From the back of the bus comes a belch that sends out sound waves you can feel against your skin. The volume and intensity of this belch are unrivaled. Everyone turns, ears ringing, to find the culprit slouched in his seat. He has pulled up the neck of his T-shirt to cover his mouth. “EX-cuuse me. EX-CU-se me,” he shouts. His tone is defiant, threatening. He belches again. This second belch reaches multiple climaxes. The other passengers recoil, and the belch stretches down the center aisle. It is deafening; it strains credulity. “EX-cuuse me. EX-CU-se me,” he shouts. “EXCUSE me, ladies and gentlemen!” The irritated man in front of him responds.

“You better say excuse me. You almost ripped my ear off, dog.”

“That’s why I’m covering my mouth with my shirt, man. Chill out, man.”

“You the one makin’ all the noise. Disgusting.”

“I covered my mouth. It’s all good.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“It’s all good. We’re 93 million miles from the sun.”

… (The man in front of him stiffens.)

Anyway, I’m gettin’ off right here. It’s all good anyway. I’m getting the hell away from you. Everything is war, and war is everywhere.

I sit down on the bus next to a guy my age. He smiles winningly; I pull out my magazine. “What are you reading?” he asks. I show him the cover. “Oh. GQ?” “No,” I reply, “Esquire.” I go back to reading. “… Isn’t that a men’s magazine?” he asks. “Mmmhmm,” I say, and continue reading. “Yeah,” he says, “I sometimes pick up copies of Cosmo.”

I had a gyno appointment today.

How did that go?

OK. My vagina is perfectly healthy.

That’s good news.

Yeah. It was funny, the gynecologist was making small talk while she’s examining me. Like, “Oh, you’re a writer? My dad’s a writer too.”

Ha! I had that happen. We were having this conversation and she’s checking things out. Then she says, “Do you smoke?” I’m like, “Wha…? Can you tell?”

I’m sorry for the silence, it’s been a busy few days. First there was Bryan’s birthday, then we both did some work for the John Kerry campaign fundraiser in San Francisco.

This was the first campaign event where I got a staff pin, or as I call it, a “don’t shoot me” pin. It’s a little metal badge you wear on your lapel that tells the Secret Service that you’re a goodie. Part of my job was distributing hotel information to the campaign staff hotel rooms. I’d passed the Secret Service room a few times, making sure to face the open door so they could see my pin and ID.

After about the fifth time passing the room, I figured everyone inside had seen me, so I just walked past. Friends, you don’t want to do that. That makes several polite, well-trained people in dark suits very curious about you. By “very curious” I mean “within a foot of you without you knowing it in under 1.5 seconds.” And that’s the kind of thing that will make you swallow your tongue when you turn around. Trust me.

-What happened?

-He knocked my drink out of my hand.

-Why?

-I asked his girlfriend to move over a little so she wasn’t bouncing into me.

-And he got pissed? Probably thought you were hitting on her.

-Yeah. He was like, “You givin’ my woman trouble?”

-He actually said, “my woman?”

-Yep. He was right up in my face staring at me. I turned back to watch the show and he kept staring at the side of my face.

-What did you do?

-I put my hand up to my ear and started acting like he was trying to say something and I couldn’t hear him, like, “What? What?”

-Oh man.

-Yeah, so he sort of nudged his nose into my cheek, and all I can think is, “Did you just nuzzle me?” So I started laughing, and that pissed him off.

I just washed down a Pepto Bismol tablet with champagne.

In the past, I’ve tried to remain detached in the primaries. Once I choose a candidate I like, I tend to be fiercely loyal. If that person doesn’t win the nomination, I feel like a traitor when I ultimately vote for the other guy.

I spent last weekend helping Bryan with the Howard Dean campaign. He did site advance work, and I was the advance person for the hotel, which means that I missed the concert and Dean’s speech because I was watching the press core’s luggage. Though I learned very little about Dean himself, I’m hoping he gets the nomination simply because I shook his hand in a parking garage at 6 a.m. after collating his press briefing. That makes for a lame anecdote if doesn’t get elected.

Last weekend, a little group of us went to see the Dance Along Nutcracker. It was exactly as it sounds: hundreds of little girls in fairy-princess costumes, and dozens of drag queens who had the same idea. Tutu rentals were $5 and worth every penny. There were toy soliders, and mice, and many a sugarplum fairy. There was also a woman who, inexplicably, took a length of pink tulle and tied a toy lamb to her head.

We spent the weekend in Carmel, where you can pass an entire day chatting with strangers about their Labradors and reading The New Yorker on the beach. Strolling into town for a latte, you’ll note a tide of applique sweaters and track suits (many of them on the Labradors). We took long neighborhood walks; donned fleece pullovers and played frisbee on the beach; drank wine out of red plastic cups around a bonfire.

Last night, we drove back to the city. As we pulled up to our apartment, I remembered leaving the house a few days ago to find a man pissing near our front stoop.

No place like home.

Me: I’ll have a cup of tea.

Barrista: Grande?

Me: How big is grande?

B: Medium big.

Me: Then what’s the big called?

B: Vente.

Me: How big is Vente?

B: (Points)

Me: Whoa. Way too big. What’s the little one?

B: Short.

Me: I’ll have that one.

Peet’s Coffee offers small, medium, and large cups. I go there because they don’t make me think before I’ve had my caffeine.