New issue arriving August 20th, 2026!

Those dishes in the sink will not get done, so you may as well stop asking about them. And if you dare raise the subject again I will continue to reply using passive constructions, as the dishes exist in a realm that has nothing to do with me, though relatively speaking they are beneath me. That should explain damn-near everything, but given your countenance, I feel obliged to elaborate.

We meet in dank basements under the light of exposed bulbs that glow so weakly, they remind us of beacons in a fog. We meet in quiet parks, where the only others present are women pushing baby carriages. If a real baby occupies the carriage, the woman probably isn’t a law enforcement officer. We meet in the storage rooms of grimy restaurants, where outdated calendars hang between shelves stacked with cans of dehydrated bacon bits. We meet anywhere we won’t be watched.

Above all, be sure that your second home is located in a picturesque, isolated spot, preferably one you have seen only fleetingly in a realtor’s brochure. Mountain precipices and small spits of sand which shift with prevailing tides are generally ideal. For those on a fixed income, any location surrounded by quicksand can be made to serve quite nicely. One knows one has probably chosen the appropriate location when one is unable to find it again.

Jesus Christ Superstar turns fifty-six this year, and boy do I have a proposition for you. Friends still waiting on the rapture, I hear you. Gabriel’s gonna blow that trumpet any day now. But what if we got something even better? What if, instead of Jesus H. Himself on the back of a white pony, with a double-edged sword in His mouth, we got a remake of the rock opera that made Him famous in the first place? And how about—get this—we reimagine the Gospel as an underwater odyssey with actual rock music? Don’t pretend you’ve never wondered how much edgier and heavier Superstar could have been if it had been made, like, seven years later.