Excerpts From Painfully Awkward Conversations I've Had While at Parties I Never Wanted to Attend in the First Place

"So I got an iPod recently, and you know how it lists all of your songs alphabetically? Well, I'm looking at the songs I've downloaded, and I realize that the first few songs listed are by ABBA. Now, I'm not a big ABBA fan or anything, but I like a few of their songs okay. But it occurs to me, if somebody picks up my iPod at random and opens up the directory, the first name they'll see is ABBA and they'll think, 'Oh man, this guy must love ABBA. What a douchebag.' But the thing is, I don't love ABBA. I just occasionally want to hear SOS or - what's it called? - Super Trouper or whatever. I maybe listen to ABBA once every five years. But now that it's in my iPod, and it's at the top, it looks like I'm one of those ABBA freaks who went to see Mama Mia on Broadway or constantly plays Dancing Queen on every bar jukebox and insists that his friends sing along. And I'm not that guy, y'know? Anyway, I just thought you should know."

"I probably shouldn't be saying this, but I couldn't help but notice that mole on your neck. How long have you had that thing? It's fucking huge. It looks like it could have its own heartbeat. Have you shown it to a dermatologist yet? Really? That never occurred to you? You never thought, 'This thing on my neck is the size of a frisbee, maybe I should have a doctor look at it?' Well, whatever. I guess I'm just overly paranoid about skin cancer. I have this mole on my inner thigh that I thought was cancerous for a few years, but I never had it checked out because I was certain it was melanoma. So you're probably thinking, 'If you thought it was melanoma, why didn't you make an appointment to see a doctor?' I know, it makes no sense, right? But look at it. (Pulls up a pant leg to reveal the mole.) It doesn't have irregular edges, and the color is pretty consistent. So I'd look at it and think, 'This is fine, everything is fine.' But then I'd read some magazine article about a guy with a mole that looked perfectly normal, and then he found out too late that it was cancer. And all of a sudden, I'm back to staring at my mole all day and convincing myself that I'm going to die. And the more I think about it, the more the mole starts to tingle. Has you mole ever tingled? No? Would you mind if I touched it? Wait, no, I'm sorry that was... oh, you have to go? Okay... well, it was nice to meet you. You and your mole. Just kidding. High five? Yes? Yes? Okay, no, that's cool."

KEEP ON READIN'. UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO BE LONELY? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? WELL THAT'S WHAT IT SEEMS LIKE.

"I don't believe in eclipses anymore. If you ask me, they're just a myth propagated by the liberal elite. It's all part of Al Gore's plan to make us believe in the lie of global warming. I've never even seen an eclipse, so how can anybody seriously expect me to believe that they exist? It's like Santa Claus or the tooth fairy. At a certain point, you just grow up and realize that you parents were feeding you a bunch of bullshit. (Long pause.) I'm kidding, of course. You knew that, right? I was being ironic. Was that obvious? I thought it was obvious, but I just wanted to make sure. I guess I ruined the joke though, huh? Something usually stops being funny if you have to point out that it's funny. But maybe that's kinda funny too, right? Admitting that my joke isn't funny because I had to tell you why it was funny, that almost comes full circle and makes it funny again. It's meta-meta-meta something. Don't you think? Post-modern or whatever they call it? Or did I just step on my own gag yet again by saying that it's funny when something stops being funny because I announced that it's funny? Or maybe that's funny, because I... wait, where are you going? Hold on, let me explain. This makes sense, I swear."

"You're a writer too? How weird. Yeah, I know, it's tough to get your foot in the door. Normally I'd offer to take a look at your stuff and recommend you to one of my editors, but I should probably warn you, I work in a pretty specialized field. I only write for porcelain doll magazines. You know, articles about collecting and displaying your dolls, and how to estimate their value, that sort of thing. I've found my own little niche in that market. I write mostly about the eyes.

Just last year, I published between twenty and thirty essays about how the eyes in those porcelain dolls always seem to be following you. You know what I'm talking about? I don't even know what those damn things are made of. Marbles, maybe? Anyway, that's kinda my thing. 'Why are my dolls staring at me! You're not the boss of me, Little Suzie Sunshine! You're not the boss of me!!' It's amazing how much fodder you can get out of that topic. Wait, why are you laughing? This isn't a joke. This is what I do for a living! This may seem like a laugh riot to you, but I take this stuff very seriously. I don't come down to where you work and knock the dick out of your mouth, do I?! I'm sorry, was that rude? I didn't mean for it to sound rude. It's just a saying we have in the porcelain doll racket. Y'know, trash talking and all that. 'Hey, man, I don't come over to your home and knock the porcelain doll dick out of your mouth.' Which is kinda funny if you think about it, because a porcelain doll doesn't even have a dick. Unless it's a transgender doll or something, and I haven't seen one of those yet. Only a matter of time, I suppose. So yeah, if you have any article ideas about porcelain dolls, give me a call. I can probably put you in touch with a few editors. Just don't write anything about the eyes, cause I've got that topic covered. (With a terrible 'Goodfellas' impersonation.) 'Don't be muscling in on my territory! Forgettaboutit!' (Laughs far too hard at my own joke.) Sorry, porcelain doll humor again."

"Have you seen that K9 Advantix commercial with the singing puppy? You know, (singing) 'There ain't no bugs on me, there ain't no bugs on me...' That one? I usually love anything with a talking canine, but there's something about this fucking dog that annoys me. It's one thing to say, 'I've tried this new product and it seems to work for me. I feel like my flea problem is mostly behind me.' But then he goes on to say, (singing) 'There may be bugs on some of you mugs, but there ain't no bugs on me.'



And all I can think is, 'What the fuck, dude?' You know what I'm saying? Is it really necessary to insult everyone around you just to feel better about yourself? I mean, what he's basically saying is, 'I'm bug-free, but the rest of you assholes are a bunch of skanky, defiled, tick-infested cretins!' And what's the point in that? Why not just say (singing), 'There ain't no bugs on me, and I feel pretty good about that?' Why do you have to remind all of your fellow puppies that their hygiene is lacking? Do you need to knock other people down to feel good about yourself? When you watch that commercial again, look at their reactions. They do this double-take that pretty much proves my point. They're all like, 'Oh, real nice. You're all clean and squeaky and you just had to rub our noses in it, didn't you? Well, you can take a flying fuck, you taint-licking jerkface! We don't....!' Oh, you're going to get another drink? Can I come with you? Yeah, I need a refill, too. So listen, speaking of the Advantix commercial, did you notice that the fucking puppy is fishing? Yeah, good luck with that. You're not going to catch much without opposable thumbs. Ha ha! Ass! Hey, hold up, man! I'm right behind you!"

"I don't know if this happens to you, but have you ever been around your gay friends and felt like you should be more affectionate than usual, just to prove that you're comfortable with your own sexuality and you don't care if anybody thinks you're gay? But then maybe you take it too far and your public displays of affection could easily be misconstrued as flirting, and your gay friends, who are usually pretty good at having a gaydar, think there's a chance that you might really be gay? But of course, that's exactly what you were hoping for, because at some point, somebody is going to ask you, 'Are you gay?' And you'll say, 'no,' and they'll say, 'Aren't you worried that somebody might think that?' And then you'll finally get a chance to give that speech you've been rehearsing for most of your life. 'Why would I be concerned that anybody thinks I'm gay? It's not a bad thing. It'd be like somebody assuming that I'm Italian. I'm not, but so what?' And you know that when you give that speech, everybody will be thinking, 'Wow, that guy is so open-minded and liberated. I never considered it before, but I'd really like to have sex with him.' Has that ever happened to you? Wait, you're gay? Seriously? I had no idea. You don't even look like a lesbian. I mean, no, it's not like a lesbian should look a certain way, but you never... I mean, I never thought... you just don't... Should I even use the word 'lesbian,' or is that off-limits now? I don't mean that in a patriarchal, surreptitiously oppressive, 'I'm heterosexual so I need the most PC term not to offend anyone with an alternative lifestyle' kinda way, it's just... you know, I want to... well, I... Do you know where the bathroom is?"

Selections From Spitzy's Vinyl Collection

I've started collecting vinyl albums again. Part of it is just sentimentality for the hiss and crackle of a record, which has always sounded better to my ears than the bland perfection of a digital recording. But given that I don't actually own a record player anymore, the music itself is often beside the point. I'm more interested in records for their bizarre artwork. One of my favorite pastimes is trying to determine what sort of sublime audio weirdness these records might contain, based solely on the cover. I feel like an anthropologist, studying an old vase uncovered from an excavation site and putting together the clues of an ancient culture.

Care to join me for a guided tour of my favorite long-forgotten albums from the not-so-distant past?

KEEP ON READIN'! THERE'S NO JUDGEMENT HERE. JUST UNCONDITIONAL LOVE.



I can understand singing songs about Jesus, but singing to him? There are only two possible explanations for this album's title. One, Willie Murphy has taken far too much acid. Or two, he's crossed over from "devoutly religious" to "creepy loner who believes he's carrying out God's will." Somebody really needs to sit down with this guy and explain that the "Jesus is my co-pilot" aphorism isn't meant literally. There's nothing wrong with having an imaginary relationship with a fictional religious icon. But when you're convinced that Jesus is taking a road trip with you and may require serenading, there's an 89% probability that you have a hitchhiker's body in your trunk.



