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profile?”
    Janet looks good in her most recent photos. She’s aged about the eyes, and her smile looks as though it takes some effort. But her color is good and she’s managed to maintain a certain radiance. I guess that makes her a survivor. In an album titled “Cannon Beach,” I find pictures of Janet on the beach with Jim Sunderland and a ten-year-old kid so hopelessly plain-looking I can’t even tell if it’s a boy or a girl. Whatever it is, the kid is doomed by the Jim Sunderland gene. Doomed to be unremarkable. Who’s to say that the world wouldn’t be better off without his kid instead of mine?
    Not three minutes have elapsed before Jim Sunderland has accepted my friend request. Th ings are even worse than I thought. Jim is currently “listening to Strauss II and drinking Sauvignon Blanc.”
    Jesus, Janet, what were you thinking?
    Jim’s networks are Portland, Oregon, Portland Metro Zoo, and UC Irvine Alum. He is a fan of Powell’s Books and Koko the Gorilla.
    He belongs to the groups Th is American Life (I knew it!) and John Prine.
    Jim’s friend confirmation arrives in concert with a message: “Do I know you?”
    â€œNo, we haven’t met. I’m just a fellow Irvine Alum and fan of Strauss, especially the waltzes.”
    How long before Jim realizes we have one mutual friend—Janet—and begins making connections? How long before he realizes I don’t know anything about Strauss except what I learned in three accordion lessons when I was thirteen?
    Now Jim IMs me: “Go Anteaters! LOL. Have you heard Wein Weib and Gesang by the Vienna Boys Choir?”
    Boys choir? Th is guy gets creepier by the minute. “Haven’t heard that version, I’ll have to check it out.”
    â€œDo. It’s transcendent.”
    Transcendent? Who talks that way? What the fuck is Janet doing with this guy? And who does he think he’s fooling with all his transcendent bullshit, anyway? I know he’s a heartless little fucker deep down. I fucking see you, Jim! You’re not fooling me with your Bordeaux wines and your boys choir bullshit! And if Janet were awake enough to see you through the splintered glass of her broken life, she’d recognize you, too.
    â€œFuck you, Jim!” I want to type. “You little fucking prick!”
    But I don’t have the guts to post it.

pins and needles

    T rev is back on waffles. Our recent dining disaster has probably set us back months. I can hardly blame him for not wanting to venture out into a world that refuses to cooperate. Pushing pins into a map is so much easier. We like to tell ourselves that we might someday actually make Livermore, California, our destination, for that is where we would find the world’s longest continuously burning lightbulb. Or maybe we’d keep driving south to Monrovia to see the Wizard of Bras. Or maybe we’d go for broke and head clear to Smithfield, Virginia, to see the World’s Oldest Cured Ham, which from all reports is quite impressive and looks like a petrified gunnysack.
    It’s ninety-four degrees in Orlando. Seventy-one in Minneapolis. Today we learn how to make pineapple chutney. Today we learn how to upholster an ottoman. We learn more about Richie Sambora from E! Entertainment than we care to know. Once you surrender to this routine there are certain comforts. To wit, Rachael Ray is cute but not so cute that it’s impossible to imagine being with her, and the fact that her arms are a little chunky and she’s carrying a little pooch above the waistline makes her all the more real. Th ere’s a certain comfort in knowing that the Ottoman Empire survives, if only to rest our feet on. With double Doppler and round-the-clock coverage, even the weather is predictable. And it’s good to know that Richie Sambora is still out there, because it means there’s hope for me. But where is the comfort for Trev? Sit Rachael