A Sociologist Examines Life in the 1960s Based on Beatles Lyrics

You're going to lose that girl,
You're going to lose that girl.

In the 1960s, women were possessions of men. This doesn't mean they weren't valued, as these two lines imply: men don't warn other men about the potential loss of a wad of lint or a corncob. "Hey, buddy," no male would ever say, "you better drive slower or you're gonna lose that clump of bird shit on your roof."

If you don't take her out tonight,
She's going to change her mind.

These two lines give us a hint as to the root of the problematic female treatment. The female is above all fickle: despite an established, long-standing relationship, if her man disappears for an hour or two she's got her thumb out by the side of the road. Since loyalty is a trait identifiable with more developed species, this pinpoints the female's position on a societal scale to just above that of a cat, since a cat would share the sentiment but not be able to mouth the words, "You're not gonna feed me? Then, buddy, I'm gonna find somebody who will."

And I will take her out tonight,
And I will treat her kind.

One can easily recognize the objectified woman in these two lines, since there is no parallel in male-dominated societies. If Google wanted to steal a valued male employee from Apple, for instance, they wouldn't threaten to take him rollerskating in their daddy's Mustang. The male requires a multi-year, multi-million dollar contract to switch allegiance while the female is settling for less. "Raisinettes and a Sprite?" she chirps. "Okay, buddy -- I'll go home and pack right now."

I'll make a point
Of taking her away from you, yeah,
The way you treat her what else can I do?

Even the most clueless reader must sense the unreliability of the narrator here. On the surface he's expressing unselfishness with this offer to help the beleaguered female, but if he felt even the slightest bit of empathy this song would be about bringing sausages to Darfur. Competitiveness rather than altruism is the motivating factor for action here.

If you don't treat her right, my friend,
You're going to find her gone,

Female as object is reiterated here, though her value is again unspecified. Perhaps losing a woman is like losing your car keys, with both cases leaving the hapless male frantically checking his pockets. But perhaps it's more like a preoccupied male spotting an empty space on a bedroom shelf and realizing he hasn't seen his Kylo Ren action figure in something like six weeks.

Cause I will treat her right, and then
You'll be the lonely one.

In the end, it's the lack of female volition that is most troubling in this work. We're left with the idea that male action alone is what prompts female fidelity. She can stay or she can go, but otherwise her opinion doesn't matter. It may seem smug to congratulate ourselves on living in a more enlightened time, but if this song were written today it would certainly include a discussion of the male's qualifications, perhaps with a couplet like this:

If you don't treat her right, my friend,
Then she might mobilize,
Cause I have got a job, and then
there is my penis size.

ME: Um, you don't actually wear this cologne, do you?

GERMAN BOYFRIEND WHO IS TALLER THAN ME: No. NO! DEFINITELY NOT! (PAUSE) Only when I'm out of David Hasselhoff.

Kendall Jenner Helps A Desperate World

ROMAN HANS: Hey Steve! What are you up to?

STEVE: I'm drinking a Pepsi and welding. You?

ROMAN HANS: I'm wearing my hijab and looking at the photos I took in the Sudan. Starvation is such a downer I could really use a cappuccino. Wait -- there's a protest going by my apartment. Why don't we join them?

STEVE: Protest? Against what? Now that Trump is president everything is perfect.

ROMAN HANS: Do we have to protest against something? I'll bet when Martin Luther King led the March on Wherever he just wanted to meet chicks and show off his new shoes.

STEVE: Okay, count me in! It'll be fun: we'll paint up signs with flowers on them and then have a nice walk through the center of town. The only paint I have is from the Martha Stewart Soda Collection but I guess it'll have to do.

(FIVE MINUTES LATER)

ROMAN HANS: Wow. I'm so glad we came. As a hard-hitting photojournalist I've discovered something far more important than civil rights abuses or starvation: young people standing up and saying, "I don't know; what do you think?"

STEVE: All these protest signs are making me realize something: communication is vitally important. Like, I probably should have told someone that America needs comprehensive single-payer health care with no exclusion for pre-existing conditions.

BYSTANDER (SLAPPING HIS FOREHEAD): Why, you're absolutely right! I'll get right on it!

PHOTOGRAPHER: Come on, Kendall, concentrate! It took thirty-nine hours of work and six Reynolds Oven Bags to make that dress.

KENDALL JENNER: Okay, I'll put on my serious acting face. (THINKING TO HERSELF) I've got to take a dump. I've got to take a dump. I've got to take a dump. (She sees HOT ASIAN MAN WHO BROUGHT A CELLO TO A PROTEST.) Goodbye, patriarchal wig! Adios, capitalist lipstick! Hey, guys -- wait!

TWO RANDOM PEOPLE: Hi! We're transgender women who have never heard of North Carolina's bathroom bill.

BLACK MAN WITH CORNROWS: A white person has shown up! Thank goodness. Decades of Hollywood movies have shown me that indigenous and minority communities are fun and colorful but they can't solve problems by themselves. Introduce a white person, though, and wonderful things happen. I'll bet within a week or two we have the world's best bobsled team.

POLICEMAN #1: Okay, captain, just tell me one more time: we're not firing tear gas at these kids because they have kicky signs?

POLICEMAN #2: Wow! I was worried about all these protesters because they were walking down the street carrying potentially dangerous weapons. Now that they're jumping up and down and waving their arms, though, I see no problem whatsoever.

POLICEMAN #3: Who'd have guessed that when I shot all those unarmed black people I was just thirsty? Thanks, Kendall Jenner!

BLACK MAN WITH CORNROWS: Yeah, thanks, Kendall! Now where's my bobsled?

FIN

In South Africa for two more days. It's such a shock for this city boy to see all the trappings of civilization stripped away. Yesterday I saw two seagulls pull a baby penguin apart. Nature is horrible to infants, even worse than my friend Matt.

My German Boyfriend Comforts Me After A Bad Haircut

Whenever you tell someone exactly what's going to happen, the world conspires to prove you wrong. In this case, I have an appointment for a free haircut with a Japanese trainee in a Tribeca salon. "Can you get a good haircut in New York when you don't pay anything?" my German boyfriend asks.

"Here's the secret," I say. "You get your hair cut by a Japanese woman. They're afraid of doing something wrong so they'll barely touch your hair. They will slowly, cautiously snip away for an hour or two. Eventually their instructor will come over and say, 'That's really nice,' and because he has cocaine and a boyfriend at home he will finish the cut. That way you get an professional haircut for just a five-dollar tip."

He shoots me a look that says he's impressed, and it flashes through my brain when the woman hacks at my hair. She clearly has no idea what she's doing and she has absolutely no reluctance to impose it on every side of my head. The instructor comes over and scolds her in Japanese. He shows her how to hold the scissors and how to hold her hands, but when he leaves she proves powerless to imitate his motions so she returns to her random hacks. Five minutes later he returns and the scene repeats.

They say the earth is 98% water. I leave the salon with bald scalp making up the same percentage of my head. My German boyfriend rings me on FaceTime before I get to the subway. "Wow," he says. "It is short. It is really, really short."

Me, I'm fine with denial. "It's good. It's not too short. It looks really good."

"It is short. It is very short. I do not expect it will be that short."

"Fine," I snap. "It's a little short. Maybe it's a little short."

He notices my irritation. "I usually will not comment on how short it is, but I do not expect it. You tell me Japanese women are afraid to cut hair."

"I found one who isn't," I bark. "She wasn't afraid at all. She had a style in mind that she thought was right for me and she went for it. I think it looks really good."

"It is short," he repeats.

"It's a little short but not too short. I'll look great in three weeks when I come see you in Berlin."

He shakes his head. "I wish so," he says. "But human hair does not grow so fast."

I think about throwing my iPhone but remember that even giving it a sharp nudge means a two-hundred dollar repair bill. In Europe everybody knows how to spot an Ugly American: they're overweight, they wear multicolored coats, and every sentence that comes out of their mouths compares their new surroundings unfavorably to that Utopian homeland. "In America there's an elevator in every hotel!" "In America restaurants have catsup for your french fries!" "In America Mr. Whiskas poos wherever he wants!"

That sad cliché flies through my head but I swat it away and stomp on it. "In America when somebody gets their hair cut you tell them how nice it looks. You don't say, 'It's short! It's really short! HOLY GOD, IT'S SO GODDAMN FUCKING SHORT!' No, you say, 'Wow, that looks good! You are so handsome!' and that's the end of that."

My German Boyfriend is shocked. We've only dated for a couple of months so I'm still on my best behavior, and this is my first outburst. "Okay," he says, visibly recoiling. "It is not too short. It is a very good length."

"Thanks," I say as my anger recedes. He tried, and though it seemed a little forced I think we dodged a bullet. I realized we would have culture and language problems but hoped that with patience and heart-to-heart talks we'd get through them and our relationship would continue to grow. "I'll shampoo it tomorrow and fluff it up and it'll look really great."

He inspects it again, then says somberly, "I think you will not need shampoo."

Repeat Thursday: Gay Math

I flunked math in high school, and I blame word problems. “If one train heads east at thirty miles an hour, and another heads west at twenty miles an hour, when will they meet?” All I can think of is, why didn’t these people fly? I mean, twenty miles an hour? Ice cream trucks move faster. And the horrible food, the crowds, the screaming kids. My head starts to spin so fast bystanders ask me for rides.

Now if they’d asked questions I could relate to, I’d be Stephen J. Hawking today. I came up with some examples: see if you’re better at solving these than the junk they gave you in school.

1. Carl’s nipples are two feet from his penis, and twenty-four inches apart. A leather loop passes through the rings in each piercing. What’s the minimum length of this loop?