This record doesn't need to be heard to be appreciated. Just by looking at Don Lonie, you have a pretty good idea of what sort of advice he's giving to teenagers. Don't do drugs, eat your vegetables, go to church, don't touch a lady's privates until after you're married; the usual drivel. But there's also something about him that hints at a more sinister objective. About midway through his lecture, Mr. Lonie probably asks that we call him "Don" and wonders if we'd be more comfortable without our pants. He might even say something seemingly innocuous like, "Oh my, you have such strong shoulders. Do you work out?" Towards the end of side two, he invites us to help ourselves to his liquor cabinet, and the rest is a little blurry. The last thing we remember is Mr. Lonie - sorry, "Don" - telling us, "Your parents don't need to know about any of this, okay?"





The ventriloquism album is an underappreciated genre that has completely disappeared in recent years. But if you know where to look, you can find a few gems from the golden era of talking dummies. These are two of my favorites, despite having never heard even a single track from either LP. I'm not sure what Geraldine and Ricky are driving at with the title of their debut record, "Trees Talk Too," but given that Ricky is likely made out of wood, I assume he's had an cogito ergo sum revelation. Could Geraldine and her inanimate friend be having a philosophical debate about Descartes and the First Certainty? As for Richard and Willie, better known as "the funky honky and nasty nigger," I really want to believe that this album is a thought-provoking critique on race relations done entirely with puppets. Even more compelling is the fact that the ventriloquist - who, given that he controls both the white and black dummies, represents "The Man" - is an African-American, which is nothing if not ironic. But what exactly are they trying to tell us about social and racial inequality? Does it mean anything that the "puppets" (i.e. the common man) are being oppressed by a naked black dude in a bow-tie - who, from the looks of it, is getting a blowjob? You could stare at this album cover for days and still not feel like you're any closer to understanding the intricacies and contradictions of bigotry in America.



I have absolutely no interest in hearing the music of Eddie Mack - although I'll admit, I do wonder how an artist gets a gig at the Open Face Sandwich Club and thinks to himself, "This is going to be great! We've got to record this!" When your opening act is a reuben-and-chips lunch special, shouldn't this indicate that your career may be on the backslide? But whatever, that's not the reason I picked up this vinyl oddity. What really intrigues me is the naked woman on his piano. Because honestly, Eddie Mack does not seem like the kind of guy who would ever, under any circumstances, have a naked woman on, near, or even within walking distance of his piano. It was probably some marketing ploy cooked up by his record company to appeal to a younger demographic. Eddie went along with it because he's a team player, but he's not happy about it. Oh sure, he'll still flash that toothy grin he's mastered after years of playing the sandwich club circuit. But he'll be damned if he turns his head and makes direct eye-contact with that naked hippie chick. The album cover wants us to believe that Eddie has a loyal following of lustful female fans, ready to disrobe and watch his fingers do a carnal dance across the piano's keys. But Eddie's expression betrays the reality. He desperately wants this photo shoot to be over so he can return to the safe predictability of entertaining suburban housewives at the local deli.





Do you remember when incest was not only socially acceptable but could lead to a lucrative recording contract? Me neither. If you want to hearken back to a more innocent time that probably never existed, you can't do better than these two albums. I may not know much about parenting, but I do know that if you're lurking in the dark and watching your child sleep before eventually waking him up and muttering, "Listen, son," the next words out of your mouth are probably, "Just hold still for a minute." As for Jimmy Rhodes, this album wouldn't be any less disturbing if we learned that Deborah is his daughter and not just some random runaway he picked up from the bus station. He isn't looking at Deborah like she's just an innocent girl who enjoys piano tunes. His lustful expression would be more appropriate for gazing at the naked hippie chick that Eddie Mack wanted nothing to do with. Does it really matter that Deborah isn't naked? Before this album is finished, she will be.



I don't ask a lot of Asian musicians. I just want them to wear orange jumpsuits and, whenever possible, prove that they have the necessary strength to hold a dolphin over their head.





I'm not particularly religious, but you wouldn't know that from looking at my record collection. I have a soft spot for any group of Christians in increments of four to six, wearing matching outfits and singing arrhythmic harmonies about the glories of Christ. The "Country Church" sounds like a lovely tourist destination, where men aren't afraid to wear plaid trousers and funky 'staches (just as Jesus did) and salvation is available to anybody, even the queers and Jews. How can you not adore an acapella glee club that gave Rob "Meathead" Reiner his first big break in show business? But the Palmer Family stole my heart without ever singing a note. It may be because of the mom's beehive hairdo, or because their blonde daughter is located near the top, closer to heaven. There's something about them that makes me think the "Travels On" album title is referring to something more than geography. Is it really so far-fetched to suppose that a typical Palmer Family show ends with a free sample of Kool-Aid laced with arsenic and the promise that you'll soon be spending eternity with the Baby Jesus? "Hallelujah! He is risen! It burns! It buuuuurns!"



This is one of those albums that I truly believe would be ruined if I ever heard it. Nothing could ever compete with my own imagination. I'm sure that it's just a collection of songs from somebody named Shirley. But I really want to think that it's actually a home recording of two boys watching television, squealing with excitement every time something unexpected appears on screen. "Look! It's Shirley! Oh, look! It's a commercial for laundry detergent! Look! It's an old man warning us about the dangers of communism! Look! The president is explaining why he wants to bomb another nation of brown people! Golly gee, this is neato!"





The best way to sell an album is with sexy, provocative cover art. (Just ask Eddie Mack.) But sometimes, what seems erotic in your head will not always translate to the page. Take these troubling examples. "Juicy Lucy" sounds like a great porn star pseudonym. But a middle-aged woman covered in fruit is, while certainly juicy, not really all that hot. It's more sticky and unhygienic than anything that might pass as lascivious. The "Massage Your Mate" soundtrack isn't any more successful. What began as a promising concept album quickly devolves into a downright yucky proposition with this ill-advised cover shot. I don't know if it's the passive "I've just taken a handful of pills from a stranger" leer of the girl, or the wife-beater-and-cutoff-jeans combo of the dude, but this photo puts the "sleaze" back in sleazy. The woman pictured may be many things, but she is definitely not his mate. If I had to guess, I'd say they met just ten minutes previously, probably at a highway reststop. In a relationship like this, "massage" is just a nice way of saying "I don't want you to notice when I pull it out and lower my balls onto your lower back."



It doesn't take a lot of maturity to find the humor in a title like "I farta." And to be fair, something was probably lost in translation. In Norwegian, "I farta" has absolutely nothing to do with flatulence. It actually means something like "in speed." But that doesn't stop it from being funny. And it doesn't hurt that the tall blonde kid is inserting a finger into his younger brother's back pocket and, if you accept that English meaning of "farta" ("somebody cut the mustard"), appears to be leaning into the fart. It's juvenile and stupid, sure. But still... one of those Norwegian kids farta! And his siblings like it!





Some instruments are just inherently sexy: guitars, drums, trumpets, and the upright bass, to name just a few. But a sitar is not - I repeat, not - in any way sexy. You can surround yourself with as many scantily-clad women as you want, or glower at the camera with your best "I want to give you a pop explosion sitar style" sneer, but it's not going to change anything. The same goes for a flute. If Jethro Tull couldn't make flutists seem desirable, what chance does Herbie Mann have? It certainly doesn't help matters that he's decided to pose sans shirt. His sweaty landscape of glistening chest hair is not going to change anybody's mind. It only makes us wonder if he has a glandular problem. I've never played the flute, but it doesn't strike me as a physically taxing endeavor. You know who breaks out in a sweat after playing the flute? Asthmatics. When a musician has to pause between songs to take a few hits from his inhaler, he shouldn't expect a long line of groupies waiting for him backstage.



I can't explain why this album cover is so compelling to me. I have no clue whether it's a soundtrack to some foreign children's show, or just a random collection of educational songs about zoology. But for some reason, every time I look at it, I'm convinced that at some point during the record, either the professor or the red-headed kid is gonna fuck that donkey.





I've always been envious of fashion from the 70s. It isn't possible anymore to wear polyester jackets or shirts with collars sharp enough to take out an eye without someone accusing you of being ironic. I may never know if David and Phylis are just rotten imitations of Captain and Tennille or undiscovered musical geniuses, but one thing is apparent. They think they look goooooooood. Never mind that Phylis looks like the villain from a Star Trek spin-off or that David is far too old to get away with a yellow leisure suit. You can practically smell the stink of self-confidence on them. But they seem like hack amateurs when compared to Ken, who brings delusional hubris to a new level. For one thing, he insists on using only his first name. "It's just Ken," he probably told the album's designer. "Trust me, my fans will know." And the "By Request Only" title promises a long-awaited compilation of hits that the world has been begging for. Combine that with the glamour shot - a close-up for the ladies, a full-body portrait for the context - and you've got a man who believes he has a long career ahead of him. And who knows, maybe he was right. Is it so unreasonable to think that the "Ken: By Request Only" tour isn't still drawing crowds at state fairs across the Midwest? "And here's another Ken favorite," he may be announcing to the three or four curiosity seekers staring up at the stage, just before he launches into a one-man salsa version of "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow."







