For the purposes of telling a story, we've moved, temporarily.

Very recently, I went to San Francisco Green Drinks with a few friends and co-workers, halfway hopeful about finding a girlfriend. It took about a half hour before resignation sank in, but by then I was very content to just hang out with good people. Of course - as always - a young professional on a networking crusade had to interrupt a conversation that I was having with my equally defeated wingman. After our introductions, the guy just went off.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Steven. Here's my card. If you haven't heard about us, we're called EcoGlobalSecuritySystems and we're down in Mountain View. We're a green military defense contractor. EcoGlobalSecuritySystems is the only company in the Silicon Valley that's building sustainable and biodegradable weapons systems. Our mission is to create defense systems that can annihilate hundreds of thousands of people while still protecting wildlife and sensitive habitat.

"When we started, we were fresh out of Stanford and were a little idealistic. It was 2003, the Iraq Invasion had just begun, and we were immediately concerned about how 'green' the war would be. 'Can't we have a military intervention that's environmentally friendly and carbon neutral?' we asked ourselves. And out of that sentiment sprang EcoGlobalSecuritySystems. We put our heads together, formulated a business plan, collected some venture capital, hired a lot of smart people, and threw a bunch of equations onto a whiteboard. At that point, we were very enthusiastic.

"Unfortunately, the Bush Administration didn’t see a role for environmental protection in the war on terror. And just a few months ago, we were disappointed to learn that Obama isn't interested in us either. So - while we still feel horrible about doing it - we recently decided to supply our technology to new clients. Contrary to our allegiances and ideals, today we do business with the Taliban, Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. For better or worse, we're the only military defense contractor in the United States that does business with radical Islamic extremists and anti-American military forces. And to be honest with you, I'm only somewhat consoled by the fact that we're going public on the NYSE in mid-September."

At this point, I was a little dumbfounded. As I was trying to manufacture some obligatory response, a woman standing behind us thankfully relieved me of the burden.

"Hi, I'm Joan. I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion about the environment,” she said. “I work for OceanicEcoRanchingProducts. Here’s my card. If you don’t know about us, we're a company located next to City Hall - nearby a lot of dirty homeless people who dwell in their own filth and take money from the government. Our home office is in Iceland, though. I like Iceland, because things aren’t so ethnic over there. Anyway, I work for OceanicEcoRanchingProducts. We're the only company in the world that makes harpoons out of recycled and recyclable materials. Our mission is to make whale slaughtering more environmentally responsible. Our harpoons are used on Japanese and Norwegian boats. But anyway, we're finding that our market share is growing, despite the recession caused by the Jews.”

At that point, I gathered my belongings and said goodbye to my friends and co-workers. It took about five minutes to catch the Pittsburg/Bay Point train and I transferred at 12th Street in Oakland. I found myself distracted from the book that I was reading as we approached MacArthur Station. I looked over the business cards that I had just collected, and my attention was drawn toward the fading city beyond the window. Could you believe that guy Steven? He was a self-righteous yuppie, spreading global destruction and undermining national security, just for a cheap buck. But then there was Joan. There was Joan.

After eating breakfast on Saturday morning, I decided to give her a call, hoping that she might be free.

If I had had the finances, I would have taken a trip to the upper reaches of Nepal to find the answers. But in an effort to find inner peace on the cheap, I recently scaled Mount Diablo instead. I started at the base of the paid parking lot last Thursday at 2:00 and reached the summit last Thursday at 2:15. When I got to the top, I found a wise Asian man in his 70s sitting beneath a tree.

I introduced myself to him and he instantly knew what I was there for. "You're seeking answers," he said. "But I've got to be up front with you," he said. "I'm not in the enlightenment business anymore. It's unprofitable. I studied among the best Zen Masters of all of Tibet and half of Marin County, but now I'm here for financial planning. When Bernanke announced a pessimistic forecast for this fiscal year, I traded in my flute and my walking stick for this Dell Inspiron laptop with Windows XP. The Wi-Fi actually isn't that bad up here. At daybreak, I can look out into the San Ramon Valley, turn on my computer, balance my portfolio, and watch the markets move. Last time I checked, the S&P was twelve points off in afternoon trading. It's reacting to yesterday's market correction in Shanghai. But that's not why you're here - I can tell that you're here for some kind of higher purpose. But, listen man, I shaved off my goatee and hung up that hat. I had to euthanize the birds that once perched themselves on my shoulders. Times are tough."

