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

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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."