This is by far the piece de resistance of my collection. Though these records were released separately and probably never intended to be listened to in succession, I like to think of them as an accidental trilogy. The titles alone are like a three-act story structure. Act one begins with a quartet of middle-aged men in matching suits, boldly revealing their filthy proposal. "Let me touch him," they ask, but given their numbers (and the likelihood that they have all the exits blocked), it's already a foregone conclusion. By act two, the terrible act of sexual misconduct is completed, and the black preacher informs us with a heavy heart that "He touched me," though it's unclear whether he's referring to the merry band of Christian rapists or the statue of Jesus behind him. Act three offers a more introspective narrative, reflecting on the dark days following the unwelcome touching. A single tree, stripped of its leaves, struggles to survive after a long (and rape-filled) winter. An unseen narrator wonders aloud, "It might have been good not to touch." It's difficult to say who is having this moment of clarity. Could it be the Christian men, who have finally succumbed to guilt after so ruthlessly robbing the black preacher of his sexual innocence? Or does the voice belong to some omnipotent and divine entity, making a casual suggestion to his creation (far too late) that inappropriate touching wasn't really what he had in mind? If the latter is true, why is he being so wishy-washy about it? Why not say, "Thou shalt not touch! Seriously! Did I fucking stutter or something?" Instead, he just shrugs his shoulders and says, "Uh, yeah, I don't want to be a bother, but that probably wasn't the best idea." I couldn't tell you if these records, taken as a whole, really offer the scathing satire of religious hypocricy suggested by their titles. But it doesn't matter. These records could remain in their sleeves forever, never to feel the gentle touch of a needle on their vinyl surfaces ever again, but their message has already been delivered, loud and clear.

Stories About My Childhood That Start Out Promising But Somewhere Towards the End Become Sad and Creepy

When I was 8 or 9, I got my first job as a newspaper delivery boy. I only did it because I wanted money to buy comic books. But after a few months, I became addicted to the responsibility. It was nice to wake up every morning at dawn and venture out into the world while everybody was still fast asleep. I'd get on my dirt bike and haul around a bag of papers that was easily three times heavier than my body weight. My dad usually offered to help me, but I wanted to do it myself. It was my way of asserting my independence.

I had the entire route mapped out and I knew all the shortcuts; which lawns or side alleys would get me between houses faster than the main road. Sometimes a few old ladies would be waiting on their front porches to give me cookies and hot cocoa. I loved most of the customers on my route, and they were always very kind to me. Except, well, there was that one time when things got a little ugly.

KEEP ON READIN'... IT'S NOT LIKE IT COULD GET ANY WORSE, RIGHT?

I was finishing up my deliveries for the day, and my last stop was on the very edge of town, down a dirt road where the white trash people lived. I could hear voices in the background, and it sounded like a group of girls - I'd guess they were somewhere in their 30s - having an early morning party. I didn't know it then, but they were probably drunk. I threw the paper near their mobile home, not wanting to get too close.

Suddenly, I heard them shouting at me in the distance. "Hey, paperboy!" They howled. "We love you! You're so hot! You wanna play with us?"

I didn't say anything, I just jumped back on my bike and took off in the opposite direction. When I looked behind me, I saw a car barreling down the road, chasing after me. The girls were screeching with laughter, leaning out of the car's windows and flashing their breasts at me.

"Where you going, paperboy?" They screamed. "We love you!"

I was peddling as fast as my tiny legs could go, but they kept getting closer and closer. I remember thinking, "I'm going to die! They're going to run me over and then bury my body in the forest preserve! Oh my god, oh my god!" I'm still not sure how I got away. I suppose they just wanted to scare me.

I went home and crawled into bed with my mom and just cried and cried.

(Long, awkward pause.)

I think there was a point to my story, but I forget what it was.

* * *

There was this kid that lived in my neighborhood. Andy, I think his name was. He wasn't technically retarded, but he did act a little bizarre. He had water on the brain or something. He had to wear a bike helmet all the time because his head was so huge.

Our parents told us, "Be nice to Andy because the doctors don't expect him to live very long." But we didn't need a reason to treat Andy as a friend. He was always very sweet, if a little slow. And his mother gave him copies of Playboy Magazine - I assume because she thought he was going to die soon and would never have the chance to see real boobies - and Andy let us look at them.

When I got too old to deliver newspapers anymore, Andy took over for me, even though he could barely ride a bike without falling. During his first year, I'm not exactly sure what happened, but he got hit by truck. It wasn't fatal, thank god, but it gave his parents a scare. They wanted him to give up the paper route, but he refused. He just loved it too much.

Exactly one year later, Andy got into another accident with yet another truck. Once again, he walked away with just a few bumps and bruises, but that wasn't the remarkable part anymore. I mean really, what are the odds of getting hit by two trucks in two years?

My family eventually moved to the suburbs of Chicago, but we still visited our old neighborhood every summer. During one trip - I think it was my summer break from college - I ran into Andy again, and I was shocked that he was still alive. We'd been told he wouldn't survive junior high school, but here he was in his early 20s, still bouncing with energy and wearing that same battered bicycle helmet. The doctors were perplexed, but everybody in town thought it was a miracle.

I said hello to Andy and asked him how he was. He smiled at me with a big impish grin and said, "I got hit by a truck!"

As I learned later, Andy was still delivering papers and had been involved in a head-on collision - always with a truck - every year for almost a decade. The locals had come to expect it.

"Andy's been hit by another truck? Well, spring must be just around the corner."

Somehow he always survived without any serious injuries, which just made his stubborn refusal to die prematurely, as his doctors had predicted, all the more freaky. Last year I heard that he'd been hit by another truck - no surprises there - but this time it had killed him. I'm not sure of the exact tally, but I think it took around twenty-three truck collisions to finally finish the job. So much for being a miracle of science, huh?

(Pause, waits for laugh.)

Yeah, uh... I guess that's kinda sad. It seemed funny at the time.

* * *

Our mother never allowed my brother and me to have sugary cereals. If we wanted junk food, we had to get it on the outside, at a friend's house or somewhere where our mom would never find out about it.

One time, we convinced her to let us set up a tent in the back yard and sleep outdoors for a few nights. We were just a short walk from the house if we got scared or anything bad happened, so she figured it was the safest type of camping. Without her knowing, my brother and I bought a box of Boo-Berry cereal.

As soon as our parents went to bed, we sat in the tent with our friend Mike and ate the entire thing in one sitting. We didn't even need milk, we just passed it around and ate handfuls of cereal straight from the box. Not being accustomed to sugar, we went a little crazy. Our eyes got big as saucers and we started talking a mile a minute, laughing hysterically at absolutely nothing. We were like prepubescent speed freaks.

At some point, and this may've been the sugar talking, somebody had the bright idea that we should go streaking. So we ripped off all our clothes and went running through the neighborhood in the buff. It was actually kinda fun. But the next day, this elderly widow who lived down the block called Mike and told him that she'd seen us. Mike tried to apologize, but she assured him that we had nothing to worry about, that she had no intention of telling our parents. And, she added, if we ever wanted to go streaking again, we should feel free to do it near her house. "It would be our secret," she told him.

(Uncomfortable pause.)

So that was weird.

(Another uncomfortable pause.)

Anyway, long story short, that's why I didn't go camping again until I was 30.

* * *

There was this sledding hill near our house, which all the local kids loved because it was so dangerous. I think it was intended for downhill skiing, but we always preferred sledding on it, because it was steep enough and icy enough that you could go down it at some pretty eye-watering speeds.

Somewhere at the bottom, there were a few trees and a small shed where the skiers could change clothes, and you had to be careful to avoid it. But of course, when you're young and stupid, you actually think it's more fun to aim for the trees and then try to steer away at the last possible second. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

There was this older kid who used to sled with us - his name was Chad or something, I don't really remember anymore - and he was kinda insane. I think he came from a troubled home. We loved him because he was always willing to do the most risky stunts. He'd stand up on his sled and try to surf down the hill, or crash into the side of a tree and destroy his sled. The guy was nuts.

One day - oh man, I'll never forget this - he borrowed his dad's Sunfish, which is basically a small, two-seater boat. He dragged it up to the top of the hill and announced that he was going to ride it down to the bottom. Well, as you can imagine, that thing took off like a rocket. He lost all control of it and it smashed into the shed, ripping through the wall and coming out the other side. We were convinced he was dead, but he jumped out of the pile of shattered wood and began dancing around, blood streaming down his face. We just laughed and laughed and told him he was our hero.

I'm pretty sure that was the last time I ever saw Chad. He just stopped showing up at the sledding hill after awhile. A few years later, we heard that he'd committed suicide by hanging himself in an abandoned barn. When my parents told us, I had to think for a few minutes to remember who he was. And finally I was like, "Oh wait, wasn't he the dude who rode a boat into a shed? Oh man, that was sweet!" Not much of a legacy, I guess.

(Long pause as I stare at my hands.)

Kinda sad, really.

* * *

My brother and I used to dress up as superheroes. We made elaborate costumes out of pajamas and blankets, and stitched the first initial of our first name on the chests. We'd run around the neighborhood, pretending to fight crime or save damsels in distress.

Because we lived in such a small town, the neighbors always smiled when they spotted us running through their back lawns. Some of them even played along with our fantasies. They pretended to be arch-villains, waving their fists at us as we passed their homes, supposedly furious that we'd foiled yet another fiendish plot for world domination.

When we ran out of neighbors to harass, we sometimes explored the church where our dad was a pastor. There was a small staircase near the front door, with an empty storage space under it just large enough for two small boys to squeeze inside. We'd hide under the stairs for hours, spying on people through the tiny slots between each step.

During the week, our clandestine snooping was mostly uneventful, but on Sundays, when the church was packed with parishioners, we had plenty of potential criminals to investigate. Some of them would notice us and smile, but we never reacted. We preferred to believe we were completely invisible, silently gathering evidence against the city's biggest and most notorious crime syndicate.

We never actually broke the case, because on one Sunday we made a startling discovery that convinced us to go into early retirement and hang up our superhero capes.

As it turns out, some of the sweetest and most friendly middle-aged women - many of whom were the mothers of our best friends - thought it was entirely appropriate to go to church without... well, without panties.

