French authorities asked Google on Tuesday to examine private information that cars taking pictures for its Street View service collected, after Google acknowledged that it had retained some of the information despite promising to delete it.

The company said in a statement: “Google has recently confirmed that it still has in its possession a portion of payload data collected by our Street View vehicles. Google apologizes for this error. Google would now like to delete the remaining data.”

Google feel really bad. Google never intend to collect data in first place. Google just want to drive around with head out window, but Google program computer wrong and Google accidentally record email address, email message, and email password of everything within twelve hundred yard of Google car.

Google get lots of data. Google can do many things with data, but Google does not. Google keep your drunken booty-calls to self. Google ignore emails where you talk about "skiing" with "Tina."

Google decide to delete data. Google pretty sure data is gone until Google look for Alanis Morissette cd and find it. Google surprised. Google ashamed.

Google promise court Google will delete the data, but Google can't figure out how. Is there button Google can press? Google put magnet on top of computer and have fingers crossed.

Google hope you forgive Google. Google pretty sure you do, because Google looking at you right now.

Hi.

Oops. Google sorry for looking into your home. Google delete all pictures immediately. Google buy extra strong magnet. Maybe Google save one or two for decorating tips. Google not watch you in future, but Google really, really love your dog.

The driver says he pulled over but the truck wouldn't stop puttering.

My "Missed Connections" Ad on Craigslist Today

I saw you walking down 14th Street on Saturday but I was running for the bus and couldn't stop. I'd really like to see you again.

ME: Really tall, unobservant.

YOU: Beats the heck out of me.

Email me and let's get together!

During an appearance on Jimmy Kimmel Live!, Jeremy Renner recalled an embarrassing in-flight experience that left him feeling a little stiff. "Somebody gave me some pills, like Ambien," he said. "So I took a little sleeping pill, popped it and realized nothing's happening, but something else was happening! I realized very quickly that the 'A' was actually a little 'V' on the pill. Not only did I not sleep the entire flight, but there was...'camping' happening!" [Ed. note: see "pitching a tent."]

Luckily the cabin crew was there to help Jeremy in his time of need. "The flight attendants were sort of in on the joke," he added. "They were like, 'Can we get you anything, Mr. Renner?' 'Yeah, funny, ice, ice!'"

While no one knows for sure exactly how these wacky hijinks ensued, I think we can reconstruct them using the given data to a high degree of accuracy.

JEREMY RENNER [thinking while searching through a baggie full of pills]: Hmm. This could be trouble. I have no clue what either Ambien or Viagra look like, which makes it strange for me to accept a bag of pills from a helpful friend without asking for further information. Well, you don't need a PhD to be a star. Which is the Ambien? [He pulls out two pills and reads one.] "AMB." That probably stands for "ambergris," but I'm against the insensitive slaughter that is whale hunting. I'll take this little blue pill that says "PFIZER" instead.

[TEN MINUTES LATER]

JR [continued]: Why am I not sleepy? And why is Expendables II getting me aroused? I've never liked late-period Stallone.

[TEN MINUTES LATER]

JR [continued]: OHMIGOD!!! I've got a hard-on! A full-fledged hard-on! A MAJOR CELEBRITY, WITH A BULGING HARD-ON, ON A PUBLIC PLANE! [PAUSE] I think I'll go for a walk.

[LATER, BY THE COCKPIT]

MANDI, A FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Did you see Jeremy Renner's erection?

SANDII, ANOTHER FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Is Sandra Bullock in that?

MAFA: No, I mean the actual Hollywood star is walking around with his dick sticking out.

SAFA: That's unbelievable. Who does he think he is, Fred Willard?

MAFA: Well, I'm sure he didn't mean to get an erection. He probably accidentally took a Viagra instead of an Ambien and is laughing about it on the inside.

SAFA [thinking]: If it was an accident, though, couldn't he throw a blanket over it?

MAFA: A blanket? Whaddaya think this is, Air France? Well, the good news is, instead of sternly lecturing a possible sex offender, this is the opportunity for good-natured ribbing about erections from professionals employed in a service industry. Sandii, forget about heating the Chicken Pastriyeck for the folks in coach and slap him with your sauciest double-entendre.

SAFA: Okey-dokey! [SHE RUNS OVER.] Mr. Renner, can I get you anything?

JR: Ha! A helpful flight attendant. Busted, girlfriend! Bring me ice, ice!

EVERYONE TOGETHER: HA!

THE END

[W]e can sometimes hope that just changing the law will make all bad things go away. It won't. -- Mitt Romney, when asked whether assault weapons should be banned

This little exchange with Brian Williams on NBC Nightly News illustrates precisely why Romney will make a great president: he doesn't tell us what we want to hear: he tells us what we need to hear.