He paused, but then went on --

"But you look like an all-right guy and I appreciate your effort of walking up here. Let me give you someone's card. It belongs to Father Bob Nastanovich of Our Lady of Perpetual Good Times. No relation. He's down the hill in Walnut Creek. A solid guy. It's funny - he got kicked out of divinity school for selling drugs. Fortunately, someone out there didn't demand credentials and decided to give him a job. It didn't hurt that Bob was well connected, though. When in Italy, he has power lunches with higher-ups in the Vatican. Anyway, good luck."

And with that, I descended from Mount Diablo and caught a County Connection bus back into the city. I stopped at the Chipotle in downtown Walnut Creek, ate a tostada, and then placed a call with the priest. He told me that he was free and gave me directions to his church.

I met the priest in his dimly lit office, where he was sitting behind a desk. There wasn't much in the way of introductions or chit-chat. He wanted to get down to business. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "What's your thing?"

Perhaps it was the power of the moment or perhaps it was his position of authority, but I felt that I could confide in the man. I spoke somewhat softly. "Thanks for meeting me," I said. "I suppose I'm here because I haven't found closure on my Saturn Returns, if you will," I said. "I work in fund-raising for a national nonprofit land conservation organization, but I also feel like I should be doing something that's more creative. I'm playing bass guitar in a band. We're practicing in a garage on Potrero Hill. We've played a few shows, mainly for friends, but I think it's a start."

I detected a grimace on his face, but I continued --

"My real problem, however, has to do with my love life. I just turned thirty recently and I'm starting to think about a future within a family. The problem is, I haven't had an official long-term relationship with a woman in a very long time. There is, however, a woman that I talk to at the dog park most evenings. I think it's a start. I'm feeling enormous pressure to make something happen. The anxiety is stifling any opportunities that I may have. So I'm turning to religion and spirituality for some sort of guidance in my life."

The priest gave me a cold stare.

"Well," he said. "First off -- an all knowing God is aware of your shitty band and every shitty band in the Bay Area. There are hundreds of them. You may not have to listen to all of them, but God does. This creative pursuit that you're talking about will go nowhere. If you want to do anything with your life, put away childish things and get practical. God wants all of his children to observe Lent and have a good grasp of Microsoft Office Suite. Judging by what you're telling me, you probably have some command of MS Word and MS Excel. God must be somewhat pleased with you, so you should be somewhat pleased with yourself. Don't freak out, dude.

"Secondly," he said, "please don't get me started about women at dog parks. People who take their dogs to dog parks are usually single and desperate. Trust me, I was one of them. I made a big occupational no-no with one woman from a dog park. And let me tell you, I should have reviewed the Roman Catholic Church's Human Resources Policy Manual, because this girl was a huge mistake. Let me tell you something. Listen to me. A woman carrying a bag of dog shit exemplifies warmth, courtesy and social responsibility so well that you're bound to overlook the dog shit in her hands."

He looked away briefly and then spoke again.

"We were together for ten months and she left me for a civil engineer with a golden retriever. She broke my heart. I saw her with that man all of the time. And do you know what was worse than their public displays of affection?" he asked.

"It was their private displays of affection," he said.


The priest and I were silent until he looked at his watch. "Holy shit," he said. "It's five o'clock and I need to get the hell out of here. My shift is over. Here's my card. Are we done here, or can we do this over e-mail? I've got a six o'clock date that I need to find on Capp Street. Tonight we're seeing a film in the Tenderloin. It's about people who fuck each other."