(a) seventy-two inches
(b) Sir Isaac Newton
(c) Is Carl spherical or what?

2. Twelve men are in a bar. Three are wearing shoes, five are wearing socks, and two are wearing both. How many men are in bare feet?

(a) God, and I thought “Pajama Night” was annoying.
(b) six
(c) This is why they don’t sell alcohol in Utah.

3. Al likes two hours of foreplay. Ted likes intercourse for forty-five minutes. If they have sex together how long will it last?

(a) The important thing here is that Al and Ted seek some form of counseling.
(b) two hours forty-five minutes
(c) Are you sure these guys aren’t lesbians?

4. If Sam has four inches soft and twelve inches hard, what percentage does he grow?

(a) Spain
(b) 300%
(c) If that’s the Sam I used to date, he thought watermelons were eight feet across.

5. Pat and Chris leave the Manhole at 2:15 a.m. Ignoring lights, they cross Melrose, then Vermont, then Hyperion. What will the policeman give them?

(a) If the Manhole is a straight bar, a friendly wave.
(b) If it’s a lesbian bar, a stern warning and a long, google-eyed look at their breasts.
(c) If it’s a gay bar and this is the LAPD, twelve jaywalking tickets and six shots of mace.

6. Arnie says “All three of us are bottoms.” Wayne says, “You’re the only bottom.” Fred says, “Wayne and I are both bottoms.” If each of them always lies or always tells the truth, how many are lying?

(a) two
(b) the Japanese art of paper-folding
(c) Sigh. They’re all bottoms, aren’t they?

7. There are thirty guys in line at the Pit at 1:30. Eight are more attractive than Wayne. The doorman lets one guy enter every three minutes. Every five minutes four more guys arrive, and two are more attractive than Wayne. When will Wayne get inside?

(a) Ugly dudes ought to stay home. That’s why God invented TV.
(b) 12:15
(c) When Pat Boone stars in “Naked Boys Singing!”

8. At 8:04 on Christmas morning Pete unwraps a G. I. Joe. If it takes ten minutes to take his helmet off, eight minutes to take his shirt off, six minutes to take his boots off, and seven minutes to take his pants off, when will Joe be naked?

(a) 8:41
(b) Christmas is a time for joy and happiness. Pete should just yank Joe’s pants down right away.
(c) Don’t remind me. That was the day I discovered disappointment.

9. A troll spends three-fifths of his money on a stud. He spends half of what’s left on another stud. In all he spends eight dollars. How much money did he start with?

(a) I know why the studs keep leaving.
(b) ten dollars
(c) I wouldn’t wave at an ugly guy for less than twenty.

10. Brad is a 10, and usually sleeps with other 10’s. After every beer, though, he’ll settle for one number lower. If he gets to the bar at seven and has one drink each half-hour, when will he approach Ernest Borgnine?

(a) Ernest Borgnine? What, is Jim Varney dead?
(b) midnight
(c) When his liver swells up like a loofah.

11. Al has two cats. He moves in with Ted, who has eight cats. If each cat eats a can of Sheba every day, how many cans will feed all the cats for a week?

(a) I could never buy cat food with a tiara on it.
(b) 70
(c) If these are the same guys with the two-hour foreplay, they are positively definitely lesbians.

12. If a man and a half have sex with a man and a half in a day and a half, how many men will have sex in six days?

(a) twelve
(b) Just out of curiosity, are we talking top half or bottom half?
(c) Jeez, and I thought my boyfriend was a whore.

13. A man’s penis is twice as long as his big toe, and half as long as his feet. If the three measurements total forty-two inches long, how long is his big toe?

(a) Ohmigosh, I’m shaking like Katherine Hepburn in a massage chair.
(b) six inches
(c) This guy’s going to cause fistfights at “Barefoot Night.”

14. Black paint is $50, used toilets are $10, and a crummy sound system is $100. How much will it cost Luigi to convert his garage into a gay bar?

(a) You forgot to include how much three bad techno CDs cost.
(b) $160
(d) Garages are dark, cramped and disgusting. He’ll make a fortune.

15. Two gay people are sitting in the park. The little one is the big one’s son, but the big one isn’t the little one’s father. Explain.

(a) Didn’t I hear about this on “Dateline”?
(b) I don’t think these guys are really related at all.
(c) Everything’s so crazy these days, I wouldn’t be surprised if the big one had a uterus.




HOW TO SCORE:
Dress nicely. Avoid open-toed shoes. Thank anyone who says you've got a hot ass, but run when they pull out thermometers.

Donald Trump's Black History Tweets

Everybody praises John Lewis for getting hurt while marching with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I would have marched twice as fast and I have bone spurs. Painful!

Hattie McDaniel won an Academy Award for playing a maid in Gone With The Wind. Unbelievable! Tara was filthier than any of my hotels.

Jack Johnson knocked out a white man to become 1908 Heavyweight Champion of the World. How come now they're all, "Why can't we just get along?"

Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus and everybody acts like she was really brave. Ivana wouldn't move either, even if she wasn't carrying lots of bags with new shoes.

Harriet Tubman started the Underground Railroad. She gets a lot of credit for it but why doesn't anybody talk about all the people woken up in the middle of the night by the whistle?

They say George Washington Carver invented peanut butter. Selfish! I would have invented computers but he was all like, "I don't care about anybody else! I just want a sandwich."

Ohmigod, I didn't realize how stupid my mommy and daddy are. I assumed that because they made a living and drove cars and cooked food they had to be intelligent, but now I discover the opposite is true. They're dumb as two piles of rocks.

When I was like three minutes old I noticed they were on their cellphones all the time -- like constantly, even when we're eating dinner -- so I waved my arms and gurgled in hopes they'd buy me one. I figured it would do really cool stuff, like let me read the news or call Anderson Cooper or check stock prices easily. I cry and shriek and wail and finally they get the hint, and I swear to God I have never been so disappointed in my entire life. These cellphones that all these adults are attached to are just little plastic pieces of shit.

This horrible little gift really opened my eyes. Believe it or not, its intellectual apogee is a game called Find The Fruit. When daddy was on his phone I thought he had to call work or see what was up with the flooding in southeast Asia, but no. Instead he's all, like, "I need some mental stimulation. Let's see if I can press a button next to a picture of a strawberry."

Then there's a piano mode where you hit a button and it plays a plinky kiddy tune. I swear to God, another button makes drum noises for like thirty minutes. Really. That's it. Did we learn nothing from the seventies? I guess not. I'm picturing daddy at a Led Zeppelin concert yelling, "Hey, stop singing and shut off that damn guitar and let me hear from John Fucking Bonham again!"

Another button plays a recording of Mickey Mouse. A recording. First, you've got to be an idiot to want to talk to an animated character; and second, there's something wrong in your head if you don't realize the whole dialog is canned. You say something like, "I swear to God, sometimes I find it really difficult to cope," and Mickey doesn't answer, "I'm sorry to hear that; is there someone really supportive among your friends?" It doesn't deter mommy. All the time she's talking into her cellphone like there's a sentient being on the other end. I want to say, "Well, Mommy, what's Mickey up to today?" because I'm pretty sure that like yesterday and the day before he'll be all like, "Hi, this is Mickey Mouse! How many years old are you?" But I only hold up this many fingers so there ain't no chance of that.

I swear to God, this pathetic crap was the worst gift ever, and I'm not forgetting when Aunt Barbara gave me that Hello Kitty toaster cover. It truly shook me to my core. These folks are in charge of my life -- my wellbeing, my upbringing, my education -- so finding out that when times get tough they desperately need to hear a cartoon mouse squeal, "Hot diggety! It's a phone call!" and then rabbit on to nobody for the next sixty minutes makes me want to grab my rattle and hit the road.

Anyway, I decided this was a toxic situation so I came up with a plan. The next time mommy or daddy gave me a bath, I'd "accidentally" knock their phone off the side of the tub and into the water. Yes, it's a little patronizing, but I'm not exactly going to have an intellectual discussion with folks who spend half the day hitting buttons that play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Besides, this plastic piece of junk with like three LEDs and a tinny speaker can't cost more than a cappuccino so it's no biggie there. Sure, they'll probably swear and scream and order another one but if I can get them to spend five days without chatting with a nonexistent animal maybe I'll finally get some respect for them and actually think about pooping in the toilet for a change.

A Story Tapped Into An iPhone (aka 12:30 And I Can't Sleep)

Roger was my first love. I hadn't expected it: he just popped up out of the blue, this hunky figure from some Midwestern town, chosen by unknown forces to be my college roommate. Some men are gay because they love masculinity -- that's me -- and Roger was the butchest thing in San Francisco. I was entranced by his long hair and beard, his well-worn plaid shirts, and the beat-up old VW he somehow always brought back to working order.

Being heterosexual, Roger was fascinated by me for other reasons. He saw how popular I was. He saw how -- though at fifteen I was five years younger than him -- I spent every other night going to the hottest clubs in the city with a gorgeous, adventurous female, and on the other nights I'd disappear into the dark, returning as the sun came up with a smile on my face. VWs are good cars but not quite that interesting.

I admit that I suggested we have sex. But everybody was experimental back then, so it didn't seem out of line. When he finally got into bed with me, though, I didn't realize how dangerous it would be. How I'd fall for him, and how he'd decide he was straight. How he'd fall for women, and bring them to our room, and sleep with them instead of me. How upset I would get, and how the dorm administrators would ignore my pleas to GET ME OUT.

But one night it happened. I'd pictured something on the scale of From Here To Eternity, with both of us swept away in purple passion. We'd dissolve into one flesh united by heat and sweat and spit and hours later, exhausted, we'd peel ourselves apart knowing we were eternally bonded by Love.