Now, as kinky behavior goes, it was fairly innocuous. There's really no way that anyone would have ever noticed. But I suppose it never occurred to them that there might be two boys hiding under the stairs, staring up at them and, though it had never been their intention, getting an unobstructed view of what these women were wearing (or not wearing) under their dresses.

When you're seven years old and trying to enjoy an innocent game of make-believe, and your fun is suddenly interrupted with an unexpected lesson in female anatomy, well, it kinda changes everything. The moment my brother and I realized what we were looking at, we crawled out of the stairwell and went straight home. And we never talked about it again.

(Long pause.)

I'm pretty sure that's when I decided I wasn't a Christian anymore.

* * *

In the 6th grade, my teacher was a humorless old bastard named Mr. Spearing. He once asked our class to write a short story, and it was around this time that I first thought I might want to be a writer someday, so I took to the project with more enthusiasm than most homework assignments.

I submitted a truly staggering piece of fiction involving a homeless gnome who found a bottle of whiskey in a barn and proceeded to get very, very drunk. At some point towards the end of my story, the gnome took a gigantic dump and then passed out in his own excrement. I thought it was pretty good. It was in poor taste, sure, but I considered it a morality tale; a warning about the dangers of alcoholism, especially among little people.

But Mr. Spearing didn't agree. He found it obnoxious and revolting. He actually used the word "revolting" several times when grading it. He'd underline a particular sentence with his red pen and then write in big, bold letters: "THIS IS REVOLTING!"

He was so alarmed by my subversive short story that he insisted on meeting with my mother. I don't know exactly what happened, but I heard later that my mom yelled at him, screaming that he was a terrible teacher and he had no right to put boundaries on my creativity. And though I'm not sure if this is true, she apparently did such a number on him that he burst into tears.

When I heard about it later, I felt strangely proud. Not that my mother had made a teacher cry, but that she cared enough to stick up for me.

A few days later, I came home from school and walked right into an argument between my mother and father. I wasn't sure what was happening, but my mom was throwing things at him and threatening to move out. There was a lot of crying and yelling, and I ran up to my room and slammed the door. I just lay there on my bed and thought, "This is it. My parents are getting a divorce and there's nothing I can do about it."

And then I wondered, when my mom had screamed at Mr. Spearing, was she really defending me against an unfair bully, or was she just venting her frustration on somebody other than my father? Maybe the anger had just built up inside of her and it needed to come out, and my teacher seemed as convenient a target as any.

Well, somehow my parents made it through their rough patch and never got a divorce. As for Mr. Spearing, he retired from teaching shortly after his run-in with my mom. From what I hear, he decided to pursue his dream of becoming a professional truck driver. He always loved the open road. Or maybe he just wanted to get as far away as possible from all those filthy, filthy children and their obscene fiction.

Y'know, now that I think about it, it's possible that he was driving one of those trucks that hit poor Andy. Wouldn't that have been ironic? Or maybe not, I don't know. Anyway, funny story, right?

(Long pause.)

I mean, not laugh-out-loud "ha ha" funny, but funny in a "life sure is weird, isn't it?" sorta way. Don't you think?

(Another long and awkward pause. I eventually get up and let myself out of the room.)

Dogs and Children: A Fair & Balanced Comparison

When my younger brother became a daddy last year, my family just naturally assumed I would follow in his footsteps. As they've repeatedly reminded me, I'm not getting any younger, and I need to seriously consider whether I want a child before it's too late. I've offered up what I consider a perfectly reasonable compromise: I'll just adopt a dog instead. Strangely, they don't share my enthusiasm. A dog is all well and fine, they say, but it's not the same as having a child.

"You're right," I've told them. "A dog is much, much better."

They think I'm kidding, but after carefully weighing the pros and cons, I'm convinced that I'm on to something. Why are dogs so vastly superior to children? I'm glad you asked.

STOP YER SQUAWKIN' AND KEEP ON READIN'

Dogs are Stupid.

Most dogs have an IQ that wouldn't compete with a retarded child. It doesn't matter how much you read to it or encourage it, a dog is never going to develop book smarts. Sure, you can teach it a few simple tricks, and it might even learn how to recognize its own name. But it'll never have the SAT scores to qualify for an Ivy League education. Even a community college is a long shot. And that translates to savings for you. Do you know how much college tuition costs these days? Judging from my unpaid student loans, it's a lot. Owning a dog is like having an underachieving child who flunked out of grade school. But unlike their human equivalent, a dog will never sell weed out of your garage or crash your computer after downloading too much porn.

Dogs Have No Opposable Thumbs.

Evolution is a privilege, not a right. In a just world, children would have limited access to their opposable thumbs until they've proven they can use them responsibly. But you'll never have to worry about that with a dog. It does not possess the prehensile digits necessary to use tools or operate simple machinery. For their entire existence, they will be completely helpless and at your mercy. You decide when it's time for a walk, if only because you're the only one who knows how to open the front door. You and you alone determine when it's time to eat, because even the most clever dog is hopelessly perplexed by a can opener. A dog will never ask to borrow your car, because they don't have a driver's license. And even if they did, they'd never figure out how to put the keys into the ignition. When you come home, a dog will still be there, exactly where you left it. Can you say the same thing about a child?

Dogs Come From the Pound.

A dog doesn't pick you, you pick a dog. With a human child, you're pretty much stuck with whatever comes out. It could have a slanty forehead or a unibrow or seven fingers. Doesn't matter what it looks like, the hospital is gonna force you to take it home. But you can be more selective when choosing a dog. What kind of breed do you want? Would you prefer something big or small? Old or young? Energetic or lazy? Furry or hypoallergenic? Prone to barking or entirely mute? Fresh out of the litter or already house-broken? Your choices are limitless. If you're still not certain, pick out something at random and take it home for a few days. If you don't like it, just bring it back to the pound and exchange it for a different model. You don't even need a reason. "Yeah, it bites or something." They don't care. Just tell them what you want and they'll make sure it has all of its shots. I guarantee that you won't have the same options with a child. Just try saying something like, "Well, he seems sweet, but do you have anything in an African American?"

Dogs Shit Outdoors.

I love my bathroom. Above all, I love its immediate access. When I want to take a long and leisurely crap while reading the New Yorker from cover to cover, there's never a line. It's available to me 24-7, whenever I need it, and more importantly, for as long as I need it. With a child - especially one of those precocious "potty-trained" children - my bathroom time would suddenly become shared. Nothing ruins a porcelain meditation faster than the sound of frantic knocking and a squeaky voice screaming, "Give somebody else a chance, would you?" A dog, however, is courteous enough to let you have sole dominion of your bathroom. They shit outside, the way god intended. Sure, I'll pick up their poop and put it in a baggie when I think the neighbors might be watching. But more often than not, what a dog does outside is its business, and the less I know about it, the better. It really boils down to simple economics. I pay the rent so I have the luxury of shitting inside, with a roof over my head. You don't pay any of the bills or buy your own food, so you crap outside with the hobos. Dogs understand this. But for some reason, children think that clutching their privates and muttering something adorable like "I need to make a boom-boom" gives them free license to violate the landlord's private commode.

Dogs Don't Outstay Their Welcome.

The average lifespan of a dog is 12.8 years. Coincidentally, this is also the exact time period in which two living things are able to tolerate each other's company without a) growing bored, or b) murdering each other in cold blood. The average lifespan of a child - assuming that he's not involved in some frat hazing prank gone horribly, horribly wrong - is... well, considerably longer. When you have a kid, you're essentially stuck with a lifelong companion. Even when they grow up and move out of the house, they'll still come back for the holidays, clamoring for your attention and begging for handouts. But a dog won't likely survive through your first marriage. They'll die long before you've lost all interest. And then you just bury it in your back yard and take a trip to the pound for another one. Have you ever tried to bury a child in your back yard? What is it about a guy with a shovel and a burlap bag that makes everybody so nosy?

Dogs Don't Reproduce.

Every dog owner - or at least dog owners who don't live in trailer parks - are considerate enough to spay and neuter their pets. They realize that not doing so is cruel - not just to their dogs but to anybody who might one day be on the receiving end of an unwelcome leg-humping. And yet, human children are permitted to keep their reproductive organs well into adulthood. A dog owner is never going to use the phrase, "I'm sorry that Li'l Trooper knocked up your daughter." But a teenage boy with a working penis and testicles can spread his seed with impunity. They're like sperm-filled lawn sprinklers. Trust me, the world neither wants nor needs more little people who look just like you. I wouldn't tell anybody to castrate their child... well, now that I mention it, I probably would. Think of it this way: Neutering your child is basically just a form of circumcision, except you're actually getting your money's worth.

Dogs Are Not Easily Traumatized.

Have you ever had sex in front of a child? No, of course not. That's reprehensible. But have you ever had sex in front of a dog? Most people would answer that with, "You mean today?" Everybody has sex in front of their dogs. In fact, we wouldn't think twice about doing any sort of disgusting or repugnant personal activity in a dog's presence. I've shaved my balls in front of a dog. And I'd do it again, too. The dog didn't judge me. It didn't look at me with an expression that seemed to say, "It's going to take years of therapy for me to get over this." It couldn't have cared less. I've done things in front of dogs that I wouldn't even reveal in this blog. Because dogs are not people. Dogs are like furniture with a central nervous system. If you're not paying attention, you might even forget that they're in the room. But with children, you have to censor your behavior. You can't say things like, "That motherfucker is a goddamn cockslapping, ball-gagging taintlicker," because you know in just a few weeks, you'll be in a principle's office saying something like, "I have no idea where he learned that word." If you're like me and believe that it's your god-given right to be naked as often as possible, particularly in the privacy of your own home, than choosing a dog over a child is the only thing standing between you and a lengthy prison sentence.

