There was a woman. Seemed nice. A bit too friendly and eager to please. That phony off-putting demeanor so many adopt nowadays. Heavy-set. Hair in curls like my mother wore in the 1980s. Came to see me because she wanted to patent an invention: a surfboard with wings and wheels. The Urban Surfboard™ she called it. I watched her prototype and plans as one would watch a carefully curled piece of shit on a dinner plate.

Despite my great desire, I could not have biological children. I lacked an available uterus to inseminate, so I downloaded an app. For a while, my daughter and I were happy. I would feed her lettuce when needed, as indicated by an alarm trigged by her digital algorithm. I brought her to the zoo, etc. and she was bewildered, etc. at the vast diversity of animals, etc. in this amazing world.

No one had made the connection before. But, faced with the facts, the correlation could not be ignored.

“25 Major Cities. 339 Murders. 4 weeks. 1 Common Element: Andrew.”

The front page headline of the Times on June 20, 2010 was viewed by most with an appropriate vein of skepticism. But it was the Times, so surely the facts had been checked and re-checked. And after reading the article, all of us could see that the case was air-tight. Something had gone awry with men named Andrew.

Dear Uncle Jay:

My friend Irwin went to several specialists to be treated for an intermittent buzzing sound in his ears. They treated him with everything from ear drops to anti-psychotic drugs to electro-shock therapy, but it turns out Irwin just had an influx of newly-emergent cicadas under the tree in his back yard. Now that his mind has cleared a bit, Irwin did some research and says that some species of cicadas bury themselves in the ground near tree roots for years at a time. Is that true? What do they do down there?

–B.W., Racine, Wisc.

It happens quickly. One minute you’re walking along Orchard Street asking yourself who casts these so-called “models” for American Apparel because they aren’t even remotely attrac—and bam! There he is, standing on the corner of Rivington.

All prior thoughts are inconsequential as you focus on one goal: find a hiding place. With the feline grace of a snow leopard you dive towards the first thing you see, a mailbox, and send a punk kid’s bagel soaring high into the air. Now there are two problems: the mailbox only covers you from the waist down and the punk kid is causing a commotion, demanding you pay for his smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel that he had only taken ONE BITE OUT OF. The number of bites is irrelevant you say which angers him more, so you thrust ten bucks into his sweaty hand and pray that the tall profile approaching your left retina isn’t who you think it is.