Instead, Roger was skeptical from the beginning. He embodied the words "cold fish." He lay there waiting to see what I'd do, while I, being younger, naturally assumed he would take charge.

We fumbled around and rubbed our bodies together. At some point I think he laughed. We ejaculated and he sneered:

That's it? he said. Gay sex is just jacking off?

I couldn't predict what was coming in the next few months, but I could see the disconnect. I could see a sexual tourist racing back to the safe cave of his heterosexuality, and I could see that love would not be simple for me.

How the hell do I know? I snapped. I've just slept with two more guys than you.

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After 60 Years Of Life And 30+ TV Commercials, Inventor Of MyPillow Mike Lindell Still Hasn't Figured Out How To Keep His Crucifix Inside His Shirt

A Child's Letter From The North Pole

Dear CHILD,

Merry Christmas! This letter fulfills all of the obligations created when your parents remitted $11 to the North Pole Communications Coalition for procurement of our Silver Package especially for you.

The Silver Package is a very thoughtful Christmas gift, though not quite as thoughtful as the Gold or Platinum package. It must have been very important for your folks to save a few dollars considering that instead of a personal note from the North Pole you're getting a mimeographed sheet from a guy who graduated from Cal State Northridge. And instead of us actually addressing you by name we'll be calling you CHILD from here on.

Anyway, CHILD, this is Marv, Santa's Community Outreach Coordinator to New York, Maine and Vermont. Hopefully you find it exciting to receive a communication from somebody who may not be one of Santa's employees but could be a independent contractor depending on how the courts decide. Sure, maybe it isn't as exciting as a note from a reindeer (Platinum package) or an elf (Gold package), but thanks to me not a single focus group on the Eastern seaboard has ever run short on muffins.

I'd like to tell you that Santa has read your letter and can't wait to visit you in person. Unfortunately, that's not part of this package. I am allowed to say that Santa has been given your note, though at the present time it's wedged between sixteen unopened Citibank statements and three subscription-renewal requests from SMITHSONIAN magazine.

I'd also like to say that Santa thanks you for your generous offer of milk and cookies, but in his own words, "I ain't eatin' no cheapskate food." After all, if your folks won't fork over three extra bucks for a Genuine North Pole postage stamp and a "Santa, Stop Here!" window sticker, what guarantee does he have that your mom won't use cheap-ass slice-and-bake cookie dough? That she won't use lard instead of butter? That she won't swap out expensive shit like pecans for moldy-ass raisins? The Santa that I know would say thanks, but, you know, why don't you just feed that shit to the dog?

Anyway, the good news is, we would like to inform you that you are provisionally off the naughty list. You would have made it onto the Nice List, but your dad would rather ruin your life than downgrade for a day to Pabst Blue Ribbon. So you spend the next few weeks laying in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering whether you'll be showing your friends a newborn Hatchimal or a corduroy jacket from Sears. For nearly six minutes your dad can drink without thinking, "Holy God, what kind of shit is this?"

Instead of getting a note that looks like actual old-man handwriting with a genuine reindeer footprint on it, you're getting a letter on the paper you dry your hands with in the bathroom at WalMart, printed by daisy wheel. Instead of getting personalized content like, "Hello BILLY OWENS! Santa can't wait to leave presents for you at 1712 BAY RIDGE DRIVE!" your letter says "Hello CHILD! Santa can't wait to leave presents for you at UNKNOWN LOCATION!"

Other upgrades in the Gold and Platinum packages are a candy cane made by the elves, genuine reindeer food, and an autographed photo of Rudolf. But three bucks doesn't grow on trees, and Mom's been dying to smell that Vanilla Walnut Glade.

I believe I have contractually fulfilled all the provisions of this offer so I'll close now. And please don't blame your parents for this letter ending with "Best regards, Marv" instead of "With all my love, SANTA CLAUS!" After all, they put a roof over your head. It's just too bad it's not one that reindeer will be touching any time soon.

Best regards,
Marv

Brian was the one who started it. We were on the roof catching up on gossip when Charlotte's name came up. "You know what I'm surprised you haven't noticed?" he said. "Charlotte is a total homophobe."

I laughed, assuming it had to be a joke. Brian and I were both gay and she adored both of us. It seemed so ridiculous I'd never thought anything of the sort.

"Here's an example," Brian continued. "Name some of Charlotte's gay friends."

I thought for a minute. Charlotte knew a lot of people -- most rich and gorgeous New Yorkers did. To avoid confusion, then, she chose unique descriptive identifiers and permanently stuck them in front of names. If she knew two Alberts, she might refer to one as Crest White Strip Albert and the other as Republican Albert. If she knew two Matts, she might call one Cat Tattoo Matt and the other Staten Island Matt.

I didn't know why she did this, because it got her into trouble. Gay John wasn't too thrilled when Charlotte's mother referred to somebody named Handsome John and he realized it wasn't him.

"Well," I said to Brian, "there's Gay John, Gay Scott, Gay Stuart, Gay Toshi, ...."

"You don't think that's a little weird?" he interrupted. "To specifically single out everyone who's gay? Does she do it with anybody else -- Jews, blacks, Hispanics? If she really, truly accepted gay people, would she make such a big deal out of it?"

I blew it off as inexplicable but it planted the seed in my head. I had actually noticed how often she used the word "gay." As a gay man I hardly used it at all, whereas the straight woman used it constantly. In fact, that morning she'd asked me if I wanted to go with her and her "gay husband" to a gay club for some gay drinking and gay fooling around.

Charlotte had also raised a red flag with me when I was talking with Joe and David, a middle-aged couple who lived on the fourth floor. We were whispering about her upcoming birthday when she showed up out of nowhere. "Ohmigod," she gasped, eyeing us suspiciously. "If you guys are planning a three-way, I don't want to hear about it!"

We all laughed, but after she walked away we exchanged baffled glances. We agreed that her comment wasn't just clueless -- it was patently offensive. If she'd seen a guy talking to a hetero couple she wouldn't have assumed he was going to bang both of them.

I tried to forget about the whole thing during our usual Project Runway-watching night. While I was telling Emma about my trip to Berlin, though, she started acting weird again. "A lot of guys in Berlin have rings tattooed around their forearms," I said. "And I don't know if it's true or not, but somebody told me it's coded information about fistfucking."

"Ew!" Charlotte snapped, dropping a tortilla chip.

I scowled at her. "He said, 'Those rings mark how far they've gotten their arms into another guy's ass."

"That's disgusting," Charlotte sang.

I ignored her and went for the punchline. "I told him I'd have to get a ring tattooed halfway down my index finger."

Charlotte jumped up off the couch. "THAT'S IT!" she yelled, cranking up the TV. "STOP! I'm not going to hear about this!"

"About what?" I asked. "About gay guys having sex?"

"ABOUT ANY GUYS HAVING SEX! CAN YOU PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT IT?"

"FINE!" I shouted as I stomped toward the door. "I WILL! And you can talk about whatever the fuck you want, but you won't be talking to me!"

I slammed the door behind me, and after that Charlotte and I didn't speak for eight days. Before the fight she'd invited me to her birthday party, and when the day came I decided I'd still go. There would be enough people that it wouldn't be awkward, and I could leave a gift as a peace offering. I didn't think I'd done anything wrong but I felt kind of guilty, so when I shopped for her gift I went overboard. I went to a shop down the street that specialized in all the Brooklyn clichés: everything was handmade, sustainable, and organic, from the Peruvian bags woven from hand-twisted yarn to the incense made by Patagonian tribes from fossilized yak poop.

I finally settled on a bracelet made of hand-carved beads from Namibia. It was really beautiful -- as it should have been for $320 -- with chunky tourmaline and lapis beads carved with intricate tribal designs. It was totally Charlotte: it had style, it supported indigenous people, and she wouldn't have to worry about running into somebody wearing the exact same thing.

I toted the gift to the birthday party and Charlotte spotted me the second I walked through her door. Our eyes locked. Without a word our eyes exchanged everything we needed to say: that we both felt terrible, that we'd made a horrible mistake, and that we couldn't survive another minute without making amends.

We ran toward each other in seemingly slow motion, shoving the other party guests aside. We met in the middle of the room and hugged each other like we were never going to let go. "I'm sorry," I cried. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever done. I know you're not homophobic. I was just being stupid or I had a stroke or something, and I promise I'll never bring it up again."

"Really?" Charlotte said, wiping away tears. "You promise?"

"I promise. I'll never mention it again."

We hugged once more, and when we separated I noticed that both of our eyes were filled with tears. That's the mark of a great friend, I thought. When one of you does something unbelievably stupid, it just brings you closer together.

Naturally the party was brilliant, since Charlotte's friends were all six-foot-tall Russian models or handsome Norwegian musicians. We drank and laughed until the sun went down, and then a tipsy Charlotte took center stage to unwrap all of her gifts. She gushed over a pair of shoes, a painting, and a crystal vase before she got to my offering. She shot me an excited look and I veritably glowed with pride. She tore the paper open, pulled the lid off the box, and extracted the bracelet from the box.

With fifty people watching breathlessly, she held the beaded string at arm's length, and her expression turned from glee to disgust. "Roman," she spat like a third-grade teacher, "I never stick anything up my ass."

Jokes In Ten Words Or Less

Roman numerals and an alligator band? Not on my watch.

Not Sure Why The Word "Woman" Appears Three Times In A Donald Trump Quote

[Hillary Clinton is] a really sarcastic woman. To sum up -- and I'll tell you the other thing: She's an incompetent woman. And I've seen it. She's an incompetent woman.