It Takes Little or No Effort to Entertain a Dog.

As I mentioned previously, dogs are not smart. And as such, it doesn't take much creativity to keep them amused. Throw a ball and they'll run after it. Give it an old sock and a dog will gnaw on it for hours. Anything that squeaks or rattles or snaps will provide a canine with endless entertainment. A child may share a dog's easy-to-please demeanor during infancy, but as soon as they start walking and talking, they'll suddenly demand more effort from their caretakers. It's not enough to rub their bellies or call them a "good boy." They need constant stimulation, sometimes requiring actual conversation and eye contact. And don't think for a minute that just because you're expected to entertain them that they have any intention of returning the favor. Even the oldest and most out of shape dog can be coaxed into catching a frisbee in its mouth. But try this same trick with a child and they'll just stare at you with slack-jawed horror, like that time you asked them to take a crap out on the lawn.

Spoiling a Dog is Not Socially Acceptable.

There's no shortage of pet owners who spoil their dogs. But at least their behavior never goes unpunished, and often leads to social ostracization and public ridicule. They're either sexless outcasts who live alone in garden apartments or hotel heiresses with nothing better to do with their time and money. They have every right to coddle their dogs, and we have every right - as intelligent, thinking human beings - to point at them and laugh. But while people who spoil their dogs are called "idiots," people who spoil their children are called "parents." You'll never see a parent getting openly mocked for allowing their child to eat people food, or dressing them up in obnoxiously adorable clothing. But when somebody does this to a dog, it will likely inspire taunts like, "Dude, you're treating your dog like a child" or "you've been single way too long."

Dogs Will Eat Anything.

My brother has a Pug that enjoys eating excrement. Sometimes her own, and sometimes the scat provided by neighborhood dogs. During visits to the dog park, she'll often eat it "directly from the tap," if you know what I mean. Later, when my brother attempts to feed her, she'll just stare at her dish indifferently, as if thinking, "Wish I could enjoy this, but I already ruined my appetite on poop." I'm not suggesting that a poop-eating dog should be denied a proper diet. But as I understand it, poop is full of minerals and nutrients. And if a dog develops a taste for feces, it'll cut your canine grocery bill virtually in half. But if you said to a friend or family member, "No, our daughter doesn't eat baby food; she prefers poop," they'll look at you like you're a monster.

Dogs Can't Travel on Planes.

Okay, so this isn't entirely true. Some dogs are allowed on commercial airlines, but only in the cargo area. And if a dog is small enough to fit under your seat, it can occasionally be taken on board. But even then, it has to be tranquilized and remain inside a piece of luggage at all times. Parents with children aren't expected to follow the same rules of etiquette. Babies are left out in the open, and are rarely doped up enough to be pleasantly comatose. They'll cry or scream or crap themselves or generally just ruin the trip for everybody. And the rest of us are expected to tolerate it. You'd never find a dog owner chasing its pet down the aisle, or cleaning up its doo-doos in full view of the other passengers, or letting it bark to its heart's content during the entire goddamn flight. That's because parents are assholes, and they assume that just because they decided not to pull out, the rest of us should suffer along with them. Personally, I think if a kennel is good enough for a dog, it's good enough for their snot-faced runts. A kid could learn a thing or two about life by spending a week in a cage and pissing on newspapers.

Dogs Can Be Punished Without Retribution.

In the dog-human relationship, there's a clear delineation between master and pet. You are the hierarch and it is the subordinate. You make the rules and it follows them. When it breaks a rule, it's punished. Never with physical abuse, of course, but with just enough severity to remind it of whose in charge. From the moment a baby plops out, it's running the show. When it starts crying, a parent comes running. When it breaks something, a parent is quick to forgive. When it craps it's pants, it's never forced to sleep outside. Do you know why dogs are typically more well-behaved than infants? Two words: Choke. Collar. Put a choke collar on a kid and I promise he'll understand the meaning of "calm the fuck down." And here's another advantage that dogs have over kids: electronic fences. It's not considered inhumane to punish a dog with a mild shock if it tries to leave your back yard. But set up an electric fence for your child, and all of a sudden you're being visited by social services. There isn't a dog or kid who is gonna respect you if your idea of punishment is the occasional "Time Out." But send 10,000 volts directly to their solar plexus and they'll get the message.

Dogs Don't Enjoy Crappy Children's Programming.

Many of my old college friends are now parents. And whenever I visit, their kids will invariably start screaming to watch some god-awful TV show like The Wiggles or VeggieTales. And that means everybody has to watch it, too. Try as I might, I just can't tolerate vegetables preaching about Jesus and a singing cult of clearly gay men in day-glo sweaters. It hurts my brain. And I'm reasonably certain that shows like this are making kids dumber. When I was younger, the worst we had to endure was Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, and at least he had the LSD-inspired "Land of Make-Believe." But just five minutes of The Wiggles is enough to make me want to go on a shooting spree in a suburban mall. I have yet to meet a dog who enjoys The Wiggles. Or any TV show, for that matter. They're content to just sit on your lap while you read a magazine. Sometimes the TV will be on and its ears will perk up when there's a commercial about or involving other dogs, and you'll say something moronic like, "Do you see a dog? Huh? Do you? Do you?" But, of course, they don't. They're just responding to the flicker vertigo. Dogs could give two shits about TV. Which makes me wonder if I should retract my original statement. Dogs aren't stupid. You know whose stupid? Your fucking kid who sits on his fat ass all day and watches The Wiggles.

The Sweet Smell of Rejection

I've been dumped by a lot of women in my life, but not one of them has ever thrown a drink in my face.

I'm not sure why this should matter, but it does. When my relationships have fallen apart, it's usually been quiet and civilized. They'll calmly explain their reasons, or just stop calling me until I figure it out on my own. It's never been a big dramatic blow-up. Just once, I would've liked one of them to end our relationship with a bang, like throwing all of my clothes out on the lawn, or walking over to me at a public gathering and slapping me hard across the face, screaming something like "You worthless son of a bitch!"

Now granted, I'd have a better chance of inspiring a volatile breakup if I wasn't so reluctant to be an asshole. Women don't tend to slap nice guys. If I just did something reprehensible - like, oh I don't know, sleeping with their roommates or buying them a last minute gift from 7-11 for their birthday - I'd surely be on the receiving end of at least one hostile departure. But rejection is rejection, whether it's dished out with kindness or enmity. Whether they say "it's not you, it's me" or "I fucking hate your guts," the message is still pretty much the same. You are unworthy. Please clean out your desk, leave your ID with security, and best of luck in the future.

KEEP ON READIN'... UNLESS WE NEED TO TALK. DO WE NEED TO TALK? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME?

From my experience, there are three types of rejection.

Indifferent (Yellow Alert): "I'm sorry, what was your name again? Listen, you seem like a nice enough fellow, but I've stopped paying attention long ago. So if you could just stop calling me and we could go on with our lives as if none of this ever happened, that'd be swell."

Polite But Firm (Orange Alert): "After giving it careful consideration, I've decided to move on to greener pastures. I feel awful about this, I really do. It was fun while it lasted, and I sincerely hoped it could be different, but I think it's for the best if we both just went our separate ways."

Unmitigated Rage (Red Alert): "I hate you. I don't just want to dump you, I want you to know how much I despise every last fiber of your being. I can't even hear your name without bursting into tears and throwing blunt objects across the room. You will not be forgotten, as I will be spending the next six to ten months having long conversations with my friends about what a prick you are. Oh, and don't bother coming by to pick up your stuff. I burned it."

When I've been rejected, it's mostly been a Yellow or Orange Alert. Everybody is civil and gracious, and it usually ends with a handshake and a disingenuous pleasantry like, "Keep in touch, okay?" But despite their best intentions, I still walk away feeling like crap, and secretly wishing that our final exchange had devolved into a Mike Tyson fight. Not with any actual punching, of course, but leaving us both just rattled enough to wonder if we were missing an ear. The emotional result would be the same, but at least I would've known that they cared enough to end it with some fiery theatrics instead of a whimper.

I'm not normally one to dwell on rejection, but as a professional freelance journalist, it's something I've had to contend with every day. From the moment I got into this business back in the early 90s, I've been rejected by hundreds, if not thousands, of magazine editors and book publishers. In the beginning, I collected all of my rejection letters, hoping to someday arrange them into some sort of ironic wall collage. But frankly, it was just too depressing. And what's worse, few (if any) of the rejections were memorable enough to hold on to for prosperity. They were either form letters (Yellow Alert) or kind but unencouraging notes from an editor, thanking me for submitting and blandly apologizing for not buying my story (Orange Alert).

Last night, I decided to clean out my storage unit. I've collected a lot of useless junk over the years, and it seemed time to finally pare down my belongings and get rid of anything that was just gathering dust. But as I dumped boxes of old mementos and notebooks into a trash bag, I discovered something that I hadn't seen in years. It was a rejection letter from Option Magazine, a now defunct rag that I'd pitched during the infancy of my writing career. They turned me down, as so many magazines did during that time. But for some reason, I hadn't thrown out their rejection with all of the others. For one thing, it was a handwritten note from the editor, which would've been enough to make it stand out. But as I read it again, I felt a flush of excitement wash over me as I realized why I had held onto it for so many years.

Before I share the note, I should give you a little backstory.

