days of KP.

Then again, of and by itself, what’s status? On paper, a doctor has a lot more status than a humble classroom teacher. But if you think for one moment I would’ve traded my PSC gig for being the world’s greatest proctologist, you’ve got beaucoup more thinks coming.

As far as I’m concerned, ambition’s biggest waste is in retirement.Think about it: Your race is run; time is on the wing; and by any measure you’re now a has-been, if not a never-was. You may be all dressed up, Dawg, but you ain’t gots no place to go. I say with the little time you’ve got left, let the rats race while you kick back and smell the roses — literal or otherwise.

This is why if you ask me on any given eve what I did that day, you’ll get nothing more than a shrug or a frown in return. It’s not a sign of dismissal, so much as confusion: I can’t remember what I did, namely because I never do anything. Last Sunday, however, I amazed myself with my frenzy of activity.

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Cafe society

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It started at the crack of noon, with my rave fave weekend A.M. activity — breakfast at the Cavu Cafe. At my table were my Cavu stalwarts, Charlie Jessie and Br. Clark Cummings. Joining us for the first time were The Count of Chordata, Leo Demong, and the Nicholas Murray Butler of NCCC, Joe Keegan. Brother Numero Uno of the Demars Boulevard Demimonde, Pat Bentley, was supposed to show up, but had to sleep late, after a hard night of television.

Aside from the food and company, Cavu offers other attractions. One is the world’s sweetest and most efficient waitress, Amy Rutledge Rattee, and the staff’s U-18 satirist, Payton Barry. And then there’s the front-of-the-house co-owner, Clair Bovee.

Clair is my joke barometer. She has a great booming laugh — but only at great jokes delivered brilliantly. While I know my delivery is flawless, I also know, unlike men, not all jokes are created equal. So each time I go to Cavu I’ve got at least one joke locked, loaded, and sighted in on Clair’s funny bone (and lest you wonder, once again I scored a direct hit).

After o’erfilling myself with conversation, camaraderie and comestibles, it was time to move on. I went home, walked my pups, read a bit, made a burnt offering to Moloch and was ready for Part II.

Part II was my usual Sunday coffee klatch at Nori’s with my favorite second banana, Shtickel, AKA Bruce Young. Bruce and I have a standing 2:30 date where, deadbeats that we are, we magically turn one cup o’ joe into a two-hour shmooze session. About a half-hour into it, Brother Clark showed up. Either he hadn’t suffered enough of my barbs or he had a new conspiracy theory to share — I can’t remember which. No matter, he’s a fun addition. And then, about an hour into the bash, Brother Steve DeHond joined us.

Steve is a Nori’s regular and I’m lucky enough to get to hang with him a few times a week. Steve is one of the funniest people I know, but with a specific kind of humor. While, in weapon terms, I’m a hydrogen bomb, Steve is a sniper. I’ll do anything for a laugh and am constantly trying to get one; Steve, on the other hand, picks his targets with utmost care. So he rarely interjects a jest or jibe, but when he does, his timing and delivery are perfect. As a result, he’s one of the only people who can make me laugh out loud. And just for the record, on Sunday, he made two kills shots.

About 4:40, our coffees long gone, our convo at end, we bid each other and Nori’s adieu and went on our separate ways. I don’t know where their next destinations were, but mine was to Jeff Murray’s Soiree Extraordinaire at the Carousel.

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Carousing at the Carousel

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Earlier in the week I was talking to Bushwhack Jack Drury, when I told him how much I was looking forward to Jeff’s party.

“Where do you know Jeff from?” he asked.

“I don’t,” I said.

“You don’t?” he said. “So why’d he invite you to his party?”

“Cuz I know Pogi Murray?” I said.

“Who the hell is Pogi Murray?”

“Pogi is Jeff’s dog,” I said. “And maybe the friendliest and best-behaved dog in God’s green earth.”

Actually, I was being completely honest. I know Jeff, but only kinda-sorta. And the only reason I know him at all is because of Pogi. In my typical fashion, whenever I ran into the two of them, I fussed over Pogi so much, it was inevitable I’d end up chatting with Jeff. As a result, Jeff and I formed a friendship of sorts. Not as close as the one I had with Pogi, of course, but close enough to get an invite to his bash.

The party was celebrating Jeff’s 65th (though in typical Jeff fashion, he labeled it something like his Welcome to Medicare Party), and now a thing about me and parties: Generally, I avoid groups, especially those with people I don’t know. And when I walked in the carousel, guess what? Yep, you got it — I knew hardly anyone.

The joint was a madhouse of activity — free range kids, sprinting to and fro; half-deaf greybeards trying to talk to each other over the din; young marrieds beaming; and too many other people and too much activity for me to process. There were decorations of all sorts, costumes aplenty, a huge array of food, and overall fun, fun, fun. And of course, front and center was the birthday boy, hisself. His outfit spared no expense or discretion, as he was decked out like either the Scarlet Pimpernel or a 1970s uptown pimp.

As I said, I knew few people there, but among the ones I did know were Liz and Ray Murray, Dave Rockefeller, Rob Rafferty, Floyd Lampart and his wife, and I got to visit with them a bunch. Then I met Alan Roberts, a bestie of Jim Tucker, an old pal, and we chatted away like magpies — which I did while stuffing my gaping maw. And as hewaggingly made his rounds, I got to give Pogie pats, ear scratches, and back rubs.

Of course I talked to Jeff, but only for a bit: The boy was swarmed by well-wishers, large and small, young and old, in mufti or decked out to beat the bands. He was also positively alight, his 1,000-watt smile a blinding beacon of joy.

The noise and jollity kept rocking the room; the merry-go-round went ’round and ’round, my gut threatened to burst, and it was time to go.

I said goodbye to Jeff, thanked him profusely, and made my exit.

All in all, Jeff’s party was the most fun I’ve had in a long, long time. Everything about it was as close perfection as it gets.

Matter of fact, I have only one small suggestion for improvement: He needs to have at least three more birthdays a year.