See, we've been fooling ourselves too long by pretending that passing a law that would outlaw assault weapons will make all bad things go away. Me, I've kept my fingers crossed that it would clear up my complexion, and lighten my purple tooth. I've heard liberal commentators say that just that one simple bill passing through Congress would make green lights last longer, and stop guacamole from turning brown.

While Obama has been dodging the issue, I'm glad to see Romney confronting it head on. Just this morning some gun-control nut came to my door with a petition and he actually said to my face that the new laws would enable me to have sex with somebody six hours after I've eaten a bowl of chili, and stop my ass from sticking to vinyl chairs.

I was like, well then, sure, I'll sign -- but then a second later my brain kicked in and I thought, Wait.

Gun control laws would do nothing of the kind. They wouldn't stop tall people from sitting in front of us at the movies. They wouldn't make Starbucks baristas notice when we finally put a buck in their tip jar. They wouldn't prevent us from having to go to the bathroom after we've tucked our shirt in. They'd just stop nuts from shooting hundreds of people at a time. That's it.

It's time to face the cold, hard truth: outlawing automatic weapons would do nothing more than make them illegal and harder to find. Sure, it's not a perfect situation, but there's a silver lining on this cloud. I've heard that after the tax cuts for the rich are made permanent unicorns will return to earth, and the crazy folks will have cooler things to hunt.

This morning aides to Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney told the British press that he would forge stronger ties with the United Kingdom because unlike Obama he understands the "shared history" of "an Anglo-Saxon heritage."

Since this comment is being wildly misconstrued by the media -- even being painted as racist -- I'd like to take this opportunity to defend it.

Let's look at this with a dose of common sense. I don't think anyone would disagree that only the people born within a specific group will truly appreciate their shared heritage. Clearly this works both ways: as an African, for instance, President Obama has an advantage with the African nations. He's far better equipped than Romney in discussions about AIDS in impoverished nations, or the Isley Brothers. I don't think it's farfetched, then, to say that only Anglo-Saxons will truly "get" the importance of NATO, or what that little flying Martian was doing in The Flintstones.

Likewise, an outsider might not understand how we behave in a civilized society. His behavior might be seen as bizarre, or his performance might not be up to par. While this might not be troublesome on a tinier platform, it's vitally important on a world stage.

For instance, if the British ambassador saw Mr. Romney and his family at Best Buy and said, "Hey, do you people work here?" he wouldn't have a problem with it. I'm not so sure about the Obama clan.

The Tallis Scholars Choir might not be everybody's cup of tea, but it isn't going to help international relations if they entertain at the White House and the president is overheard to exclaim, "Man, this shit is wack!"

If Romney was having tea at the Ritz and they brought over though cute little sandwiches, he might say, "My golly, these are delicious!" Anyone unfamiliar with this ritual might yell, "Hey, who stole ma mothafuckin' crusts?"

In the end, as I say, it just comes down to common sense. When you're looking for a good leader, you look for somebody who knows how things work. And if we can't trust a man to move jobs and money out of America, how can we trust him at all?

5,000 Vatican Priests Exclaim, "There IS A God!"

Shoulda Seen It Coming

I told a friend that she's a drama queen, and she stormed out.

How Pizza Margarita Got Its Name

Margarita was the prettiest girl in Naples in 1953. Naturally when she visited the local pizzeria, the owners wanted to impress her. Though wartime rationing made meat hard to find, Mario and Luigi threw every scrap they could find onto the pizza. Today it's on the children's menu at Pizza Hut.

When they brought Margarita her pizza, shiny with oil and dripping in animal fat, she stared at it in horror. "What the fuck is this shit?" she barked. "You think I'm fat? Salami, pepperoni, meatballs -- you think I shove any kind of crap in my gob?"

Mario recoiled in shock and ran back to the kitchen with the pizza. What an embarrassment! "I can't believe it," he wailed to his brother. "She come to a pizzeria, but she no wanta pizza! What does she want?"

Suddenly Luigi had a brainstorm. While his brother watched, he made up a special pizza that was just dough and sauce and a tiny dab of cheese.

"What the fuck is that?" asked Mario.

"Eh," said Luigi, "she no wanta food, we no give her food." As a finishing touch, he scattered on some basil leaves to make the entrée look a little less like puke.

Mario shrugged his shoulders and brought the weightless wonder out to Margarita. She shrieked with delight, clapping her tiny hands. She devoured every bite, and when she left she gave Mario and Luigi big kisses on the cheek.