-- Donald Trump to CNN

I love Berlin, there's no doubt about it. It's totally unlike New York. Prices are low, people are friendly, and there are folks excited by things other than cash. It's the latter that brings me and Dieter, the German Guy Who's Taller Than Me, to Folsom Europe on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Folsom is a "fetish" festival that started in San Francisco and spread to New York and Berlin. It's a guaranteed good time because the well-cultivated scary vibe surrounding it has thus far scared off all the bachelorette parties that plague our bars like herpes sores.

BACHELORETTE #1: Ohmigod, Cynthia, look -- there's a man in a puppy mask!

BACHELORETTE #2: Ohmigod, Charlotte, look -- those aren't Snausages!

I find myself trying to figure out what about this festival is uniquely Berlin. It's not the dozens of puppies, the sad trend I first spotted in New York months ago. It's stupid: basically it's submission in a leather dog mask. You scamper around and wait for your master to either spank you or give you treats. I tell Dieter's friend Herbert I don't think it's remotely sexy. Call me crazy but I've never gotten an erection looking at a big dog's ass.

"What about the tails?" he asks. "Do you know how they stay in place?"

I don't care if Burt Reynolds is holding them on, it's not getting a rise out of me.

Herbert points out the rings some guys have tattooed around their forearms, some as high up as their elbows. "It means they're into fist-fucking, and it shows how far they've gone," he explains.

That's kind of Berlin, I decide. The trend hasn't yet hit the U.S. but I should not be the guy who starts it. At least my tattoo would be cheap, since it'd be just below the second knuckle on my index finger.

The streets are jammed with hunky men in leather and vinyl yet one area is oddly clear. We investigate and find a mostly-naked man in a wheelbarrow -- I will tell this story to Germans later and no one will have the faintest clue what a wheelbarrow is -- holding a cardboard signs that says PISSOIR.

Isn't that French? I wonder. I decide since the cardboard is only three feet across the man couldn't fit the German word, which is PENILFREEFLOWINPLATZ. The man looks lonely, dry and dejected, so the liberal crowd is feeling guilty and muttering excuses.

MAN #1: I can't! I'm pee-shy.

MAN #2: I just went two minutes ago.

MAN #3: Look at this crowd! I'm a grower, not a shower.

Finally a young butch number steps up to the plate. The crowd presses forward to watch as he unbuttons his fly and whips it out.

This is really Berlin, I think, as I await the forbidden act. Pure decadent Berlin.

Just as the first splash nears its target, though, a man bursts out of the crowd and throws himself between the yellow flow and Wheelbarrow Guy. The crowd gasps: it's like a really gay version of Saving Private Ryan. The urine flies at the newcomer's face and hits it. It's close range so water ricochets everywhere and the receiver's face distorts both from the impetus of his sudden movement and the pressure of the golden stream. Still, the giant smile he's wearing tells us everything we need to know.

The man in the wheelbarrow isn't smiling quite as much.

I walk away and reconsider my judgment. No, that was all New York, I decide as a wayward puppy licks at my boots. It looks like you're finally going to get what you want and somebody shows out of nowhere to take it.

I'm too empathetic, that's a fact. Sad stories that other people find mildly depressing completely disable me. I'm overly sensitive, and I feel too deeply. I recognize the hardships and struggles that others face and often find that they paralyze me. I know I could applaud someone's strength in facing deprivation, but instead I find myself overwhelmed with pity and the sense that no matter how hard these brave folks struggle these are unending battles that they will eventually lose.

The first time I walked into Dieter's apartment I took one glance around and felt tears sting in my eyes. The sadness hit me like a ton of bricks. Was that a ... fake flower arrangement on the sideboard? A hanging rattan lamp? And there on the Bombay Company coffee table, was that a Tom Bianchi photo book?

My head spun so fast I expected kids to ask me for rides. I ran into the kitchen. "I ... I need a drink!" I sputtered to a mystified Dieter. I threw open a cabinet and froze in horror at its contents. Ferrer Roche candy, peach-flavored green tea bags, and a kitchen timer shaped like a goose. My body tried to register its shock but the guttural cry froze in my throat. What kind of person could live like this? I wondered. What godforsaken melange of horrific taste and disposable income could drive them to buy these things?

I concentrated on my happy place. This isn't so bad, I thought, and then my eyes settled on a painting of a naked male torso with highlights lavishly brushed in gold.

I ran for the foyer as a clueless Dieter followed. "So, how do you like the place?" he asked.

The immediate response in my head was, "Ohmigod, you poor, poor thing!" but aloud I said "It's terrific! It is really, really great!" And it was, I recognized. Not his apartment: folks from Ethiopia would have said, "You know what? We'll just live in this pile of mud, thanks." But his courage. His bravery. His strength in the face of such a paralyzing disability. I was privileged to live in a world with Vermeers and Manets and didn't realize that to some gay men it's not really art unless there's a penis in it.

I pulled his body close to mine, throwing my arms tight around him. We hugged as I mentally applauded him for his bravery. We kissed, then kissed some more. The affection turned to desire as shirts were slipped off and pants unbuttoned. Seconds away from abandoning all thoughts to pleasure I noticed one side of his underwear was green, one side was blue, and the middle was orange.

"Oh HELL no," I said aloud as I grabbed my shirt and stormed out. I blindly staggered down the darkened street repeating: No. No. No. NO! I mean sure, I had vast reservoirs of empathy and compassion, but at some point even Doctors Without Borders are going to say, "Oh, I have just fucking had enough."

I am in Berlin for a month to spend some time with The Guy Who Is Taller Than Me. A security scare at Frankfurt cancelled my connection to Berlin, so I had to take a five-hour train ride to arrive here late last night. My luggage, however, is at some airport.

I go to the supermarket to replace toiletries. Toothbrush, check. Toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo. No contact lens solution? I ask a clerk.

No, she says. For that you must go to the apotheke.

I find an apotheke, which is a sort of curated drug store, and find contact lens solution. By my calculations I'm about a third of the way to getting presentable. No combs? I ask another clerk.

No, she says. Her English is not as good as the last. I must go to a very specialized store, she says, but she doesn't know the word in English and there are none around here anyway. She looks me straight in the eye, eager to convey the idea. You know, she says, it's that odd kind of establishment that sells soap.

I am such an asshole I purposely use words wrong so I can feel smarter when no one corrects me. Hopefully no one ever will.

The First Line Of My New Novel

Coach Braxton didn't just teach me how to play football: no, he taught me far more important lessons, like how to slap a stripper on the ass so you can get a quick feel without paying for a lap dance.

Orlando

It is a fact, universally acknowledged, that when two gay men want to have a three-way with you, only one is going to be hot. At the Eagle on Friday night I politely greet the Tiny Admirers -- the little folk who swarm around the ridiculously tall man when he walks into a gay bar, who are thankfully dispatched with a quick hug or shake of their tiny hands -- and venture further into the dark bar to prove the old adage true.

I spot a sturdy 40ish man with two of my top ten Hot Dude accessories: eyeglasses and a goatee. I sit down next to him on the long wooden bench and do what I do best, which is feign indifference.

He fills in the gap. "Hi," he says. "I am Orlando."

His voice is low and melodic, and without warning snow-white doves circle my head and butterflies drop pansies in my lap. "Orlando," I repeat in my head. It doesn't get much better than that -- a historical, romantic name borrowed from a Virginia Woolf novel. I look again at his eyeglasses and goatee and now he looks even hotter, his intelligence edged with a smoky foreign flair.

While I'm sucking in the details he gestures toward a shorter, thicker figure who slowly sidles into frame. "And this is my partner, Jeff."

Jeff. This is Jeff. The cheeping little birds around my head crash and die at my feet. Orlando sees my face fall and moves in for damage control. "We have an arrangement," he says. "We have been together forever, and we are realistic about our needs. In fact, we probably only see each other once a week."

That's reassuring, I think, though it's a bummer that this week's meeting has to happen while I'm around. But I look back at Orlando and Jeff vanishes from my brain.

"I am from the Dominican Republic," Orlando says. "Have you ever been there?"

I shake my head and mentally catalog more manly details. His hair is thick, his shoulders are broad, and his torso has an athletic V shape. I slide over until we are touching and I feel his wiry arm hair scratch mine. "It is such a beautiful place I know you will love it," he continues. "One day you must go and experience the tranquil life and the delicious food but most of all, the hospitality of the most wonderful people on earth."

I'm hooked. Absent-mindedly I send a hand to the bottom of his shorts to explore the hair on his legs. "I've always wanted to go there," I say, despite the fact that it's somewhere around Poland in my mental list of Places To Go. "How long have you been in America?"

"Fifteen years. And America is my home. But there is a hole in my heart that it can never fill."

I'm seconds away from offering to fill whatever he's got when Jeff walks up, grabs my hand, and places it on his rather undistinguished waistline. I'm at a loss: what is he expecting here? I thwart his hope of an appreciative rub in favor of the quick squeeze and drop that one gives an overripe avocado. With my hand back against Orlando I offer Jeff a smile that's just slightly tempered by the "Get the fuck away from me!" look shooting out of my eyes.

He gets the message and backs away with a hurt look. "I thought you had an arrangement," I say to Orlando.

"We do," he says. "We don't even live together. He lives in Poughkeepsie, and I live on the Upper West Side."

That seems like an odd sort of couple, I think -- if in fact you can be a couple in a situation like that. "And that's okay with both of you?" I ask. "When I have a partner, I want to go to sleep with him, and get up in the morning with him." This syndrome has been dubbed "The RomanHans Paradox" by the American Psychiatric Association, referring to anyone who wants to marry a rich, powerful businessman who'll also wake up next to them just slightly after noon.