Like any young writer, I struggled during my first few years to find my voice. I was a big fan of the gonzo journalism of Hunter S. Thompson, and because I was too green to know any better, I didn't understand the difference between inspiration and imitation. So most of my stories were gonzo knockoffs, a hack attempt at first-person journalism that managed to capture the "anything goes" chaos of Thompson's prose without any of the charm. Not surprisingly, I only managed to sell my work to a handful of small indie 'zines in Chicago, most of which were edited by drinking buddies or anybody who owed me a favor.

One of those magazines - a tragically short-lived coffeehouse rag called "The Third Word" - actually hired me as a staff writer. My first assignment was to interview an author named Wendy Corsi Staub, who had written a series of teen romance novels for Sassy Magazine. My twenty-something brain boggled at the possibilities. I knew even before meeting Wendy that I was going to make a mockery of her. It was completely unfair and cruel, but I was too deluded with fantasies of writing my own "Fear & Loathing" to be bothered with journalistic ethics.

The article was eventually published by "Third Word," despite being filled with numerous factual errors and an epilogue in which I, supposedly soused on scotch, wandered through a high school playground and looked for teenage girls to interview. The point, as I remember it, was to find out why teenager girls read literary drivel like Sassy and Wendy's sugary-sweet novellas. The events described in my story never happened, of course, because if Thompson had taught me nothing else, it was that only uninspired journalists rely on objective reporting. "Fiction," he once wrote, "is a bridge to the truth that journalism can never reach."

It's a common mistake among novice writers, and one that can be easily forgiven if you eventually figure out that working journalists don't survive for long without at least some reverence for facts. But I was smitten by my gonzo talents, and thought my mud-raking of an undeserving novelist qualified as a shining example of my abilities. So, against all better judgment, I began using it as a clipping, sending it to magazine editors along with the requisite query letter. And, like a fool, I sent it to Option Magazine, who wasted no time in writing back and telling me exactly what they thought.





The poor editor probably thought his verbal lashing would teach me a valuable lesson, but it actually had the exact opposite effect. I was delighted. He was "totally disgusted" by my "insidious male power moves?" Seriously, I was insidious? Enough to merit disgust? To my misguided young mind, I couldn't have imagined a better compliment. I carried around that letter for almost a year, showing it off to friends and colleagues like I'd just received a PEN award. I even had the letter framed so that everybody could see the depths of misery I'd inspired in an uptight and humorless editor.

"I still don't know which part is my favorite," I'd wonder aloud, admiring the note for the umpteenth time. "I love that line where he talks about my 'sick mind.' Or when he says my prose is filled with 'total disrespect.' Do you see how he underlined 'ever' in 'do not ever contact Option again? Oh man, that makes me smile like a 'tard at the zoo."

Though I've moved several times since leaving Chicago, I've never considered throwing away that letter. It meant too much to me, even long after I matured and began approaching journalism with just a bit more professionalism. Reading it again today, a few of the editor's remarks are now enough to make me flinch. Truth be told, he did make some valid points. Though I still stand by my original statement. I do love everything having to do with teenage girls.

I think I'm going to hold on to the letter for a little longer. I might even tape it over my computer, as a reminder that I once cared more about "pissing off The Man" than making a steady income as a journalist. I believed then - and to some extent, I still do - that it's sometimes better to get a bad reaction than no reaction at all. I've had my fair share of tame and unremarkable rejections, both professionally and emotionally, and it's kinda nice to know that at least once I was able to get under somebody's skin. This editor actually took the time to sit down and tell me exactly why I was a scumbag. And in today's world, where you're lucky to get a disapproving stare, much less a heated rejection that leaves you reeling for days, it's strangely satisfying to know that you've left a lasting (if negative) impression. What did Andre Gide once say? "It is better to be hated for what you are than loved for what you are not." I'd revise that to read: "It is better to be hated for what you are than dismissed with an apathetic shrug."

Sure, it's not the same as having a cocktail thrown in my face by a scorned lover. But for a guy who feels more comfortable being an ass in his writing than in his personal life, it's probably as close as I'm going to get.

Take My Wife... Please!

Living in Sonoma has been an adjustment. It's such a small town that it sometimes feels like being stuck on an island. I'm more accustomed to the excitement of a city, where there's always an element of danger to keep things interesting. When I still lived in Chicago, I was comforted by the sounds of police sirens at 3am, or trying to determine whether that blast in the distance was a barrage of bullets or just a car backfiring, or avoiding direct eye contact with the crazy homeless guy that the locals affectionately referred to as "The Burlap Sack Man." It made me feel like I had grit and street smarts, unlike those pansies who went running to the suburbs.

Even though I'm now a full-time Sonoma resident, I still try to make it down to San Francisco whenever I can, if only to get a taste of what I've been missing. During a recent trip, I was riding on a bus bound for the Mission District when I overheard a pair of women talking in the seat next to me. One of them was discussing her landlord, who apparently sublimated her income by moonlighting as a prostitute.

"So the other night, she comes up to my apartment and asks to borrow the phone," the woman said. "Seems she had handcuffed a john to her bed and lost the key. So she calls the locksmith and I offer her some coffee and we get to talking, and a few hours later we hear mumbled yelling coming from downstairs. And she says, 'Oh hell, I completely forgot about Ben. Hold on, I'll just go put a sock in his mouth and be right back.'"

KEEP ON READIN', WE'RE STD FREE!

I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but her tale was too irresistible to ignore. And to be honest, I was more than a little jealous. I've always wanted a hooker landlord. It just sounds so romantic and twisted, the sort of thing that only happens to people who live in a city. My current landlord in Sonoma isn't quite so colorful. He's an amicable fellow who enjoys gardening, backyard barbecues and tending to his beagles. We've talked about the best time to pick tomatoes, and whether the storm drain will hold up during the rainy season. Handcuffs just aren’t a topic that tends to come up in conversation. And up until now, it wasn't something I felt was lacking from our exchanges. But after spending just a few hours in an urban environment, where hooker-run apartment complexes and S&M mishaps are considered the most normal thing in the world, I can't shake the feeling that I've lost my edge. I'm just another average small town guy who has given up the city for a predictable and safe existence.

But I'm learning to love it here anyway. On the surface, Sonoma may appear to be entirely ordinary, at least by my usual standards. Visitors often remark on how beautiful it is - the lush landscapes and rolling hills remind them of the south of France. Or they'll tell me that Sonoma seems like a great place to raise a family. Every time I hear this, a part of me dies inside. But when you've lived in a small town for long enough, you start to realize that it can be as weird as any city; you just have to look a little more closely to notice it. We don't have anything as blatant as hooker landlords or crazy homeless guys, but we do have a thriving population of nonconformists. They don't wear their eccentricities on their sleeves, but if you're patient enough, they'll eventually let their freak flags fly when they think nobody is paying attention.

My first exposure to Sonoma's dark underbelly occurred last year, at the town's annual film festival. A semi-famous actor and director flew in from LA to promote their new movie, and like everybody who visits Sonoma for the first time, they found it to be almost ridiculously cute. "It's a town of doll houses," the director told me. "You half-expect to smell apple pie cooling on every window sill." But, the LA natives reasoned, nothing so deliberately adorable could be exactly as it seemed. There must be something filthy and wrong happening behind closed doors. It wouldn't surprise them to discover that everybody in Sonoma was a swinger. Yes, they laughed, that must be it. During the day the residents embrace the cliches of small-town Americana, but a night, when the tourists go home, they must be having wild sex orgies.

At the festival's closing night party, the actor and director continued their private joke, trying to decide who among the guests were closet swingers. At one point, the actor was cornered by a friendly looking woman. She was somewhere in her late 40s, he figured, and possessed the confidence and poise of Old Money. She thanked him for attending and asked if there was anything she could do to make his stay in Sonoma more enjoyable.

"I don't know if I should be telling you this, but I'm a swinger," he said, with an exaggerated leer. "You wouldn't happen to know if anybody else in this town is into that kinda thing, would you?"

Without missing a beat, the woman smiled at him and said, "Well, if you want, you could come back to my place and I'll suck your dick while my husband watches."



The actor was shocked. He had intended his lewd proposal as a joke, and assumed that the woman would be offended or, at the very least, realize that he was just pulling her leg. He certainly never expected her to offer up oral sex. He quickly declined and disappeared into the crowd. When he told the director (who later told the same story to me), they wondered the very same thing that I did. Why had she not hesitated in suggesting a three-way? She volunteered a blowjob as if it was something she was not only considering, but anticipating. She hadn't bothered to confer with her husband first, or seemed even slightly tentative about making such a bold sexual advance. Obviously, this was something that she and her hubby had done before. In all likelihood, many times.

When you find out that there are swingers living in your midst, it changes the way you look at everybody. Your friends, your neighbors, the old guy who sells coffee in that pastry shop on Main Street - they all have the potential to be sexual predators. Word traveled fast, and soon my entire social circle was trying to determine the identity of our town's resident swingers. But the more we thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed that this woman and her voyeuristic husband were not the only ones. You can't really be a swinger without at least a few willing participants. The very nature of swinging demands some outside collaboration. If two swingers could survive in this town, by definition there must be an entire community of swingers to support their habit.

With just a little snooping, we eventually learned the names of the "Patient 0" swingers. It wasn't that difficult. It seemed that everybody had a story about them - women who'd been propositioned in public restrooms, couples who'd be invited to dinner parties only to discover that pants were optional, and guys (so many guys) who were given gifts like panties, bras and other frilly underthings, with notes suggesting that said items could be returned to the owner and then, well, god only knows. Even one of my best friends, who had a very public wedding just last summer, was the victim of several none-too-subtle invitations, usually by way of a wandering hand or, when the swingers felt that groping lacked the appropriate directness, a comment like, "Why don't you stop by our place tomorrow night and give my wife a proper fucking?"