The puzzled pizza makers retired to the kitchen. "Why the fuck would somebody want a pizza with nothing on it?" Luigi asked.

"Beats me," said Mario. "But I wish every customer was like her! We charged her eighteen bucks for three cents worth of food."

Luigi rubbed his hands together. "If we could sell everybody a pizza with no kindza shit on it and charge them full price, we'd get rich!"

"You stupid!" Mario snapped, whacking his brother with a rolling pin. "Nobody's gonna order something called, 'Pizza With No Kindza Shit On It.'"

Luigi nodded. "Well, maybe we just need a fancier name."

The brothers thought for a second before Mario poked the air with a pudgy finger. "How about Pizza Margarita? That's all candy-ass, fancy-schmancy. When people hear that they'll picture a really tasty pizza, not realizing it's just slightly less filling than half a Dorito. And after they've ordered it, they can't complain, because everybody would think they're idiots for ordering something they no understand."

The pair went ahead with their plan, and it was a rousing success. Within six months every pizza place in the universe was serving Pizza Margarita, and the billionaire brothers had moved to Brooklyn and opened a snack bar. Sadly, they pushed their luck too far and were killed after a local discovered their $14 Esmerelda Burger was a pickle slice dipped in mustard.

FIN

I don't know about you, but I'm really excited about the new Batman: Now With No Nipples opening Friday. Every day there's another hundred pages about it in the newspaper, and every day I get more excited. As of three a.m. this morning, I'm certifiably Batsane.

I mean, it's got everything you want in a movie. It's star-studded and action-packed. Does it get any better than Christian Bale? The man has reached the very pinnacle of the acting profession, despite looking like the V for Vendetta mask. Can you think of anybody else who'd publicly berate a coworker for undermining the artistic integrity of Terminator Salvation? No! I'm a long-time member of his fan club, so I'm privileged to insider information. For example, did you know he auditions for parts before he gets them? That's true. Did you know that though he has a film in theaters now, he's making another movie that will come out later on? I'm serious! Like, really -- who would have guessed?

I don't think there's another movie star who's appeared in more prestigious films whether or not they sank like a stone at the box office. I mean, how about The Mechanic, or The Machinist, or The Bob the Builder film where he lost like sixty pounds to play a guy who, like, lost sixty pounds? That required major dedication. It takes the folks on The Biggest Loser thirty or forty minutes on the treadmill to drop that kind of weight.

He's got the old-fashioned values America was built on: when he gets arrested, it's for yelling at his mom.

If I can, I'm going to go watch the stars arrive at the premiere. I'd just die if I missed it. I mean, picture this: Christian Bale gets out of a limo, all dressed up in a tuxedo, and all at once everybody sees him and goes, "Hey, who's that guy? Really? Christian who? Oh. Wait, he's the guy who plays Batman? Really? Wow."

And of course there's his comely co-star, Anne Hathaway. The newspapers have been running interviews with her non-stop, dishing her deepest thoughts. Did you know she has a Peekapoo? That she used to date somebody? That she enjoys acting? She's like the girl next door whose every passing thought is put down on paper. Today: rain is annoying! Tomorrow, is there anybody who doesn't like cheese?

Anne's the kind of girl you want to protect. It's so sad how she was emotionally ravaged by her last boyfriend. Who would have guessed a Italian billionaire real-estate developer could be corrupt? Still, I can't help but chuckle over her oft-repeated tale of putting on that shiny, skin-tight catsuit for the first time. It made her feel really strange! I don't know about you, but that's the kind of human-interest story that makes me want to race to a theater to watch white people running around in costumes pretending important stuff is happening.

Yes, I realize not everybody feels the way I do. Some folks are upset that the only black person in the film is Bruce Wayne's butler assistant. And okay, the commercial looks a little dumb. For the fourteenth film running, Bruce Wayne throws a masquerade party, and whaddaya know, a criminal in a mask shows up. Even us die-hard fans are thinking, what, is he some kind of moron? How does that thinking go? "Let's see: I want to throw a big bash in a city with roughly two hundred residents, one hundred ninety-nine of which are psychotic criminals who disguise their identities. Hey, wouldn't a masquerade ball be fun?"

But think about it a minute. Would it be a better movie if Bruce Wayne had a non-masquerade party, and Anne just sat in her catbox thinking, "Gosh, I sure wish I could go and wreak some havoc, but I can't go out without my costume," and she just ate some Kettle Korn or painted her toenails instead?

Okay. Maybe that would have been a better movie, but that's just because she's America's sweetheart, no matter what she thinks about cheese.

The Last Words You Will Ever Say To Me

"Any of them. Any of them!" (PAUSE.) "No, not that one."