"We like our space. We have a lot of different interests. We like our free time."

"Well, okay," I say, unconvinced. "I guess that could work."

We move even closer together as Orlando conspires to paint a romantic picture in my head. "In the Dominican Republic there is the most beautiful mountain you will ever see. It is covered with banana trees and twisting red vines, shaded by a verdant canopy in every shade of mottled green. Every once in a while you will spot a Golden Warbler, the most beautiful songbird. They say the first one lost his partner in a monsoon, and now all of his descendants repeat his song of eternal love tinged with unbearable heartache."

Tears are welling in my eyes when Jeff comes up and rubs his hand against my chest. This isn't the first time it's happened, since I regularly go to the gym, and there I'm a little flexible about my response. It's okay if lesser-attractive guys feel me up while talking about sets and reps, but when the focus turns to nipple I'm out.

Orlando sees my pique, notes the new action and shrugs. "Jeff is Cuban," he says. "Cubans are very determined."

I don't mind this reply: it's gentlemanly and understanding, whereas my first impulse would be to spray Jeff with a garden hose. I remove his hand and push it back to his side, whereupon he retreats. It doesn't help that he just moves a few steps away to resume staring at us, but that buys us enough freedom for our talk to resume.

"You must go to Punta Cana," Orlando continues, "where you ride on horseback across a white-sand beach edged by a forest of palm trees. At night you and your partner recline under a palm-thatched umbrella with tropical drinks to toast your love."

The ocean and candlelight are materializing in my head when once again Jeff feels left out. He moves in front of me and, without a word, starts rubbing his crotch against my knee. Though knees aren't one of the body's top fifty sensory organs, mine unmistakably identifies a mid-sized, rock-hard penis. I'm not sure why Jeff thinks this will win me over. It's the bar equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic. In this case, it's also like tossing all of your chips in the pot when you're holding a six and a two.

"No," I finally snap, like I'm talking to a particularly stupid Golden Retriever. "That's enough. I am not interested in you. I don't like you, I'm not attracted to you, and I don't like you touching me."

He backs away again, and suddenly it hits me: I've taken all I'm going to take. Yes, Orlando is hot. Hot and sexy and knee-deep in a marital mess. "This isn't going to work," I announce to Orlando. "I'm sorry. You seem like a really great guy."

He shrugs again, like this isn't the first time this has happened, and he understands. We share a sad, lingering kiss, with maybe a little goatee rub and Goodbye Hot Arm Hair grope thrown in. I spin on my heels and aim for the door when I catch Jeff's expression. It's sad. Disappointed. Upset. He clearly doesn't know what hit him, and all of a sudden it hits me: is Jeff really a consensual participant in this "arrangement"? Is he its instigator or its victim? And aren't I punishing him because of his looks? Aren't I being one of those shallow bar assholes that everybody complains about?

And how about that name, "Orlando"? I'll bet he wasn't even named after a Virginia Woolf novel: his parents probably fucked at Disney World.

I walk over to Jeff and put my arms around him. "I'm sorry," I say with heartfelt sincerity. "It was really good to meet you. You seem like a really nice guy." He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes, and when I move in to give him a farewell kiss, he jams his tongue in my mouth.

Emma is desperate to know about my date with The German Guy Who Is Taller Than Me, so the knock on the door comes literally three seconds after his exit. "Did you kiss him?" she asks. "Who started it?"

"We spent the whole time standing in the middle of my apartment," I say. "We talked for about twenty minutes and finally I just leaned in towards him. He backed away like he thought I was trying to walk past him, but then he realized what was up and he moved in. We must have kissed for half an hour."

"Yes!" she says, nearly high-fiving me. "What did he do with his tongue? Did he run it along your teeth or up inside of your lips?"

"It was mostly poking into my mouth. There wasn't much I could do other than just kind of suck on it."

"OHMIGOD! That is so hot. So you stood there making out, fully clothed?"

"Well, at some point our shirts came off."

"NO!" she screams. "You're kidding! You took your shirt off?"

I glare at her in disbelief. "Yeah, I just randomly decided to tear it off while saying, 'Wait'll you get a load of this!'" She shoots me a look of apology. "He took off my shirt. First my polo shirt, then my t-shirt. And then he took off his shirt."

"YES!" she shouts. "That is so FREAKIN' hot!"

"And we keep making out while we're pressing our bodies together, all hot and sweaty, with our hands running up and down each other. And then he slowly, forcefully backs me up against the wall, and with one of his hands he grabs both of my wrists and pins them over my head."

"YESSSS!" she shrieks. "YES! YES, YES, OH YES! OHMIGOD YES! BABY LIKE THAT! BABY REALLY LIKE THAT! THAT'S WHAT BABY LIKE!!!"

I stare at her until she comes to her senses. She says, "It's kind of nice when the guy is dom once in a while."

Eric Trump Backs His Father's Suggestion That Ivanka Should Be Vice President

On Thursday Eric Trump agreed with Republican suggestions that his sister Ivanka Trump could be a potential running mate for his father's presidential bid. “She’s got the beautiful looks," he told Fox News, "and she’s smart, smart, smart. She’s certainly got my vote.”

Trump noted that his sister will turn 35 just before the election, which is the minimum age required by the Constitution to be president or vice president. “She just makes that by about seven, eight days,” he said, calling his sister “a machine.”

"That is really sweet of him," Ivanka replies when reached for comment. "I don't know if I'd be a good vice president, but Eric would be an amazing cabinet member. He's so handsome he'd have both parties crossing the aisle."

"I'm flattered," admits Eric, "but Ivanka is incredible. "She runs three miles a day on unbelivably shapely legs. She could easily run the country."

Ivanka blushes slightly as she pushes back her glossy blonde hair. "I'd rather be in Eric's hands," she reveals. "His biceps are gigantic. Even when he's covered in warm, sticky sweat you can hardly get your hands around them."

Eric's eyes slide down Ivanka's sleek form and he inhales sharply. "God didn't make anybody close to Ivanka," he finally reveals. "She's got that big old butt you need to hang on to if the economy is gonna take a real pounding."

Ivanka reddens slightly as her aureolas stiffen. "Eric has the smooth, muscular chest that says he's a civilized man, but in the center there's this thick thatch of chest hair that says, 'I may be a man but I'm also an animal, and if I wanna fuck you then I'm gonna fuck you.""

Eric is flustered but won't be stopped. "Ivanka's got these thick, pillowy lips that every guy wants to see in action," he says. "She could filibuster for a hundred thousand years and nobody would tell her to shut up. I'll bet half the congressmen would jump outta their seats and say, 'Bitch, you need to take care of daddy over here!'"

Ivanka can't take any more. She flings herself against her brother like somebody who's spotted a Black person at a Trump rally. "Oh Eric!" she moans, flattening her heaving bosom against her brother's pinstriped suit.

"Oh, Ivanka baby!" Eric gasps as he struggles to undo his pants. "Oh baby, baby, baby. I don't think I've got the patience for Congress but I'll be Secretary of your Interior any day."

Eric picks up Ivanka and effortlessly lifts her up onto a nearby desk, shoving pencils and Chik-Fil-A menus flying. He slides her skirt up to her hips, exposing a thin pink slip and soft flesh. "C'mon, baby!" he begs. "Open up them drawers like Hillary opened the embassy in Benghazi."

"OH, ERIC!" breathes Ivanka. "FUCK ME! FUCK ME LIKE OUR DADDY FUCKED ATLANTIC CITY TAXPAYERS!"

He's thrusting his firm pelvis against her sleek torso when suddenly she raises her arms to make him stop. "Wait," she protests through sweaty locks. "We can't. This is wrong!"

Eric's hurt eyes lock on hers and the intimate glance they exchange says far more than words. "You mean you're bleeding out of your whatever?" he asks, and she nods.

Donald Trump shrugs. "Aren't they amazing kids?" he asks, and then he starts talking about Mexicans again.

FIN

Fourth of July Party

SCENE: Rooftop, four floors above Williamsburg, Brooklyn, renowned/reviled as the Hipster Capital of the World. Hundreds of people mill around waiting for the Macy's fireworks to start and snacking from various picnic tables loaded with food brought by various occupants of the building. Somebody introduces me to a thirty-ish couple accompanied by a small child.

ME: I should probably warn you about the Jello shots. There's Ecstasy in them.

WOMAN: You are kidding me. That's incredibly irresponsible. There are children here! We live on the Upper West Side, and the first drug our little Tatum should try is cocaine.

You get busy. You know how it is. You make a snack, do the laundry, take out the trash, and suddenly the thought hits you: Wait. No. Really? I haven't had sex in eight years?

I try to come up with an actual date but can't do it. It's not like people send you Hallmark cards after you screw. You can't run to the file cabinet and sort through the greetings for written evidence: from Grandma for my birthday, from my sister for Christmas, from Keith for the spit-roasted three-way. I wrack my brain but can't come up with any holidays that usually point towards sex, like an anniversary with an old beau, or a Valentine's Day with a new one, and I can't recall boyfriends that would indicate I was screwing around at the time. Mentally I peer at my penis like a forensic examiner: there aren't any leeches or decomposition, but from its overall sadness I'd say it was clearly seven to ten years.

Emma acts like it's a positive thing. "You've got this zen calm to you," she declares. "Like you're post-hookup. Like sexual desire is a demon and after years of fighting you've finally wrestled it to the ground."

I'm pretty sure this isn't flattery. Fun, attractive people don't wrestle horniness to the ground: the ones I know give right in. Frequently, three or four times a week. But I've apparently dealt with it for so long I've become the first person in America to permanently win. I've looked into my pants and shouted, "BEGONE, SATAN!" so many times he's packed up his stuff and moved to some place where sin is still a vague possibility. He's probably hitchhiking to Betty White's place as we speak.