And so, as he was getting into his sports car, I thanked him and told him that he was helpful. Heading back toward BART, I stopped into Target to buy soap and fabric softener. The checker put my merchandise into a plastic bag with plastic handles. Upon leaving the store, I was asked to open my bag and present my receipt, but I passed the test much like everyone else. It felt like a minor moral accomplishment, making me feel a little bit better about how I spent my day.

Around Valentine's Day in 2007, my cousin Scott founded a nonprofit for senior citizens in San Francisco. The organization, named "SeniorTouch," seeks to provide sexual information, materials and services for men in their later years.

It's a cause that Scott feels passionately about. As he puts it: "It's sad that in our society, too many seniors are derogatorily referred to as 'dirty old men.' There's obviously a double standard at play. Younger men with active sex lives are often considered healthy and virile. Older men, however, are often subject to shame or ridicule when expressing themselves sexually. It's particularly sad, because many of these men live quiet and lonely lives, many of them recovering from the death of a loving partner."

So, not to brag, but my cousin is trying to do something about it. Recently, SeniorTouch has lobbied the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency to make Muni buses scarce and less frequent. "Crowded buses are great for sexually frustrated seniors," Scott explains. "On a crowded bus, seniors can press their bodies onto the bodies of fellow passengers... Also, there are very few venues available for seniors to erotically observe younger men and women in a way that's free and convenient. It's a great experience that only public transportation can really provide."

When forced, Scott will acknowledge Muni's progress, but he says there's still a lot of room for improvement. "Muni has made its buses accessible to seniors, and that's great. But now it needs to go the whole nine yards by making public transportation sexually rewarding."

Of course, my cousin's efforts don't stop there. Scott is also very intent on making pornography more accessible to seniors, and is highly critical of the city's elected officials. "I guess the Mayor and the Board of Supervisors don't get it," he says. "Not every senior has the means to get to the Tenderloin every night - and there are areas of this city that are drastically under-served by pornographic theaters and video stores." Scott adds: "I'd really like to see Mayor Newsom try to purchase an adult film on a Sunday night in Sea Cliff. I'd really like to see Supervisor Avalos find a peep show in the Crocker-Amazon before the donut shops open and the Today Show first reports the day's weather." As my cousin says forcefully: "The city doesn't get it, and that's a damn shame for our seniors."

Unfortunately, help for frustrated seniors won't arrive quickly. The economic stimulus bill to be signed by President Obama tomorrow includes no "shovel-ready" projects for pornographic theater or video store construction. However, before the battle is even played out on the national stage, change needs to happen at the local level. San Francisco is an enlightened and progressive city, but its neglect of seniors is shameful. We truly can and should do better.

For the dishonest and reprehensible purpose of making things entertaining, I'm telling you that I spent my Christmas with my Uncle Charley in Seattle.

Charley is an interesting guy. He was only the seventeenth in the family to go to college, graduating from New York University with a degree in animal husbandry. After graduating, he analyzed risk for a major financial services firm, serving as a risk analyst in the firm's risk analysis division.

Uncle Charley got out of financial services during the second term of the Clinton administration, and consequently, he owns a minority share of Starbucks and Boeing. He now lives in Magnolia, four blocks away from the Ballard Locks. Every morning, he performs Tai Chi on the shifting metal walkways of the locks, controlling the boats. As he tells it, stalled yachts always move at his slightest provocation. Uncle Charley "detests sedated boats," and he always makes this known to the family every Christmas.

Fortunately, my cousin Harry (Charley's son) was able to make it, too. Harry was born in Puyallup and now lives outside of Olympia. Over his lifetime, he has served in the Coast Guard, the National Guard, the Sheriff's Department and the military. During the entirety of the Grenada invasion - from October 1983 to December 1983 - Harry ran a rest and relaxation outpost for GI's returning from the island. The rest stop, located in Barrow, Alaska, was once visited by Laurence Tureaud (then widely known as Mr. T) and by First Lady Nancy Reagan (at the advice of the nation's chief astrologer and the Defense Department).