I took Amtrak to Montreal last week. It wasn't pretty. For some reason, traveling by train brings out the worst in heterosexuals. With the lower-class crowd, you'll see lots of day-drinking, yelling, and carousing. With the upper-class, you'll see lots of writing notes in the margins of hard-cover books.

I hate it when a company has one good worker and all the rest are bums. That's definitely Amtrak. I got to the train station half an hour early, and the first employee I encountered raised my hopes. His uniform was freshly-pressed, and his manner all crisp and officious. "Boarding at nine prompt!" he barked. "Have your ticket out! Watch your baggage! Single-file line!"

Of course, you're still standing there at 9:15. "Sorry," says the next employee you run into. "We were in the back smoking weed."

Montreal residents are pretty much the opposite of New Yorkers. New Yorkers are never stopped by the countdown timers at crosswalks. They'll see those LED digits warning that there's just two seconds left before it goes red and they'll think, Man, I can handle eight lanes in like a second and a half. Folks in Montreal won't budge when the timer gets down to twenty. "Well," they think, "maybe I'll get across two lanes and my legs will cramp."

Montreal is the most innocent place in the world. Saint Catherine Street, the main gay drag, is mostly porn stores and street hustlers, but it's so safe and clean you'll see families blithely chatting with shirtless studs and guys who have salamis in their pants. In the hetero part of town, a street barker alerted us to some local entertainment. "Lesbian show!" he barked. "They really lick each other good!"

Yes, I thought, that can be a problem. At the last lesbian show I attended, I ended up leaping out of my seat and screaming, "That's barely lapping, you layabouts!"

Beer beckoned, so we went to the Winston Churchill, a quasi-English pub. All the heteros were doing shots, and the silly innocence made us bold. We invented our own version that, we said, everybody was doing in New York. It didn't seem all that far removed from the original but only two guys licked the salt out of my chest hair, not to mention the lime wedge in my crack.

Repeat Friday: Surprise

I have to do something. Every morning I wake up and it's like my eyebrows have grown just a little bit bigger, until they threaten to consume my face. It looks like two squirrels are scurrying across my forehead, and very soon there's just going be to one. Years ago, though, after an overzealous afternoon with a razor blade, I learned that shaping and tweezing your facial hair is like trying to remove your own gall bladder. This time around, I decide, I'll let a professional handle it.

I don't exactly keep up with the trends, but I know about threading. I've seen it on the news, where an Asian woman wielding something like dental floss wraps a coil around a stray hair and yanks it out, faster than the blink of an eye. While I run my daily errands I pass eight or nine threading salons, and I slow in front of every one. I feel my eyebrows swelling until I can barely keep my head up. I think, why don't I just go in and get it done?

You hear all these rumors about New York metrosexuals, but I'm the only guy in the salon I finally choose. There's so much estrogen in the building, in fact, I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into Pinkberry. Mercifully, the procedure is quick and painless. Five minutes and fifteen dollars later, the woman passes me a hand mirror. My eyebrows are far apart and half their original size. The delicate arch makes me look ever so slightly surprised.

I look at the woman. She looks at me. "Well, I think they look good," she says.

I race to the bathroom of a nearby Bed Bath & Beyond and survey the damage. They could definitely be worse. They're certainly not that 30s Jean Harlow brow, the thin Sharpie squiggle dancing below the hairline. They could almost pass for natural. Still, the arch is sharp enough to change my default expression. I'm no longer bored. I'm not exhausted. If I keep my face entirely still, I'm somewhere between inquisitive and questioning. Add in even the slightest additional surprise, though, and I look like a man fleeing Godzilla.

I run my remaining errands as I struggle to keeping my face utterly placid. Inquisitive eyebrows aren't such a horrible thing, I discover. They have the attitude that I don't, second-guessing every word I hear.

I stop at a fruit stand for a mango and some strawberries. "That'll be twelve dollars," the man says. I look at him. He looks at me. "Okay, okay," he snaps. "Maybe it's just ten."

I drop in Macy's to see what's new. There's a red knit cap I almost like. I'm not sure if it works with my beige skin and ridiculous height. "You look great!" a clerk says. "You look fabulous!" I look at her. She looks at me. "You look like a lit match," she admits.

By the time I head home it's late, and the subway is deserted. Still, a middle-aged man sits down right next to me. His suit is cheap, his hair's thinning, his moustache nearly hides his mouth. "You should be a model," he says, just out of the blue. "I mean, you are absolutely gorgeous. You've got an amazing face, and it looks like you've got a really hot body. You could be, like, in one of those Calvin Klein ads, just wearing underwear. David Beckham's got nothing on you."