I decide to attack the problem logically, with a three-pronged approach. I answer an ad on Craigslist, I download Growlr, and I wander around the city acting friendly and trying to meet attractive people in the flesh.

Craigslist is the first option to crash and burn. I find a personals ad from a sixty-year-old man on the Upper West Side who likes the opera, the theatre, and travel, and wants to form a connection before taking it any farther. I email him expressing similar interests and his reply shoots back. "DO YOU HAVE A DICK PIC?" he asks. And thoughtfully he includes his.

I wrestle with it for a day or two. Times have changed, I say to myself. All the kids do it these days. Then I wake up one morning with one thought in my head: sixty-year-old men should NOT have dick pics. Nobody looks at a sixty-year-old man and thinks, "I'm on the fence about doing him, but I'm holding out until I get details on girth."

It takes me a week to dismiss Growlr. The hot dudes are all masseurs or personal trainers, which means there's a price tag attached. The regular folks confuse me. I'm expecting come-hither poses that recall Denzel Washington but get smiles and berets and tons of excess flesh. I just can't see them as sexual. They remind me of Rerun from "What's Happening?" While the rest of the cast is struggling with dating he's buying striped socks and asking, "Who's ready to Pop & Lock?"

I don't actually communicate with anyone on Growlr: the Shouts -- paid messages to all subscribers -- scare me off. Most include words like "420-friendly" (weed) or "PNP" (crystal meth). "Looking for PARTY FAVORS," reads one Shout. "Anybody else LIKE TO SKI?" asks another. Are these people serious? I wonder. Like cops will read these and think, "I'm stumped! Guess I'll have to look elsewhere for illegal drug use."

One man whose profile name is Happy Times gives me existential despair. "I'm bored," he says one day. "Anybody want a blowjob?" The next day it's, "I'm super bored. Who wants to get sucked?" That's followed by, "Really bored. My lips were made for oral service" and then "Just bored sick. Cum to my glory hole!" Mentally I compose a reply, but "Holy Christ, dude -- GET A FUCKIN' JOB!" probably isn't what he's looking for.

Meeting in person gets me the furthest. Stephen, a sales clerk at a local store, is getting off work and asks me if I want to go to his place for coffee. I get butterflies. Should I? Could I? He's short -- maybe 5'4" -- but he's handsome and outgoing so I agree. We're walking down 14th Street as Too Much Information pours out. He's a recovering addict who's gone to AA meetings every day for 27 years. He's currently addicted to diet soda, which explains the plastic cup he's carrying that's the size of carry-on luggage. He's 59 and likes age-appropriate men but his last two boyfriends were 35. Unprompted, he shows me pictures of them. When he sees my look of displeasure he offers an excuse: "I didn't want to go out with them," he says. "They talked me into it."

"Shoot," I say, slapping my forehead. "I forgot I have to be somewhere." I grab his hand and shake it to a confused look. "Nice meeting you!" I say, and I run.

Then on Sunday I go to the Folsom Street East Fair. I see a bondage demonstration, watch some Furries share a carrot, and twenty minutes later I'm with another handsome man, this one maybe 5'3", walking to another apartment for more drinks. Yaakov looked great with his shirt off, but it's back on now and with each step that memory fades. He gets a phone call and takes it. For five minutes he argues with somebody in Hebrew. It's pretty much the opposite of sexy, since it reminds me of renegotiating my lease.

We're four blocks away from his place when he tells me he's a rabbi. I feel like such an idiot; I thought it was just a bad haircut. Three blocks away he says his roommate stole his furniture so he has no place to sit down. Two blocks away he says he has no depth perception so he can't cross streets alone. "FASTER!" I implore. "LET'S WALK FASTER! I AM REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS!" One block away he tells me he was following me at the street fair. I finally realize that every time he opens his mouth I get a whiff of a really bad stink.

Which leaves Yaakov stranded at a crosswalk while I head home alone. I catch a glimpse of myself in a window and I start to understand Emma's comment. I've wrestled with the demon of desire so often it's like Godzilla fighting Rob Kardashian. Still, I add a mental note to my logical approach. "FIND A TALLER MAN," it reads. Not because he'll be closer to my height, but because the short ones can't walk fast enough.

Read the Wall Street Journal's editorial page just once and you'll come to an inescapable conclusion: either the rich white Republicans who read it are morons who reached their lofty positions in life by inheritance or these articles are actually jokes that nobody takes seriously.

The Journal printed an all-time head-scratcher Friday titled "How Millennials Can Live Bernie's Dream." It claims Bernie Sanders supporters should "feel like [they're] in socialist heaven" because of how progressive the U.S. government already is. "[A] long-running American experiment in socialism is still going strong," it reads. The participants, and their spouses and children, get free health care! Free education! Salaries and benefits! How stupid the millennials are to fight for socialism when it's already here!

There must be a catch, you say, and there's a small one. You have to join the Army to participate.

That's the last line in the article written by Jeremy Stern, a lieutenant in the Army. To my mind, they could have replaced it with a more succinct, "HA! YOU WERE AN IDIOT TO READ THIS!" Because it's not exactly a news flash to hear that America provides Scandinavian Socialist-style benefits to, ahem, PEOPLE WHO WORK. Serious newspaper. Opinion section article. Could have been headlined, "PEOPLE WHO WORK GET MONEY AND BENEFITS AND STUFF!"

But really, the guy is recommending the Army? I wouldn't work at Wal-Mart and they'd let me have Cheetos and fruit punch for lunch. I'd have to wear a blue polyester vest but my boss wouldn't make me clean toilets with a toothbrush if he couldn't bounce a quarter off my bed. And you can claim grade school for children of inductees is "free" but spending your days in Iraqi minefields might be slightly more annoying than paying $214 a month.

I'm not laboring under the delusion that Scandinavia is heaven. I'm not moving there because free health care isn't worth the high cost of bulky sweaters. I don't think it's a fair trade: sure, I'd like a hefty retirement pension, but I also like sandwiches made from two slices of bread. Adios pastrami, roast beef, country ham, grilled chicken or bacon; every day, everywhere it's open-faced whitefish with dill.

It's ridiculous, though, to pretend it's like being in the Army. Swedes don't have to shave their heads. They don't all sleep in one giant room, or shower together. They don't roust themselves out of bed when somebody plays a bugle. And when they're giving PowerPoint presentations about maintaining greenspace around the wetlands, their bosses don't repeatedly scream, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

Needless to say, I don't think competent journalists can pretend being in the Army is close to Bernie's goal. He may be from Vermont but I don't think he'll make anybody move to Pakistan before he breaks up banks that are too big to fail. And he may look crazy but I don't think he intends to fight income inequality by sending poor people overseas. Still, I get how "Bernie's Dream" can be difficult for privileged white folk to grasp, because it doesn't help the rich get richer before the rest of us can go home with the flu.

(The article is behind a paywall here but is also reprinted here.)

Quiz Of The Day

Question #1: What is Bill's wife's name?

Apparently if you're born with a tiny penis the obstetrician says you're a girl.

Spot The Grammatical Error

I'm a soldier. And as a soldier, I will not leave my bunkmate's behind.

Here's Something Slightly More Fun Than Trying To Get An HP Printer To Work

My Superpower

Recently I've been really depressed because it seemed like all my friends were better than me. They had more money. They had boyfriends. Not only were they nicer and more attractive, but they also seemed to have more to offer the world. It was like each had their own superpower drawing a thick black line between them and regular folks.

Never was it more apparent than on last Saturday night. My friends Emma, Damien, Charlotte and I were in a cab on the Upper East Side when suddenly we saw a man dressed all in black running down the street holding a huge duffle bag in one hand and a sparkly jacket in the other.

Emma knew everything about New York, and a bolt of inspiration flashed through her eyes. "That building is the Belgian Embassy. But it's always closed at this hour!"

Damien knew everything about current events. "The Belgian Ambassador is in town trying to get America's assistance in fighting a fringe insurgent group. He's having a small party tonight to try to drum up American support."

Charlotte knew everything about fashion. "That jacket he's holding is a one-of-a-kind Rosie Assoulin for Lanvin, and it belongs to Heidi Klum. She'd never part with it, because it really flatters her rather unremarkable figure. He must be a thief! I'll bet he's tied up all the party guests and robbed them!"

Emma's hands flew up to her face. "We've got to do something!" she cried.

Naturally I felt left out, because everybody else had just demonstrated an amazing skill while I was in the back seat and could barely move my legs. I was a lump of mud next to these people! I was just a ridiculously tall geek with spiky hair.

"We have to do something," Damien said. "If only there was some way to attract the attention of nearby police."

"Roman," Charlotte gasped, "you're ridiculously, insanely tall. Crowds form when you try on shoes. Children cry when you try to dance. Anderson Cooper appeared out of nowhere the last time you tried to exercise. You can do it! Stand in front of the building and flail about madly. Every cop within eighty miles will investigate. YOU CAN DO IT, ROMAN HANS!"

I can do it, I thought. In one motion I swung the cab door open and raced to the sidewalk. I took a deep breath and held it. Summoning the spirit of the wind I felt my body slowly inflate, from my toes to the top of my head. My posture straightened as it filled my torso, and as it spread into my arms they floated weightlessly into the air. As its power strengthened, my movements transformed from rhythmic and smooth to sharp and wildly spasmodic. Within seconds it had turned into a tornado that was barreling through my body, holding me bolt upright but whipping me to and fro, my every movement utterly out of control.