I suppose I should've felt fortunate that they'd never bothered to invite me into their den of sin. But not surprisingly, I didn't. I felt slighted. 'Why not me?' I wondered. 'Don't I look like the kind of guy who would have anonymous sex with another man's wife?' Sure, I would've said no, but it would have been nice to be asked. Who knows, I might just be flattered enough to show up to one of their degenerate parties as an observer. I wouldn't drop trou and join the fun, but I'd be a considerate guest. I'd freshen up their drinks, make sure there weren't any bare asses on the coats, or if they preferred, just stand in the corner and mutter obscenities. "Yeah, you like that, don't you? You like having sex with an assortment of uncaring and indifferent partners, don't you? Don't look at me! Don't look at me!!"

I'd occasionally run into the swinging couple at various social gatherings around town. Though I never approached them, I'd always watch them closely, studying their expressions as they talked with another couple, wondering if hushed plans were being made for a clandestine rendezvous. When I thought they might be looking at me, I went to absurd lengths to appear flirty and sexually suggestive. I unbuttoned my shirt just a bit too low, or slowly brushed the hair from my eyes. I had all the self-conscious grace of a teenager at a junior high dance. My every gesture was practically screaming, "You know you want a piece of this." But they never jumped at my bait. Not so much as a hello.

In time, the swingers stopped being such a novelty. My friends and I barely talked about them anymore, and when we did, it was only as a passing aside. They became just another part of the social landscape, as unremarkable as anybody who called this town home. I don't think we became desensitized to their sexual antics. In a weird way, I think we just became protective of them. We were still silently judging them, sure, but they weren't like carnie folk who begged to be gawked at by strangers. They were a skeleton in Sonoma's already bulging closet, and just knowing about them made us feel like members of an exclusive club.

And that's really what sets a small town like Sonoma apart from the big cities. We don't advertise our freaks. And unlike the raving anomalies that populate most urban centers, our eccentrics aren't doing it as a desperate plea for attention. They don't wear aluminum foil hats or get face tattoos or masturbate in subways or any other calculated attempt to stand apart from the crowd. When they do something bizarre, they usually do it in private, away from prying eyes. And they do it because they mean it. It's the difference between somebody who says, "Boy oh boy, I sure am wacky and off-the-wall," and somebody who is genuinely wacky and off-the-wall and would rather you didn't notice.

I remembered this as I continued listening to the women discuss their hooker landlord on the San Francisco bus. They gleefully recounted tales of latex masks left in the laundry room, and scuffles with scorned spouses enraged at their husband's infidelity. While I was still envious, I also knew that I had no reason to feel like a sheltered suburbanite. If I were so inclined, I could have told a few yarns about Sonoma's fetish elite that would've curled their short hairs. But I didn't, and even if I was given the chance, I doubt if I would. The swingers may not have wanted me, but I wanted them. Not in a sexual way, but just for the satisfaction of knowing something about them that few others did. And I wasn't willing to share them with just anybody, much less a couple of outsiders who couldn't possibly appreciate their sublime creepiness.

"You live in Sonoma?" The tourists still ask me. "Oh, you're so lucky. It's such a charming town."

"You have no idea," I tell them.

Still More Google Pandering

Every once in a while, I like to do some snooping and find out what Google searches are bringing people to my blog. I've done it twice now, which is probably more than enough. Some might argue that there's a fine line between market research and obsessive-compulsive behavior. But as it's been, as they say in my line of work, a "slow news day," I've decided to try it again. And as always, I've put my findings to good use. I've answered your online queries, no matter how strange and disconcerting they might be, and given you exactly what you came searching for. If this is what you people want, then by gum, that's what you're gonna get. I'm not doing it as some thinly-veiled ploy to increase my traffic and ensure your repeat business. Well, okay, so maybe that's part of the reason. But mostly, I'm doing it because I really care. Mi blog y su blog.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "awkward porn"

Isn't "awkward porn" a little redundant? I mean, that's pretty much all porn, isn't it? According to Webster's, awkward is defined as "lacking social grace and assurance," "causing embarrassment" and "lacking the right proportions, size, or harmony of parts." Yep, sounds like porn to me.

KEEP ON READIN', IT DON'T COST NUTHIN'

GOOGLE SEARCH: "milking the prostate mistress donna 14 day challenge"

Holy hell! I don't know who this Mistress Donna woman is, but if she's seriously offering a 14-day prostate-milking challenge, I'd suggest staying as far away from her as humanly possible. Now granted, I don't have much experience in this particular medical procedure, but does it really take fourteen days? The whole thing shouldn't take more than an hour tops. Then again, I guess that's why it's called a challenge. But after having your prostate "milked" for fourteen consecutive days, wouldn't it pretty much collapse? After day three, I assume that most people would say, "Y'know what, Donna? I'm good now. Kindly remove your finger." You won't win the challenge, of course, but I don't think they hand out medals for that kinda thing. The world doesn't need a Lance Armstrong of prostate massage.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "why do some men stick things up their butts"

You got me. Because they can? Talk to the dude who wants his prostrate milked for fourteen days. People are fucking weird.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "if civilization ended tomorrow book survival"

If civilization does end tomorrow, the survival of your book collection should not be your number one concern. I love books too, but when the bombs start dropping and everybody either dies from radiation poisoning or turns into a flesh-eating zombie, I won't be worried about whether my first edition of Breakfast of Champions still has the original cover flap. I'm going to be hoarding clean water and as many firearms as I can find. Although from what I understand, you can't kill a zombie with bullets. You have to somehow remove their brains. But don't eat their brains, because then you'll become a zombie, too. And you know what you definitely shouldn't do? Throw a signed copy of Heller's Catch-22 at them. Not only won't it stop them, but a convoluted war satire will only confuse and irritate them. You don't want a zombie to feel intellectually threatened, especially when they already have a taste for human flesh.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "nancy pelosi bra size"

Why exactly do you need to know? Are you intending to purchase a bra for Nancy Pelosi? If so, I assume you're on friendly terms with her already. Just say something like, "Hey Nanc, remind me again, what's your bra size?" It's a little suspicious, but not nearly as creepy as if she discovers that you've been Googling for her breast measurements. I can tell you this, however. Queen Elizabeth's bra size is 36-B. I can't say I ever wanted to know that, but after doing some research on your behalf, I found this. Thanks for helping me fill my brain with even more useless information. Dick.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "ho killed my mom"

First of all, I'm sorry to hear about the untimely death of your mother. And secondly, it's entirely possible that this "ho" in question wouldn't have murdered your mother in cold blood if you had just refrained from calling her a whore.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "oily asshole for the taken!"

Is that an offer? Because honestly, with that sales pitch, I don't think you're going to get a lot of takers. You have to learn about marketing, my friend. Know your audience. You'll probably have better luck if you practice just a little more subtlety. Mind if I take another pass? "Single white male seeks romance, long walks on the beach, and sodomy, preferably involving fragrant, soothing oils." You see how much better that flows? And it's not quite as jarring as just kicking down the door and screaming, "Oily asshole for the taken!"

GOOGLE SEARCH: "great penises but"

But? But what? Listen, pal, if you have a great penis, there is no "but". What's the problem? "I have a great penis but... I look like Quasimodo." Okay, so maybe that is a problem.

My advice is to stop dwelling on your faults and accentuate the positive! If your penis is really your best feature, play it up. Put a bag over that spoiled head of cabbage you call a face and let your penis do the talking. Don't wait around for an intimate encounter to unleash your most prized possession. With your luck, you'll never get that far. As soon as you meet somebody new, whip out your todger and dangle it in front of them. It's not socially acceptable, but if your penis is half as aesthetically pleasing as you claim, they'll be too delighted to complain.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "novel about the man who could smell"

You mean just one? I don't know what to tell you. Most novels are filled with characters that can smell, though it rarely has anything to do with the plot. It's like asking for "the novel about the man with opposable thumbs" or "the novel with words printed on paper." You've got a pretty wide spectrum of books to choose from. But okay, here's something for you. May I recommend Laurence Sterne's Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy? From what I understand, the lead character has a particularly large nose. I'm not sure if that means he has above-average olfactory abilities, but at least it's a start. Happy reading!

GOOGLE SEARCH: "is dry humping rape?"