I look at him. He looks at me.

"Well, I wouldn't turn off the lights when I fucked you," he says, so imagine my surprise when he did.

Repeat Thursday: Why I Don't Read The Classics

I’ve been reading way too much trash recently -- books with sex or drugs or violence and no redeeming value whatsoever. The last book I finished was about a gay vampire who had other things on his mind than sucking blood. Try checking that out of the library without a fake moustache and dark glasses. After being both embarrassed and bored, I figured I'd read something respectable for a change. I’d seen most of the classics on “Masterpiece Theater” and they didn’t seem all that difficult so I figured I’d get one of them. To speed things up, though, I’d skip over Kenneth Branagh's lines.

I ended up with “Pride and Prejudice.” It’s one of those books you mean to read but never do, and halfway through the book I understand why. Like a PBS miniseries it’s interesting in theory, but after more than a couple minutes in reality it just bugs the pants off you.

For one thing, I expected intrigue, intelligence, and wit, but instead got a Victorian potboiler on the level of “All My Children.” Austen uses plenty of big words in Ye Olde English, but I’m still pretty sure the first printing had Fabio’s great-grandfather in a torn pirate shirt on the cover.

The book concerns several hundred people, all related, who alternately love and hate each other with the skill of Italians. At the center of the story are the Bennets: Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, and their daughters. Lots of daughters. The number is never specified, and it seems to change by the hour. We start off with Elizabeth and Jane, then page by page discover Lydia, Beth, Kitty, Mary, Lizzy and Eliza, though someone smarter than myself may discern that four of these could refer to the exact same person.

The big romance is between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, a guy who doesn’t even get a first name until page 187. There’s a roadblock flung in their path: we’re supposed to think that Mr. Darcy is unforgiveably rude because he went to a ball and only danced twice. That’s rude? the guys reading will ask. Hell, if he showed up in his underwear, guzzled scotch from a bottle and asked the hostess to pull his finger maybe she’d have a case. Then we learn that a dance lasts fifteen minutes, that you have to book them like appointments with the cable guy, and that dancing with the same woman twice is roughly equivalent to proposing marriage. Under these conditions even Fred Astaire would be hanging around the buffet table stuffing rumaki in his gob. Besides, that’s unforgiveably rude? That’s an obstacle to a relationship? Once I forgave a hubby who had sex with a preoccupied paraplegic.

The characters hook up and break off straight out of daytime drama. Miss Bingley likes Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy likes Elizabeth, Mr. Bingley likes Jane but seems destined to marry Countess De Burgh’s daughter (his cousin) to unite their estates. Elizabeth ought to marry Mr. Collins, her cousin, but since she hates him she pawns him off on Charlotte Lucas, the only character who’s not a relative. There are like eight sets of cousins who consider each other for marriage, yet for some reason they’re more concerned with estates and property than bearing children who have bat ears and duckbills.

Adding to the overall confusion is the language barrier. Shew, sallad, chuse -- maybe these words used to be English, but now they sound like parts of a snail. When they play “Vingt Un” I’m not sure they need playing cards or a plastic mat with colored circles on it. I have no clue what a “quadrille” is, and in the book it seems to alternate between being a dance and a board game. A major plot point hinges on how the Bennet estate is “entailed.” I’m guessing it’s not the opposite of what a butcher does to a bunny.

Here are some of the convoluted phrases Austen uses, and what I determined they meant through hours of research:

“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”	“Huh-uh."
“Dare I say my eye might have misjudged the possibility?”	“Really?”
“I see no occasion for that.”	“Whaaa?”
“That is not an unnatural surmise.”	“Maybe.”
“Upon my honour I have not the smallest of objections.”	“Oh. Okay.”

Now, I don’t mind a little wordiness as long as the author keeps it all straight. Austen, though, turns the whole exercise into a word problem. There are forty countesses in the book, yet rather than referring to them by name she gives the name of their house. “’I visited your relations at Lancashire,’ the Countess of Marscapone exclaimed while her own thoughts dwelt on her sister at Longhorn.” Everyone has three or four cousins with the same name (Colonel Fitzwilliam and Fitzwilliam Darcy meet on page 252, much to my astonishment). And everybody’s got more aliases than Puffy.

Austen loves to throw all sorts of folks into a room and not tell you who she’s talking about. Pronouns, adjectives, past participles -- I‘ve never seen so many things dangling, and I spent one Christmas at a nude beach. Here’s a typical scene among the Bennet sisters (remember there are somewhere between five and forty of them). See if you can tell who’s talking, and who they’re speaking of:

“Tell me, dear Lizzie,” enquired the younger Miss Bennet of her sister, “who is it that you are fondest of?”