Soon afterward, in 1986, Harry raised a conscientious objection to the bombing of Libya, and was dishonorably discharged from the service. For the next ten years of his life, he taught Portuguese to students at North Seattle Community College. In 1996, afraid that he couldn't support his family, he took a job as a software engineer at Microsoft. He kept this job for eleven years, until the company found undocumented workers to do it for three quarters of his salary.

Understandably, Harry got a little bitter, but he tried to keep his spirits up. When speaking with me, he blamed illegal immigrants not for taking his job, but for making it difficult to excel at pick-up games of soccer during his lengthy unemployment. Then, after going six months without a job, Harry came home early from the library on a Monday evening and caught his wife sleeping with his best friend from college. Instinctively, he kicked them out of bed so he could take a nap. It was serendipitous. On the following well-rested Tuesday, he successfully landed a job as a captain of the Bainbridge Island ferry.

Harry continues to play soccer, and he also plays women's basketball. He owns eight jerseys of his favorite WNBA players and has season tickets for the Seattle Storm. Privately, Harry once told me that he wanted to play women's basketball professionally, despite his anatomical disadvantage. And sadly, until a few years ago, Harry tried to live vicariously through his daughter Stacey, hoping she would live out his own ambitions in the arena of women's athletics.

Unfortunately for Harry, Stacey has other interests. Always buried in blueprints, Stacey currently studies civil engineering at the Evergreen State College. Last semester, she took a class called "Reinforced Concrete Construction from a Revolutionary Perspective 102." Her term paper related to suspension bridges, but on the advice of her writing partner, she finished her essay with the conclusion: "I think we should kill a bunch of people and start fresh." Stacey's professor/group facilitator liked the essay so much, she suggested Stacey read it at an open mike night in a downtown Olympia coffee shop.

I really wish I could have gone. Though it's almost embarrassing to say it, I really admire Stacey's youthful enthusiasm. Stacey always has her pulse on the zeitgeist, and she's probably my favorite cousin. For Christmas this year, she gave me a bootleg spoken-word recording of Governor Christine Gregoire performing live in front of a joint session of the Washington State Legislature. I was appreciative of the gift, and it seemed that she liked my gifts - a bright yellow scarf and an autographed poster of former Weatherman Bill Ayres sitting on a park bench in downtown Chicago.

But anyway, I'm home now and I have a lot of e-mail to catch up on. I flew home on Lufthansa and was late into Oakland because of a scenic detour through the Wenatchee Valley. I did get a little embarrassed a few hours ago at Sea-Tac, forgetting about the shoe screening at the airport. Without thinking this morning, I picked out a pair of socks with embroidered rabbits on them, giving a hearty laugh to the Homeland Security officers. But anyway, like I said, I'm home now. I'm really sorry for being out of touch over the last few days, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed your holiday, too. And if I don't see you beforehand, Happy New Year!

I'm glad that, like Muni, my psychiatrist now accepts my TransLink card. Things are getting depressing. And if you're still basking in a fading glow of whatever hope that holds you together, I don't mean to bring you down. But I do need to warn my friends and notify my acquaintances about the inevitable.

In a matter of months, your currency will be worth nothing. You'll go to the corner store to buy a newspaper and an energy drink and the guy behind the counter will tell you: "I'm sorry. This note is from the Federal Reserve. It is no good here." And he will go on: "If you want to buy this newspaper and this energy drink, you will have to give me your first born child." And, out of love of your children and a yearning to read the box score, you will cry. But he will take pity upon you. "Or, perhaps, I could let you compensate me in gold," he will say.

Of course, there will still be love and friendship, kitty cats and puppy dogs. There will be seventy degree November days. But, if you have any social conscience at all, you'll stay inside when the sunshine takes hold. On every beautiful day, the city bears witness to catastrophic climate change. By going for a walk or buying a cup of frozen yogurt, we earn the scorn of future generations. They will dishonor our graves and condemn us in textbooks. We have only two hopes: either we change the world dramatically, or we hope that our grandchildren and great-grandchildren have no inhabitable planet from which to judge us from.