I wouldn't think so. I mean sure, you can dry-hump somebody against their will. But as rape goes, that's kinda lame. Are you too lazy to take off your damn pants? Or are you just in a hurry? While rubbing your crotch against a woman's leg certainly qualifies as annoying, I'm not sure if it's rape. If it is, well, then I know a few dogs who should be serving prison time.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "destroy us all clowns"

Good for you! I wish more people expressed a genuine interest in clown killing. I too suffer from Coulrophobia, so I can sympathize. But while your plucky enthusiasm is admirable, I don't think it's possible to destroy "all" clowns. That might prove to be time-consuming, and as the government doesn't currently offer any grants for clown murder, far too expensive for most budgets. It takes a serious commitment - both emotionally and financially - to stalk and kill a clown. You've got to pay for the weapons and surveillance equipment, and unless you're already self-employed, take enough time off from work to really focus on your task. And even then, you may find that your funds have been depleted after only your first clown murder. Sometimes you'll get lucky, especially if your clown target drives in a miniature car with anywhere from six to eighteen other clowns. But in most cases, you'll have to make do with what you can find. If everybody took the initiative to murder just one clown, the world would be a better place, and we might just end circus tyranny in our lifetime.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "ballsack mouse pads"

I can appreciate your fondness for ballsacks. And it's true they can have a variety of functions. But I wouldn't recommend using a ballsack - either your own or somebody else's - as a mouse pad. Even if you're neatly shorn, you're going to find that testicles are just a little too lumpy to be very effective. You need a flat, level surface that allows the small track-ball of your computer's mouse to roll evenly. The only way your nutsack could work as a mouse pad is if you - or, say, a particularly vindictive mistress - firmly pressed the heel of a leather boot into your family jewels, smashing them into the general shape and consistency of a pancake. And I'm telling you right now, that's gonna hurt. Better to spend a few bucks and buy a conventional mouse pad from your local OfficeMax. You won't feel quite as unique, but your home office will be a lot more user-friendly. And you won't have so many embarrassing questions to answer if a friend or loved one wants to borrow your computer for a few minutes.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "bore my asshole"

I've seen a lot of bizarre Google searches involving the word "asshole," but this one takes the cake. So you're looking to bore your asshole, are you? And why would that be? Do you feel that your sphincter has been over-stimulated? Has it been constantly pestering you for attention, and you just want it to shut up already so you can both get some rest? Well, I'm hardly an authority on the subject, but I've found that most assholes tend to be naturally bored without much provocation. This is because, as a rule, an asshole does not have a personality. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe yours is the exception. If that's true.... well, let me see... maybe you could read it a few dense excerpts from a textbook on Quantum Physics. Or show it slides from your vacation to Maui. That should do the trick.

GOOGLE SEARCH: "things your mother wouldn't tell you"

Hmmm. Okay, here are a few things. Porn is supposed to be awkward. Your prostate should never be "milked" for longer than a 24-hour period. Your testicles are not a computer accessory. Most novels feature characters with noses and other body parts, and they cannot protect you against apocalyptic zombies. You have no business knowing just how big Nancy Pelosi's breasts are, even if you do have a really great penis. Your asshole cannot feel emotions like boredom, and should never be described as "oily." I'll bet your mother never told you about anything like that.

"I'm a Pennynaire!!"

I love to gamble.

Okay, so that isn't entirely accurate. True gambling involves at least a modicum of financial risk. I like the idea of walking into a casino and throwing a c-note on the blackjack table, or bluffing my way through a game of poker with nothing but a pair of twos. But in reality, I lack the chutzpah to pull it off. You need an iron disposition and a steady hand to be a gambler, and you certainly can't be the type of person prone to nervous sweating, or easily distracted by thoughts that your ability to pay rent for the next six months may depend on whether the dealer has another face card.

I've been to Las Vegas dozens of times, and while my friends always migrate towards the tables - trying their luck at craps or baccarat or any other game with a $200 or higher limit - I always end up at the slots. And not the high-end slots, either. Anything in the $1-to-$5 range is too rich for my blood. I invariably go searching for the coin slots. When I was younger and bolder, I had a fondness for nickel slots. But when that proved to be risky (and expensive), I eventually settled on the penny slots.

KEEP ON READIN'... OUR SLOTS ARE LOOSE!

If you've spent any time playing the pennies, you know just how depressing it can be. The machines are usually located near the back, in the dark and rarely visited corners of a casino somewhere between the bathrooms and the employee garage. It's sometimes still possible to hear the cheers coming from the casino's hub, where actual gamblers are playing with real money, but it might as well be another world. The damned souls in penny limbo are mostly chain-smoking locals with nothing better to do, or crusty seniors blowing through their social security checks. They've long since given up hope, and are now resigned to sit in silence and watch their retirement funds disappear one penny at a time.

My friends think I'm a fool. They'll tease me for having wasted my Vegas experience on low-stakes gambling. But as I remind them, while they sometimes lose thousands of dollars in a single hour, I'm usually able to make $20 last for an entire evening. Which isn't to say that I don't want to win. You don't go to a casino without at least hoping that you might walk out with a wheelbarrow full of cash. Of course, even when I do win on the penny slots, it's barely enough to pay for a drink. But I still have absurd delusions that I could be the exception to the rule, and despite all evidence to the contrary, be the first to strike it rich on pennies.

A few weeks ago, the Dame and I decided to take a road trip across northern Nevada and visit every casino along Interstate 80. It might've been easier to just drive straight to Vegas, but we wanted an adventure, and more importantly, we wanted to play penny slots. And the casinos along I-80 have nothing but penny slots. These are not places for people who think that a weekend of gambling should include a free buffet and a Tom Jones concert. These are casinos for people who think "gas station adjacent" and "truck parking" count as frills. They like their beer watered-down and their winnings to come in a paper cup. They only gamble with what they've managed to scrap together from under a car seat, and they want it to last until they've finished at least a pack of menthol cigarettes.

Within just six hours, we hit twelve casinos along the Nevada stretch. Some of them barely qualified as a casino in the conventional sense. At least a few were just fast food restaurants or run-down taverns, their slot machines intended mostly as decor. And one so-called "casino," we discovered too late, was really a brothel. It's difficult to focus on a penny slot machine when a prostitute is hovering nearby, reminding you that she's having a "weekend special on blowjobs."

By the time we got to Wendover, the last stop before the Utah border, our winnings came to exactly three dollars and 37 cents. That may not sound like a lot, but in the penny racket, it's a small fortune. We stumbled into the first casino we could find - which, like just about every other gambling establishment in Nevada, was called "The Golden Nugget" - and sat down at a penny machine near the entrance. We deposited what remained of our money, fully expecting to lose everything within a few seconds. But after only the second pull, our machine lit up like a haywire kaleidoscope, setting off a series of ear-piercing sirens and bells that seemed designed to alert authorities to an impending terrorist attack. At first, we backed away, certain that we must've broken it. But on closer inspection, we realized that the machine's screeching wasn't caused by some internal malfunction. It was actually a good thing. We had won, and won big.

The Dame and I gazed at the screen with disbelief. "How much is 100,000 pennies?" I asked, trying to do the math in my head.

"I have no idea," she said. "Isn't it like a hundred dollars?"

As it turns out, it's quite a bit more. The casino's cashier informed us that we'd just won a thousand dollars. We were stunned, especially after learning that we would be paid in paper money and not just sacks of loose coins. I was a little disappointed, as I would've preferred to drive home in a car filled to the roof with pennies. If the Dame hadn't protested, I was prepared to make a stink about it, telling the cashier, "Listen, missy, we won 100,000 pennies and that's exactly what you're going to give us."

It was still early, and we were riding high from the adrenaline rush of our unexpected financial windfall. So we sat back down at the same machine and continued feeding it coins, hoping that lightning would strike twice. It didn't, of course, but we couldn't have cared less. We noticed that the other casino guests were now eyeing us greedily, furious that we had achieved the elusive dream that consumes all gamblers who traffic in pennies. We were once like them, locked in an epic battle between optimism and futility, like Don Quixote attacking windmills that he thought might actually be giants. But thanks to some bizarre combination of fate and dumb luck, we had been transformed from naive romantics into legitimate gambling superstars. They hated us for our undeserved good fortune, but at the same time, we had earned their begrudging respect. We gave them reason to believe that the unwashed masses could rise from the ashes, like a phoenix made entirely out of pennies.

It wasn't just our fellow gamblers who treated us differently. The casino's staff, who up until that point had successfully ignored us, were suddenly attending to our every need. Waitresses delivered drinks that we never ordered, mixed with hard liquor that hadn't been watered down. Managers walked over and introduced themselves, offering coupons for lavish buffets and complimentary suites. We weren't sure how to react to all the attention. We were more accustomed to the indifference of the penny slot ghetto, where we were expected to fend for ourselves and stay at least ten feet away from the "real" gamblers. But now, because there was a chance we might walk away with the casino's money, we were suddenly being treated like royalty.

"So this is what it's like to be a high-roller," I said to the Dame.

"Don't get used to it," she said. "It's never going to be like this again."

The waitress brought us another round, and I slipped her a five dollar bill. She smiled and thanked me, but I could tell that her kindness was insincere. She knew that our VIP status was only temporary, and that tomorrow we'd be nobodies again, grasping for pennies like orphan children in some Dickens' novel. "Spare a shilling, guv'nor, so I can buy a crust of bread for me mum?" But at least for one night, I would have my little piece of the American Dream. My pockets were lined with gold, and I had done it without any discernable talent or skill whatsoever.

The next morning, the Dame and I drove back to California. And somewhere in the desert, we ran out of gas. I'm not sure why I didn't notice the blinking "low fuel" light until it was too late. It might be because it didn't spew out coins, which after 48 consecutive hours on a casino binge, was the only way to get my attention anymore. We called the rental car company and waited for help to arrive. It was bitterly cold, so we huddled inside and covered ourselves with blankets. Neither of us said it out loud, but I'm pretty sure we were both thinking the same thing. This was karma. We were being punished by the universe for throwing off the natural order of things.

"I never want to see another penny for the rest of my life," the Dame said. "This money is cursed."

Maybe so. But though we weren't ready to admit it just yet, we'd both be back again soon enough, wandering through another casino with our jackets jingling like maracas, looking for our next mark. We may very well burn through our entire profit margin before we find another penny machine that's quite so generous - if we ever do. But in the end, it's not really about winning and losing, is it? It's about clinging to an unrealistic fantasy, and having just enough proof that if we wait long enough and believe in our god-given right to get something for nothing, the odds will eventually fall in our favor.

Either that, or we could just put the thousand dollars into a high-yield savings account with an annual percentage yield of 4%. If you call that gambling.