“Methinks she shall chuse herself!” a flaxen-haired lass cried, and her two elder sisters tittered.

Elizabeth looked at her older sister with fine eyes mingling incredulity and agitation. “Why am I thus subjected to this undisguised air of discivility? Whilst my desires burn brightly within my bower they are of no small importance to yourselves, and I fear you shall render them like insects ‘neath a hasty hobbled boot.”

Silence hung in the air, then the girl leaning against the mantle-piece spake. “Beth, you are over scrupulous, I assure you; her intent was not so bold.” She turned to the woman nearest the bird. “What say you, Kitty?”

The tallest sister who isn’t Lydia froze with mortification. “Indeed, madam, I am not Kitty,” she observed. “Kitty stands indifferently by the balustrade, nearest the girl who’s allergic to cheese.”

The woman with the bean-shaped mole and crinoline knickers pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I foresaw the return of this confusion within a fortnight,” she cried, and with the girl who’d recently returned from the dentist fled the room, fatigued.

And so, kind reader, to cut a long story short, I’m giving up. At page 274 I’m bidding a final “fare thee well” to the Bennets and the Bingleys and their fourteen hundred cousins and returning the book to the library, where it can be admired from a great distance. Tonight I’ll enjoy a respite from such obfuscation in my bed-sit chamber, neither playing nor dancing a quadrille with the one I hold in fondest regard who isn’t me.

Repeat Wednesday: Two Mistakes

Every time Richard opens his mouth he makes two mistakes. "I absolutely love Picasso's works from his purple period," he declares at the art museum, staring in admiration at a tiny, colorful work.

These pronouncements always stop me in my tracks, because I never know which mistake to address first. In this case I say, "Actually, Picasso never had a purple period. And that picture in particular is a Mondrian."

"Oh," he says. He nods his head like he's suddenly semi-educated, when in reality he's just moving on to his next mistakes. He doesn't seem to realize how hard it is to talk to him. When somebody makes one mistake, the human brain can easily decipher it. One mistake is glaringly obvious: Ellen Degeneres is married to Portia de Rossi, not Tia Carrera. Narcissus aren't orange, they're white. One can't actually dodge taxes by diverting some of their income to a 10K. The brain decides whether or not the err is worth correcting, and that's the extent of that.

When someone makes two mistakes, though, additional parts of the brain are required, because the conversation receptor is thrown into overload. A dialog starts ping-ponging inside the head. It's like the NYPD caught a naked man holding up a liquor store and then couldn't decide whether the case should go to Violent Crimes or Vice. "Have you seen that movie with Roma Downey Jr.?" Richard asks. "Hawaiian Tropics?"

I have to mentally list all the possible permutations and then rank them by the likeliest. Does he really mean Roma Downey? Probably not. Nobody's meant Roma Downey in quite some time. No, odds are it's Robert Downey Jr. But he never made a movie about tanning lotion, right?

Meanwhile, Richard is standing there blissfully, not a thought in his head.

Now, I kind of like Richard. He's attractive and fun and professional, three qualities I've rarely found before, let alone in the same man. But I can't help but wonder. Making one mistake at a time marks you as an ordinary, fallible human. What does two at a time say?

Still, he's my man for most of December. I bite my lip when he tells me he has a crush on David Beckham, the rugby player who's married to Scary Spice. I sigh sadly when he announces that Oreo cookies are made by leprechauns. I watch in silence as he pours champagne into a martini glass that has colored salt around the rim.

And still, somehow, we make it into bed. The usual way, pretty much: we go out to dinner, drink a bottle of wine, go back to his place and start making out. "I bet you've got a big dick and you know how to use it," he whispers into my ear.

I say, "Oh, just shut up and lie down."

Repeat Tuesday: Go With The Flow

Last week I went to a cocktail party that positively sparkled with witty repartee and fascinating conversation. Too bad all I wanted was to get laid. I made my excuses, hightailed it to the Eagle, and the first reasonably attractive guy I saw I tailed home. We stripped off our clothes and he leaned in close, grinning like a 12-year-old about to swap his sister's Hershey bar with Ex-Lax.

"You know what would be really cool?" he said, eyes twinkling. "You could tie me to the bed and force me to suck your feet!"

Now, this bothered me in a couple different ways. First, I wasn't falling for his alleged spontaneity. It reminded me of those hetero guys who find themselves on dates with hot, tipsy chicks: "I heard about these things called 'body shots,' " they say, feigning innocence. "You wanna give it a try?" And second, I was supposed to force him to do me? I'm attractive; he should be happy I'm naked and there. I made my excuses and scurried off, adding entry No. 472 to my "Why I Shouldn't Sleep With Strangers" list.