One car stopped, then another. It was working! Traffic came to a standstill. Still madly flapping, I glowed with pride, and I realized an important lesson. We've all got talents, talents that are unique to us. That's indisputable. The challenge lies in recognizing these talents, accepting them, and exploiting them for good.

Within seconds Charlotte's words came true, and a police car pulled up to the building.

The first policeman's jaw dropped open. "What the fuck is that?" he said.

The second policeman shrugged. "Beats me, maybe a new tire store opened?" he said, and they drove away.

THE END

The HP Envy 5530/5535 Wireless Printer Is A Massive Piece Of Shit

I knew I was screwed when I opened the box. I'd ordered the HP Envy 5530 on Amazon because I knew it'd work with my ancient Mac. But here, in big, bold print, it said HP ENVY 5535. I called the sender, Dave Electronics, and they didn't reply. Waited a day and emailed. "It's the same as the 5530," they replied (best as I remember). "Google it."

I did. There were different stories, as usual online: one model was sold by retailers, while the other was sold by HP. Or maybe one included a USB cable. What I didn't need to Google, though, was the fact that the one they'd sent me was ten dollars cheaper than the one I'd bought.

I couldn't decide whether to keep it or not until I had over a hundred things I needed to print. All of a sudden, ten dollars wasn't that important. I unpacked it and installed the software and of course it didn't work.

I called HP. Even over the phone line I could hear the tech guy's surprise-. "You ... used the DISK to install the software?" he asked incredulously. It was the tone you use to ask someone why they made a mobile for their toddler out of discarded plastic bags.

"I did," I said. "Because it said to, you know. IN THE INSTRUCTIONS."

"Oh," he said. "Well, maybe it'll be okay. You have an old computer and an old operating system and it's an old printer so maybe the old software will be okay."

His confidence was inspiring. I knew I should have downloaded more recent software, but I'd been at this for over an hour and I was sick of it. He thought it would be okay so I thought it would be okay.

And it was, for three days. Then, suddenly, the printer couldn't find the new network he'd set up. When I tried to connect it, it said the password was wrong. I called HP back.

"The security is too tight on your network," another tech guy said. "Call Time Warner Cable and have them change the security on your network from WPA to WEP."

This was Greek to me, but I did as instructed. And the Time Warner Cable guy actually laughed at me. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he said. "There have been huge strides made in network security over the past ten years. And you want to erase all that progress and let anybody WALKING PAST YOUR HOUSE WITH AN ABACUS to get access to all of your files?"

He tried to connect the printer to the router over a WPS network (still Greek), which the printer claimed to support. Still no luck. "It's a hardware problem," he declared. "That printer is never going to work."

I called HP back. "I'll escalate this," another tech guy said. "Someone will call you back within 24 to 48 hours."

As a workaround, he said, connect the printer to the computer via a USB cable. Easy. Now I could print! Unfortunately, though, all those cool features the printer boasted -- printing from my tablet, printing from my cellphone, emailing to the printer, having HP monitor my ink and automatically send new cartridges -- wouldn't work.

Still, I printed, and printed. And then I woke up this morning, submitted something to the print queue, and waited. It didn't print.

My new HP Envy 5535 wireless printer. Didn't print. Over a wire.

Another HP techie, this one a woman, told me that sometimes you need to disconnect and then reconnect the USB cable. It didn't surprise me: I'd already come to the conclusion that the software was written by a small red squirrel. I disconnected, and when I reconnected I saw something I'd never seen before in thirty years of owning Macs. The screen started darkening from the top, like a curtain coming down, and fourteen warning lines said the same thing in fourteen languages. "It takes a lot to kill a Mac," they said, essentially. "But buddy, you did it!"

I told the HP tech about this and she didn't seem bothered. Why should she be? She had helpful computer support. "Why didn't anybody call me within 48 hours?" I asked while waiting for my Mac to reboot.

"Why would they call you?" she replied. "They don't know what the problem is."

Helpful note to HP: include a disclaimer in the small print. "If you don't hear back from us, it means, 'Man, we're stumped!'"

She offered to escalate the problem to management offices. Great, I thought. This printer has been escalated so high up I'm surprised we can still see it from earth.

HP never replied, and never gave a real answer to my tweets. Slowly I came to the realization that they didn't have to, because they'd win either way. They could send me a moldy acorn squash in lieu of a printer, and what could I do? It's the "As Seen On TV" strategy: You can send absolute crap to people and, while some will complain and return it, some will throw it in the closet and shut up. Me, I'd return it! I'd show them! I'd send them back their piece of shit.

I went to Amazon's website and submitted a refund request, then jammed the printer back in the box. I stuffed in the disk and the manual and then taped it up. Now all I needed to do is print up postage.

That rang a bell. Wait just a second, I thought.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

We would like to introduce you to the Kawaii Cat Cafe.

Currently there are three Kawaii Cat Cafe locations: our flagship location in Akihabara, our newer branch in Oeno on the top floor of the Tokyu Hands department store, and our latest branch in Brooklyn, New York, USA.

In Japan, cats provide relaxing companionship in what may otherwise be a stressful and lonesome urban life. They are appreciated as beautiful, strange, exotic and amazing creatures that are often living works of art. With the opening of our Brooklyn branch, however, we have been very careful to appreciate and respect the differing local attitude toward our feline friends. All the residents there are rescue cats up for adoption, and will serve as ample proof that you occasionally think about something other than yourself.

In our Akihabara location, for instance, you may meet Nichi-Nichi, of the rare Kurilian Bobtail breed developed naturally in a remote archipelago claimed by both Russia and Japan. Easily identifiable by his platinum fur and unique “pom-pom” tail, Nichi-Nichi is an independent, gentle and highly intelligent cat. He loves affection but be careful: there are just two other Kurilian Bobtails in the world, and she is conservatively valued at half a million dollars.

One of the most popular Brooklyn residents is Mikey, a fourteen-year-old tabby-gingham mix. Mikey had a hard life on the streets. He's been attacked by dogs, pigeons, rats, raccoons and seagulls. He has a nice disposition despite the fact his fur is mangy, his tail is bent, and half of one ear is missing. Mikey loves to lie around, with an occasional break to sleep, and children are frequently surprised by how many mice or feathers they can dangle in front of him without getting so much as a blink. Give him a treat but be patient: it may take him nine or ten minutes to notice that you are holding something, and then three more to focus his eyes on your hand. Some people say that he has wonky eyes but we just think he appreciates both our haircut and our shoes.

In our Oeno location, you may be lucky enough to encounter Prince Rajhoul II, a Serengeti Manx. This breathtaking breed was developed by scientists in 2012 and was bred in coastal Kenya to resemble wild African cats, particularly the leopard, which explains his thick fur and spots. Bring a camera and a snack, because you will want to spend some time with this active, graceful, and confident cat.

Back in Brooklyn, you might see our newest resident, Jingles. Jingles was rescued from a home with eight small children. Jingles likes hiding, sitting in dark places, and running wherever you aren't. He doesn't mind meeting new people in medium- to large-sized rooms when not meeting them is completely out of the question. If you'd like to pet him, ask the clerk if there are enough volunteers available and a corner where there is nothing that can break. Remember, shaking and trembling is his way of saying, "I love you!" but please don't approach him if there's an open window nearby.

At the Oeno Kawaii Cat Cafe you may also meet Minska. A cross between the Sphynx and the Munchkin, Minska has two most famous traits of both breeds — hairlessness and short stature. Minska is friendly, athletic, and, of course, small! Before you leave be sure to check your pockets to make sure Minchka doesn't accompany you home!

Back in Brooklyn, it's possible you'll encounter Necrophage. Necrophage was once a feral cat, so he's "streetwise." This means he's good at finding food, meeting colorful new companions, and holding his claws to your throat until you give him your car keys. Necrophage is free to be adopted due to a recent reversal by the appeals court, but make sure there are no children in your home or other things that might move or make noise. Necrophage's custom restraint and harness are dedicated to the memory of Brianne Martin, who was holding him when her cellphone rang.

We are sure you will enjoy your visit to any of the Kawaii Cat Cafes. Please check the website to plan your visit. Unless you are wealthy or famous you will never own a cat as fine as our Japanese residents, so reservations are often booked up months in advance. The Brooklyn location is easier to visit since those cats aren't quite so rare. Still, not everyone can find a junkyard, a cage, or a wire hoop attached to a stick.

The Night Chris Caught Fire

One of the best things about New York City is the parties. It starts off innocently enough: you find an event that sounds interesting, meet some people, get on some mailing lists, and one day you turn on your computer and you've got four hundred emails for everything from a sunrise party in Phuket to a drug-fueled rave on the slanted roof of a Subway sandwich shop. That's how I heard about the Lady Gaga afterparty at Plum, a nightclub I'd never heard of that was just a couple blocks from the Flatiron building.

I have more than a few annoying neuroses, but fighting for most obnoxious is my need to get to places early. It's rooted in insecurity: I know I'm a total geek and can't compete with successful, attractive people, so I make sure I don't have to. I get to clubs right after the janitor has left with mop in hand, around the same time the DJ walks in. Sure, it's dull for a few hours, but instead of the doorman saying, "I'm sorry, but we're really full right now," he's all, "Yeah, c'mon in. A bartender should turn up in an hour or two."

Chris and I settled into the best banquette and played with our phones until other people started showing up. We'd never been to the club before, so we watched for a few minutes to get a handle on the crowd. After the first few couples entered, we noticed a pattern. Young, beautiful, well-dressed woman ... with old, unattractive, out-of-shape man. They came in by the dozens, varying only in ethnicity and with some ladies towering two feet over their partners instead of the average one-foot-eight. The men unbuttoned the waistbands of their Armani trousers before sitting down, spreading their arms across the banquettes and surveying the landscape. "There sure are some hot chicks here tonight," they exclaimed, to which their partners replied, "There sure are! Be back in a minute!" before kissing the air around them and fleeing to party with their doppelgängers next to the dance floor.