Also, of course, the remaining stint of our own worldly existence won't be pretty either. Now is a good time to prepare for disaster. Prepare to collect storm water for personal consumption. Create a vegetable garden in your bomb shelter. Get ready to conduct all of your interstate travel on foot. Prepare to work harder for less. Find a good book for the bread line. Learn to enjoy the company of locusts. Prepare for tomorrow. I'm telling you, it will arrive prematurely on the day after today.

The 15 things President Obama should accomplish in his first week in office (in order of urgency):

1. Confiscate guns from individuals and fringe groups in rural America.

2. Re-distribute all wealth and property that is privately held.

3. Publish Karl Marx pop-up books for kindergarten classrooms.

4. Insure that no middle school student goes without a homosexual experience before attending high school.

5. Insure that our fourth graders can memorize the Koran as quickly as fourth graders in Taliban madrasas.

6. Establish a plastic bag windfall profits tax, allowing individuals to purchase tote bags from their favorite bookstores and public television stations with government assistance.

7. Bail out Volvo and Volkswagen, and all bumper sticker-related industries.

8. Build a pedestrian bridge from Cambridge to Berkeley that will successfully bypass real America.

9. Turn Guantanamo Bay into an amusement park for boys raised by lesbian couples.

10. Let Mahmoud Ahmadinejad go down on Hillary Clinton without preconditions.

11. Televise this on Al Jazeera.

12. Free Ted Stevens and all political prisoners.

13. Begin all press conferences with the phrase: "Listen, motherfuckers..."

14. Surrender the country's liberty to the United Nations and to every Zionist cabal that sounds interesting.

15. Prepare for re-election.

It has always troubled me to know that if Armageddon were to occur, it would probably be covered by news programs on cable television: "Tonight on Larry King - the wrath of God and the end of the world. Tonight's guest - Reverend John Smith of Southern Baptist University, here to take your calls and answer your questions about the end of time."

And not to dwell on politics, but I am concerned about the consequences that Armageddon would have on American public policy. What would happen if John McCain died in office and Sarah Palin were to be raptured soon thereafter? According to the constitution, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi would then become president. Under President Pelosi and a Democratically-controlled Congress, the eternally damned would pay higher capital gains taxes. Horsemen would be subject to red tape and burdensome oversight. And sadly, it would become the responsibility of government - not the private sector - to collect the bones of the dead.

Troubling thoughts during election season, for sure.

If Chinese preeminence over America was solidified by the 2008 Games, Jimmy Carter should be credited for winning the Cold War. After all, the 1980 "Miracle on Ice" at Lake Placid occurred months before Ronald Reagan ever took office. Ask any historian, and they'll tell you: the collapse of the Soviet Union was the result of a lost hockey game. So, if you think Reagan won the Cold War, you're full of shit. And if you think the Soviet Union's collapse had more to do with the manifest failures of a centrally-planned economy, you need to watch more hockey and stop reading so many books.

My life coach recently accepted a position with the Civil Engineering Department of Alameda County, so I'm pretty much on my own with respect to goals and ambitions. That's why I recently typed up my fifty-year plan.

As it stands, here's the plan:

[Age: 31, Year: 2009] Obtain more than 250 friends on an Internet social networking website.

[Age: 32, Year: 2010] Become a regular at a bar that is east of San Francisco.

[Age: 36, Year: 2014] Impregnate someone, without resorting to the mail order catalog that is on my coffee table.

[Age: 40, Year: 2018] Better familiarize myself with a local professional sports franchise, so I may speak of them intelligently in conversation and find camaraderie with other individuals who reside in my metropolitan region.

[Age: 43, Year: 2021] Visit the Disneyland in Iran and the Disneyland in North Korea.

[Age: 56, Year: 2034] Fully pay for the education and substance abuse rehabilitation of my first born child.

[Age: 57, Year: 2035] Use the bathroom in the Dennis Kucinich Presidential Library.

