Am I a stupid person? I’m not a stupid person. I read all the books you’re supposed to read, I keep abreast of current events, I can find my home state on a map. So if I admit you’re smarter than me, will you do something for me?

Please limit yourself to one joke per evening that forces half the group to go heads down on their iPhones in feverish Wikipedia searches, while the rest of us pretend to laugh uproariously in feigned recognition of your obscure reference point.

Okay, thanks.

Antique shopping, I round a corner and nearly trip over a boy in a paper tiger-mask. He starts, scrambles backward, then pauses in my path. His hands are on the floorboards, and he rocks forward and back, eyes fixed on mine. I smile for a moment, and then realize he is gangly, tall, perhaps too old to be crawling around.

We pause for a moment, at impasse. A giant warehouse fan whirs beside him. He turns his head, bares his teeth one at a time, and growls softly into the fan blades.

You, sir, are sporting oversized aviator sunglasses, and your shirt is unbuttoned to the middle of your chest. Your head is shaved. You are strutting backward up the street, your arm at a right angle to your body, as you point up the block, greeting someone you know.

That guy? The stranger in the distance? He is the man. “The man,” you would say, if he could hear you, but he is too far. Instead you point silently, profoundly. You point with emphasis.

…You are still doing this — still walking backward, pointing meaningfully at this person, who is no longer visible. The friend walking with you offers his feet an awkward smile, shakes his head.

Maybe the friend walking beside you has a girlfriend. And if he does, she wishes he would hang with you less.

This morning I used the last of some deodorant, and I felt victorious, like I had bested corporate forces that were waiting for me to buy another pack before it was time. I should have left this fateful stick in my gym locker, or dumped it from my bag in a hotel room, or found it dried and crunchy in a drawer crammed with confusing hair products.

For my next feat, I shall use the last of a bottle of honey before it becomes a bear-shaped crystaline brick, or perhaps consume an entire bag of ground-up coffee beans before they start tasting like dirt.

Then we’ll have a party. You bring the coffee.

We returned from Kentucky a week or so ago, and had a very good time. All of us should get lake houses. And trust funds.