Now this could only happen to a guy like me; And only happen in a town like this
—Sinatra, "My Kind of Town"

CHAPTER SEVEN of Clifford L. Linedecker's sensationalist paperback on Richard Ramirez, the '80s serial killer known as the Night Stalker, is titled Satan's Work. The chapter opens with this quick bit:

"The Night Stalker had a theme song—an anthem. The media loved it. With their usual thirst for sensationalism, and eye on circulation and rating buildups, newspaper and television reporters latched on to the 'Satan Connection' and played it for all it was worth. 'Did the devil make him do it?' one newspaper asked in a headline."

The tune in question would be "Night Prowler" from AC/DC's Highway to Hell album and this is right where Jennifer Field, Miss San Jose Grand Prix 2006, comes into this week's adventure.

You see, both she and I were simultaneously on the covers of two different publications, standing in exactly the same place—right out in front of San Jose's City Hall. I was on Metro's cover for a story about the industrial wastelands of San Jose and she was decked out in her orange Grand Prix jumpsuit on the cover of Area Chica, a glossy sports and entertainment periodical.

So I just had to prowl around and try to get a photo op. It was too ridiculous to pass up. I mean, it would be her standing there, holding the Area Chica issue with her on the cover, right next to me holding the Metro issue with me on the cover. And I'd have my back turned, just like the cover. It had to work. It was a killer idea.

The event where I initially envisioned this happening was the Miss San Jose Grand Prix Swimsuit Competition, which took place last week at Taste Ultralounge, a place that used to be Club Deep, Blue Tattoo, Club Ecco, Hamburger Mary's and God knows what else. The Laundry Works? Hmmm.

Doing my best stalker imitation, I showed up with said copies of Metro and Area Chica in hand, hoping, praying, begging and urging for a ridiculous-on-purpose photo shot of me right next to the lovely Ms. Field.

I made it to Taste Ultra Lounge and no one there knew who I was at all. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, I guess I'll never know, but all the Grand Prix fans from parts unknown gathered on hand to gawk at the current Miss Grand Prix competitors flaunting their skin. Thumping house music rocked the joint and people swilled overpriced beers like there was no tomorrow. People also took primo advantage of their cell phone cameras and copped many photos of the bikini-clad beauties as they paraded their stuff on the makeshift walkway.

Even before the show started, I realized my function in society immediately. One dude, upon realizing that I was on the cover of Metro, asked me to autograph it, but then he suddenly decided to run off to a nearby Walgreen's so he could purchase a disposable cameras in order to come back and photograph all the Grand Prix chicks instead. That, in short, is the story of my life, however you want to interpret it.

So the ridiculous-on-purpose photo op with the lovely Ms. Field never happened, as she was by far the rock star of the entire event. I couldn't get her alone for five seconds without 6 billion other people intruding on the conversation. I suffered from an extreme case of Wannabe Rock Star Instant Jealousy Disorder (WRSIJD), which will hopefully be documented in the fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

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