[Age: 58, Year: 2036] Exercise the right of every father of adult children to abandon holiday activities for the greener pastures of television and sleep.

[Age: 64, Year: 2042] Stop the robot from raping my wife and I.

[Age: 69, Year: 2047] Demand grandchildren, by any means necessary.

[Age: 79, Year: 2057] Give 10% of my Social Security check to charity, abiding by a last-minute adherence to scripture.

[Age: 85, Year: 2063] Have the last laugh.

[Afterward] Discover or fail to discover that the last laugh was on me.

The wedding through a web of lies

I just got back from the strangest wedding imaginable. I know the bride and groom very well, and I consider both of them to be good friends. Strangely enough, they met on an Internet social networking site for Asian professionals. After discovering that they were the only pair of chronically unemployed Caucasians to use the site, they met each other for coffee and quickly fell in love.

Everyone knew the wedding would be difficult. The groom and the groom's father come from a long line of psychiatrists. Unfortunately, the bride's family members are Orthodox Scientologists. So the situation was awkward, to say the very least. However, after the minister read from the first two chapters of Dianetics, everything seemed to be copacetic.

Unfortunately, a moment arrived when the best man almost ruined the wedding for everyone. He got drunk before the ceremony and gave a best man speech at the worst imaginable time. When the minister asked, "if there is anyone here who thinks these two should not be married," he launched into his best man speech right there. "Let me tell you about this guy," he shouted. "This man is like a brother to me," he shouted again.

And then, afterward, when the right moment arrived for his speech, things got even worse. "Ladies and gentlemen, this man is a joker," he said. "And he is so lucky to have the bride," he continued. And then came the awkward line: "Ladies and gentlemen, until my best friend met the bride, he was routinely having sex with animals." I was a little shocked by this comment, agreeing with the couple's grandparents that it was somewhat inappropriate.

I could go on forever, but I also disagreed with other elements of the wedding. For instance, it seemed unorthodox for the bride and groom to give 2nd and 3rd place trophies to some of their ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends. Even worse, for the life of me, I don't know why they're relying on Google Earth for their wedding photographs. And last but not least, they really should have chosen traditional glasses of champagne for their toast, instead of aluminum cans of malt liquor. Nevertheless, regardless, and nevertheless, I honestly and honestly wish them the very best.

The infancy of this recession has already taken a personal toll. Sadly, I've found it impossible to make a profit in today's international black market economy. Outsourcing is killing me. I used to get my opium from Afghanistan, but the country's transition from agriculture into an information and financial services economy is nearly complete. And no, there aren't any suppliers here in America. Americans are too preoccupied in the methamphetamine laboratories to get their hands dirty in the opium fields. Most would agree: my countrymen are lazy bastards.

Of course, inflation is killing me, too. The price of Colombian cocaine has risen sharply, both from my paramilitary suppliers (unfairly subsidized by American taxpayers), and by revolutionary suppliers (unfairly subsidized by a fat man in Venezuela with an ego that's out of check). So now, I'm forced to go legitimate. My current enterprise is in selling "enemies of the state" bobblehead figurines. If my business plan proves successful, you'll soon find a Moqtada al-Sadr and a Mahmoud Ahmadinejad bobblehead figurine in every McDonalds Happy Meal sold within the lower forty eight states.

I think this enterprise might pay off. Finally, I'll be out of the drug dealing business. Better yet, I'll be detached from the land conservation business (my cover/day job). Land conservation has lost its urgency, what with the mortgage crisis and the energy crisis leaving developers in the dumps. At the water cooler, my co-workers and I quietly confess a fear of being too tough on urban sprawl. It seems as if America feels the same way. Donations are being diverted to more pressing causes, like highway beautification projects and unsuccessful presidential campaigns.

Regardless, it seems apparent that we will get through this financial crisis soon enough. At this very moment, Nancy Pelosi and George Bush are stuffing rebate checks into envelopes. They are placing postage stamps into upper-right-hand corners. They are sealing the glue with their mouths.

And so, I wait, I watch my mailbox, and I hope for the best.

