That autumn, back in the city, I made the mistake of attending a design show, opening on an October night. I was unaccompanied by any friend, relative, therapist or bodyguard. The show was entitled "Designers under Thirty" (I mentally added "who have been nurtured, encouraged and supported financially by broken and now-obscure dowagers of forty five").

Bravely, I approached Yakov to congratulate him on a prizewinning poster (silkscreen class, 350 dollars) depicting a lamp (from my bedroom) announcing a reading series at the coffee bar on my corner.

If you have seen All about Eve, remember the lyrics of Human League's "Don't You Want Me,"* or endured spinal cord surgery you will know the feeling. A cheerful greeting escaped his lips. Eight words: "This is my new girlfriend. Isn't she cute?"

Who was I to argue? "Why yes, she's adorable," I concurred. It was only the truth. Beside him was a diminutive Japanese nymphet, of perhaps 68 pounds. Although I clock in at twice that on a good day, I took care not to crush this delicate person while she expressed her reverence for an elder in a way that all young Japanese have been instructed. She showed respect for an ancient, moldy and decrepit oak of graphic design wisdom, i.e., me.

I managed to careen almost noiselessly to the door, narrowly escaping collision with the 614 major art directors in attendance. Little did I know that this was the beginning of what has become known as "Bald Male Pattern-ness" or "The Recurring Yakov Response."

Ladies and Gentlemen, permit me to present my theory:

I would submit that New York City in general, and Lower Manhattan in particular hosts a disproportionate number of young men who prefer somber-colored clothing, an all-black costume being not at all unusual. Are we agreed? Good.

I would further postulate that one bald-headed guy dressed all in black resembles nothing so much as another bald-headed guy dressed all in black. This is the central tenet of my argument.

If you are familiar with the work of Federico Fellini, you must have seen his masterpiece, "Nights of Cabiria." It's the story of a plucky little prostitute who believes she has at last found true love right up until the moment where he steals her pocketbook and attempts to throw her off a bridge.

It is my favorite movie. I have a small but chic aluminum bucket that accompanies me to these screenings. One night at the Film Forum, I was weeping silently into it when I noticed a familiar outline five rows in front of me; a smooth, rounded skull attractively festooned with a matching set of ears, one on either side. Yakov? I thought so. Not only was the film ruined for me forever, but I sensed a certain foreboding.

The very next day, at those free Thursday nights at the Whitney Museum, the disconcerting and bald vision repeated itself, not once, but a total of eleven times. Further sightings occurred at Barnes & Noble, Staples, Lucky's Juice Joint, and (most appallingly) I Can't Believe It's Yogurt. I was hyper-vigilant, but when one turned up at my great-aunt Ruth's memorial at Temple Emmanu-El, I began to question the veracity of the sightings. Yakovs were popping up everywhere.