After the women burned off their initial energy, one of them noticed us in the way you'd spot a diamond earring on the ground. First it catches your eye in passing, then you give it a longer "What is that?" look. Finally it registers in the brain and you decide to investigate. She strode over confidently, like this wasn't her first trek down the catwalk, before plopping down on the sofa next to Chris.

"Hi, my name's Watson," she said. "Why aren't you dudes partying with us ladies?"

"We're gay," Chris blurted out. He might have been a little tipsy. Do the math and you'll notice another drawback to getting to clubs early: one drink every half hour and arriving at opening means that when the first female checks her Balmain wrap Chris and I are on the dance floor with our shirts off grinding against potted plants.

"You're GAY?" Watson yelled. "WOOHOO! Let's just check this out for sure!" She jumped onto Chris' crotch and started riding him like an Appaloosa, hanging onto his lapel with one hand and flailing the other around her head for counterbalance. We were, of course, reasonably startled, but from the lack of attention the act was attracting we realized that nobody cared if a beautiful young woman mistook a tony club for a Hogs n' Heifers or a tiny Englishman for a mechanical bull. In this case, however, there was less a chance of the rider being thrown than of the bull sliding out of his pants and running screaming into the night.

This is when it all slipped into slow-motion: Watson was riding Chris like a bronco, and he was staring at her in horror and trying to back away. Even if his crotch couldn't disengage contact, it's like the top half of his body thought it could regain some decorum if it were at a reasonable distance. Unfortunately, on top of the banquette was a harmless-looking candle, flickering quietly in its clear glass jar and giving off a vanilla scent. Chris, on the other hand, was wearing a Harrington jacket, which is a retro style from the 1970s that allegedly says rock and roll in England but because it's 100% polyester says to Americans, "Come see the softer side of Sears." As he slid back, his collar stretched across the candle, and slowly it started to brown and shrivel until it crinkled like a potato chip. Rather than being one of those "WHOMF!" fires fed by dried Christmas trees or gasoline it was like the fire wasn't sure it was wanted to move on, but did, you know, just because it was already there and might as well explore.

I'd been watching the whole scenario so I caught on pretty quick. Chris, apparently, had gotten clued in by the warmth. Our hands flew to his neck pretty much simultaneously, patting out the red sparks while trying to keep the molten fabric from touching and perhaps permanently adhering to his neck. Watson remained oblivious, caught up in her midnight ride, like there were still a few British settlers who hadn't woken up. As an odd scent circled the club every expression turned quizzical. Watson slowed. Her eyes glanced anxiously around the room before they settled on us. "Do you guys smell smoke?" she asked, finally climbing off her mount.

"It's all you, baby," Chris purred. "You could set cement on fire."

Watson laughed and I rolled my eyes. Chris and I looked at each other and knew that was it for the night. We'd found an adventure. That's what you look for when you go out in New York. Sure, maybe with other people it was dangerous music, or dangerous drugs, or dangerous strangers, but Chris and I were timid types who derived enough excitement from things like inertia and gravity. Chris rolled up his coat, burying the burnt collar inside, and we stood up to go.

Watson's face fell but she leapt up to hug us. "Let's do this again!" she cried, pulling out a business card that had her name and number on it and absolutely nothing else. Looking back, I almost wish we'd called her. She was fearless and exciting and maybe a little tweaked, but we were young and dumb and only had so many clothes.

The First Line Of My New Novel

Dennis Murgly's wife died after four years of marriage, which is why his three daughters are named Faith, Hope and Brandi Lynn.

There's a hidden secret in New York that eventually everybody hears about. It's an abandoned subway station directly below City Hall. It made sense to put it there many years ago, since it provided an easy path to work for the city's politicians. Somewhere along the line, however, those politicians decided that it probably wasn't smart to ferry an endless line of possible suicide bombers directly underneath them.

City Hall station is at the very bottom of the subway line, on a loop the train uses to switch from traveling south to north, so it was easy to close off. Now you could travel south on the train, or you could travel north on the train, but you couldn't travel on that little section of track where it passes beneath City Hall and switches from south to north.

At least not officially.

Eventually some feckless traveller decided they'd ignore these instructions, and they discovered that nobody tried to stop them. The conductor says it's the end of the line and everybody has to get off, but nobody double-checks. They stayed in their seats and were ferried right through the gorgeous, abandoned station, and then they ran home to tell their friends.

Chris had been here almost ten years before he heard about it, but when he did he literally dragged me to the subway to give it a try. We sat in the front car so we'd get the best view, and stayed in our seats when everybody left. Before the train started up again, though, the conductor approached and repeated that it was the last stop.

Chris never told the truth when a lie would suffice, so he launched into an off-the-cuff fraud. "VEE er FOR-in TOO-rists," he announced. "VEE haf HURD of dee abandoned sub-VAY STAY-shun DEEP under-GRUND. VEE vud LAKE to see dees STAY-shun."

The conductor shot Chris a quizzical glance but eventually he shrugged. "Okay," he said, and he put out a call on his radio, presumably alerting someone that there would be two people aboard when the train turned around. In a gesture of international friendship, he waved us into the cab with him, then started up the train and we were off. "Where are you guys from?" he asked.

"VEE er from SVEE-den," Chris said. "But vee really LOF dees city." He was about to offer further details when we pulled into the station and our mouths dropped open in awe.

Everywhere we looked, intricate patterns of gold leaf sparkled with the light. Gold arches curved above the track, inset with panels of stained glass that glowed with intense jewel colors. A skylight of wrought iron had tendrils of hammered metal that recalled 1920s France. Guastavino arches buttressed the ceiling in gently-interlocking planes of orange and yellow tile.

The driver inched forward so we could get a detailed look. "So how long have you guys been in New York?" the conductor asked.

With his face inches from the window, Chris was lost in the face of pure beauty. "Almost ten years now," he announced.

The Pumpkin Muffin

Chris was British, so he liked small dramas. If he had to tell tiny lies to create them, so much the better. It certainly livened up a dull life.

Chris also liked pumpkin muffins. Every day he'd go to Variety Coffee Shop on Graham Avenue to order a pumpkin muffin and a cappuccino. He stood out from the usual hipster crowd, with his British accent and rakish hat and being at least twice their ages, so his order quickly became known by the four barristas.

"You sure do like pumpkin muffins," one barrista said.

Chris wanted life to be more exciting than people just eating stuff because they liked it. And he particularly didn't want to be known as the guy who couldn't resist pumpkin muffins. Just on a whim, he decided to liven things up. "It's not for me," he said. "There's an old Italian lady who lives upstairs from me. She lives all alone, and she has to be ninety years old. She doesn't get out much any more and she just loves pumpkin muffins."

The barrista's jaw dropped. "You are so sweet," she said. "That's the nicest thing I've ever heard."

Chris came back the next day, and the next, and the next. He ordered the cappuccino and pumpkin muffin, and all the barristas quietly admired his thoughtfulness. But one day Chris went in and decided he just didn't feel like a pumpkin muffin. He wasn't in the mood. "Just a cappuccino, please," he said to the barrista.

"What's up?" asked the worried barrista. "Why not a pumpkin muffin?"

Inspiration hit, and when inspiration hit Chris went with it. "The old woman died. It was very sad. The whole family was there, and they ate Italian food. The funeral is today. It's just barely hit me. It's so strange to order just a cappuccino now. I can hardly believe she's gone."

"Ohmigod," said the barrista. "That is so sad."

"But thank God for you," said another barrista. "You made her life so much better in the last few months by always thinking about her."

All the barristas nodded in agreement. Chris hung his head sadly as he exited with just a cappuccino.

The next day Chris decided he wanted a muffin again. "A cappuccino and a pumpkin muffin," he said to the barrista.

"But I thought the old woman died," she said.

"She did," he said sadly. "But I decided I'm going to eat a pumpkin muffin every day in memory of her."

The other barristas wiped away tears. "That is the sweetest thing I ever heard," one said.

Chris was elated by this development. Now he could eat a pumpkin muffin every day, and nobody would think it was just because he loved pumpkin muffins. And every day thereafter Chris bought a cappucino and a pumpkin muffin. And every day four barristas, as well as nearly all of the people Chris met, said, "There goes a really special guy."

$2,430 if they eat avocados.

But good underwear might.

Last Night I Dreamt I Flossed My Teeth And When I Woke Up They Felt Great

I'm not sure why. I often dream that I have an intelligent thought, and I find some paper and I write it down. When I wake up in the morning, though, I realize that dream-me isn't very dependable. But last night I dreamt I flossed my teeth and when I woke up they felt great.

I dreamt I lived on a busy corner in Manhattan, at 6th Avenue and 10th Street. I had cyclone fencing around my yard, and I was standing just inside it, flossing my teeth with a thin strip of wood while looking across the street as it changed through time. In the 70s there were independently-owned businesses like Leo Bear's TVs, Eartha's Flowers, and Red-E-Go Auto Repair. These were gone by the 90s, replaced by a Blockbuster Video and a 16 Handles frozen yogurt shop. When we got to the present, there was an Urban Outfitters next to a multi-story restaurant with a roof deck where a couple hundred NYU students were getting drunk and having brunch.

Some of these students saw me and came over. "Why are you wasting your time flossing your teeth?" one said. "Why don't you come out here and get drunk and have brunch?"

"I'm not sure I like you people," I said. "And my teeth feel great."