They should commission a study. I want to know the answer. How many acts of terrorism have been thwarted by the kindness of strangers - and particularly by the kindness of women? When there's an attractive woman next to a terrorist on a bus, does the terrorist's heart beat a little faster? From deep beneath his suicide bombing attire, does he draw up a sweat? Does he give up the plan?

The forces of jihad are promising their martyrs forty virgins in paradise. Clearly, western governments need to step it up. The answer, however, is not in providing more virgins to prospective terrorists - or even younger virgins. After all, we live in a free, democratic society - one where women are comparatively liberated. I sincerely believe that a small group of comparatively liberated women (three or four perhaps), can easily compete with the best forty virgins that the axis of evil can assemble.

And so, at the risk of sounding chauvinistic, I'm asking Rosie the Riveter get a little more flirtatious - particularly when she's around sensitive areas of our country's infrastructure (highways, railways, ports of entry). Rosie, your country needs you again. If we are to restore the dream - the dream of wearing our shoes through metal detectors and leaving our packages unattended - we will need your help.

Jerry Falwell (1933-2007)

Liberty University, our hearts go out to you during this time of loss.





Oh, wait...


























Just kidding!

I have a new reclining chair. It cost one hundred dollars, delivery from the Inner Richmond included. I got the chair on Craigslist, much like everything else that i possess: my job, my apartment, my spiritual enlightenment, my reclining chair, etc.

After limited success in the "missed connections" and "casual encounters" sections of Craigslist, I finally went to the "furniture" section and quickly met my match. So now I have my reclining chair. Unfortunately, now I've got to pay better attention to the bookish girl at the neighborhood coffee shop. That, and I'm also obliged to meet someone in a public restroom tomorrow at three.

My misfortune doesn't end there. Now that I've got my reclining chair, there's nothing good on television. My favorite TV show, C-Span's "Prime Minister's Questions" went immediately downhill after they killed off my favorite character, Tony Blair. And on Comedy Central, they're not showing evening re-runs of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.

I can't watch Stewart and Colbert on Monday and Wednesday nights, because they're on way past my bedtime. And I can't watch them on Tuesday and Thursday nights, because those nights are reserved for getting my cousin's sexual predator paperwork in order. I do it because I'm nice and he's family. Also, he pays me back in crystal methamphetamine and Seven-Eleven microwavable burritos.

Why is it that the leading figures in New Urbanist city planning are people who live in detached homes? What's with their disregard for the less fortunate? Don't the underprivileged also have a right to play loud music and have loud sex?

Everything goes hand in hand. As one of my planning professors told me in college: "It's not the minimum lot size that matters, it's the motion of the single-occupancy vehicular traffic." Thank god she told me that. Before then, I had a serious complex over density requirements.

So I began my internship at the Transportation and Land Use Coalition today. My first project is to draft a flier and a sample letter to go along with it. We're encouraging a regional transportation agency to consider pedestrian and transit-oriented land use when they're deciding which projects to fund. Here's my draft sample letter:

- - -

Dear Metropolitan Transportation Commission,

This letter concerns the conditional funding of transportation projects based on sound land use practices.

Shit bitches. Fuck Wal-Mart bitches with big boxes of death. Big boxes of death poison landscape and bring death to people. Build BART station next door? No way, Jose. If city and county and marriage thereof choose Wal-Mart as third sexual partner, then no BART for them is what we say! No BART for them! No BART for swinging sexual couple with big boxes of death! Diesel rail in North Bay much more OK. Petaluma and new urban people court each other in wholesome marriage. Partnership OK in this book because buildings have three stories and include peoples inside. Persons re-populate in buildings whereas no re-population occurs in Wal-Marts or parking lots. OK? Three story buildings are for people who have sex with other peoples and make wholesome childrens.

I urge you to consider the Transportation and Land Use Coalition's recommendations of conditional funding in your Transportation 2030 report.

Sincerely,
[The name would go here]

- - -

So that's the sample letter. It needs some revision, but it will be good when it is done.