A few days later, though, it happened again. Another guy with a weird request, and another naked scene. "You know what would be great?" this one said like a kid at Christmas. "My neighbor's a submissive pig into hypnotism and electricity. How about we see if he's busy?"

I put my finger to my chin, pretending to think, but mostly I tried to remember where my pants were. I made some vague excuse -- when you flee a pervert's apartment you don't quibble about the details -- and went out and found a replacement. My heart leapt up to my throat when we got naked and he too started to speak: "There's something I've always wanted to try," he said. "How do you feel about Nixon masks and cheese?"

"OK," I thought. "I give up. Everybody's doing that midlife-crisis thing. But can't you all just buy Porsches?"

Now, I've got nothing against crazy stuff: I mean, some people think what I do in bed is crazy, and that's before they hear about the chickens. It's the surprise part I don't like. You wouldn't ask people over for dinner and then surprise them with horse testicles in cat pee, and you shouldn't surprise sex partners with frilly pink corsets or Ovaltine enemas.

For the third time in a row, I put my clothes back on and made my excuses, but halfway down the hall I noticed my wallet was gone. It falls out of my pants a lot so it didn't particularly surprise me -- I just didn't like having to re-greet somebody whose apartment I'd just fled. I walked back to his door and heard him talking on the phone.

"He looked really hot," he was saying. "Nice face, stylish clothes. But then he takes his clothes off, and oh my God! He's so pink and furry I'm afraid the cat's going to run after him. He's got a roll of flab six inches wide around his waist, and it looks like he hasn't been to the gym since gravity was invented. I was like, 'Skipper, better put your shirt back on or Little Buddy's going to be sick!'" I poked my head in and he pasted on the smile I use when opening presents from Grandma. "I'll call you right back," he interjected. "Something's come up."

He hung up and I edged my way in. "I guess you were talking about somebody else," I said, trailed by an awkward chuckle.

"Oh, no," he said, with an insouciant air. "We were talking about you."

"So that stuff about the Nixon mask and the cheese -- that was just to get rid of me?"

He nodded. "It seemed easiest. You weren't quite what I expected."

I sighed. "Well, I'm not a model or a professional bodybuilder. But I work out three times a week, and I've never gotten any complaints."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" he cried like Joan Rivers spotting Cher. "Aside from your massive pinkness there's a zit on your shoulder the size of Vesuvius, and if you stood with your feet together I could still toss a ham between your legs."

I stared at him in disbelief, too stunned to argue. "I forgot my wallet," I said frostily, and I pushed past him to the bedroom where it was lying on the floor. Maybe he'd stripped me of my dignity, I thought, but I'd still have a Discover card with nearly $80 available. With my head held high, I strolled back outside, where the freezing air and his insults hit me like a smack in the face.

The sun was setting as I slowly trudged home and the city darkened around me. Although I hate Los Angeles, I found myself missing it: I mean, having sex there was mindless fun, while here it was like entering a dog show. You take your clothes off and they're inspecting every muscle, every hair, asking you to trot around the bed. "That right delt is slightly saggy," they say, looking up from their clipboard, "and there's a slight curvature to the spine. The chest hair is off-center, and the ears are out of proportion. I'm afraid you'll have to go." But I guess I should have expected it. New Yorkers are cutthroat about everything -- business, sports, even food. Why did I think sex would be different? For the first time in my life I had to confront one of life's biggest questions: Would I ever have sex in this town again?

I got my answer soon enough. On the subway home, a nice-looking guy struck up a conversation with me, then asked me to his place "for coffee," and I went. I stripped naked, he leered at me lustfully, and everything was cool. Then he took off his clothes, and damn. Freak-show time. From chest hair shaped like a bagel to thighs as flat and gray as Flipper to skinny ankles where the hair had been worn away by tight socks.

This would not do.

You know what I'd really like to try?" I said, feigning excitement. "I'd love for you to piss on me while singing 'Send in the Clowns.' "

When he led me into the bathroom and began humming the intro, I nearly freaked. If I'd still been wearing either pants or shoes, in fact, I'd be in Cincinnati right now. But then I thought, Heck, I'm not getting any younger, and to tell you the truth, I'm not in the best shape in the world. How often do opportunities like this come up?

I learned my lesson. By the time he finished, let me tell you, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

"It's not Tom's style to do this publicly.... We are letting the other side play the media until they wear everyone out, and then we'll have something to say." -- Bert Fields, Tom Cruise's divorce lawyer, explaining to BBC News how he isn't saying anything

I'm totally excited about Perception, a new police procedural premiering on TNT tonight. Eric McCormack stars as a neuroscience professor with paranoid schizophrenia who helps the FBI solve their toughest cases. I got an advance preview copy, and I have to say it really knocked me out. Here's a sample of the witty banter between Dr. Daniel Pierce (McCormack) and one of his helpful hallucinations, Joan of Arc (Sarah Silverman).

DR. DANIEL PIERCE: Whew! Joan, I never could have solved that without you. How about you and I go out for a nice steak?

JOAN OF ARC (shaking her head): Dude, do you have any idea at all idea how I died?

DR. DANIEL PIERCE (thinks, then finally remembers): Oops. My bad. I just meant we ought celebrate. That was a tough one! My caseload's looking a lot lighter now.

JOAN OF ARC: "Lighter"? C'mon, man -- what the hell is wrong with you?

DR. DANIEL PIERCE: Sorry, sorry. It won't happen again. Let's toast: To the start of a beautiful friendship. A brilliant man, a beautiful girl. You and I, my dear, are the perfect match.

JOAN OF ARC: Wah-wah.

FADE OUT

I'm thinking about going to Subway for a KAPOW!-vocado sandwich, but I'm still full from their KERBLAMMO!-atmeal.

"Bitch, I say I'm giving it stripes, and I say to fuck with you."

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I think this pretty well captures my feelings about Earthlink. I finally found the reply to my complaint about their inability to filter spam.

Just another Friday. The sun is out, the birds are singing, and Brad Pitt's mom is crazy again.

Now that you mention it, the dude in the V costume is probably all I need.

Florida police arrested a naked man masturbating inside a Jeep Cherokee while driving.

A tow truck driver who pulled up alongside 49-year-old Robert Casey claimed his "hands were in his groin area moving around." When police arrived, they patted Casey down and found a toy pistol tied to his leg. Part was hidden in his behind, and another part was tied around his genitals.

Casey was charged with lewd and lascivious behavior, and booked into the county jail.

Kids, let that be a lesson. When you're burning rubber in your banger, don't get behind the wheel of a car.

A lawsuit filed earlier this week alleges that California's ban on foie gras is unconstitutional.

Various bird-farming organizations have asked the state to clarify the meaning of "force-feeding" — the most common method used to fatten up duck liver. The law defines force feeding as "using a process that causes a bird 'to consume more food than [it] would consume voluntarily,'" but foie gras advocates maintain that given current methods of bird production it's impossible to know when a bird has been overfed.

You've got to love a legal argument that starts, "How are we supposed to tell when a bird wants to stop eating if we've got a funnel in its mouth?"

Highlights From Jezebel's 36 Terrible Sex Tips For Men

PREDICTED RESPONSE: "You know I don't have a clitoris in my mouth, right?"

PREDICTED RESPONSE: "Oh, baby, your sperm is driving me wild with its unparalleled uniformity."

This is called the Jackie Uh-Oh.

If that mood is "Gosh, I sure miss Mom."

PREDICTED RESPONSE: "Baby, why don't we put that thing away and play with Squeaky for a change?"

She have cold hands? Kitchen's thataway.

PREDICTED RESPONSE: "You bastard. You've been fucking Stan again, haven't you?"

Chick-Fil-A Has No Problem With The Homosexuals Who Don't Want To Be Converted Just Yet

I drove around the Hudson Valley last weekend and had a terrific time. Started at Sleepy Hollow to see Washington Irving's grave and the bridge the Headless Horseman crosses every night, then wandered the antique shops at Cold Spring, and in the late afternoon headed to Woodstock, NY. This is the Woodstock that named the music festival, though in reality it was forty miles away.

If you like hippies, you'll love Woodstock. The whole place is teeming with them, aged fifty to faaar beyond. There's a slight tinge of burnout, but mostly the crowd is content as fat cats laying in the sun, still clinging to the old "do what you feel" vibe.

Woodstock is probably the only place in the world where a tourist can run into two drum circles. My friend Matt somehow snapped a panoramic shot of the larger one. Note the "Have a drum, leave a drum; need a drum, take a drum!" pile in the center.

This is before the pair of elderly androgynous hippies turned up -- guy in a dress, girl with a beard -- so my favorite character up to now was the woman in pink on the far right. She was totally focused on her part in the music. She concentrated like she was cutting diamonds, intent on hitting her drum at the exact right nanosecond. She couldn't have hit it four times while I watched. The sharp thump got lost in the cacophony of three hundred more energetic drummers with varying degrees of talent, but her face still glowed with the bliss of satisfaction like she'd just invented Tupperware.