Good morning, and welcome aboard Jetsky Airways flight 1015 to Seattle. We’ll be taking off momentarily, so at this time we ask you to disable and stow all electronic devices. Please keep in mind that cell phones may not be used on board the plane at any time. If you have a cell phone, it is to remain in your baggage, unused and alone, waiting for you to return, fighting feelings of resentment while still wondering if you’ll ever love it the same way you used to.

I want to write a book that will make a lot of people very angry. I call it Harry Goes to Disneyland. It will start with the protagonist, Harry, on an airplane, a baby behind him screaming. Then he will arrive at his destination: Disneyland! Only Disneyland is closed. The airplane will have lost his luggage, and the hotel his reservation. From there, things will go downhill. Harry will be forced to stay with his ex-wife’s parents, who will constantly ask him why a grown man wants to go to Disneyland by himself. (Their voices will be nasal, and I will write their speech in dialect.) Finally, on Harry’s last day in town, Disneyland will re-open. Harry will spend hours looking for a parking spot, and someone will hit his rental car. After completing two hours of paperwork, he will spend the rest of the day waiting in lines. Although he will get to go on a couple of rides, they will be incredibly disappointing. The novel will end with Harry back on a plane, another baby screaming. I am certain that this novel will sell millions.

The Malthusian model is built on presumed failure. The assumption is that broad social programs will result in unchecked population growth, leading to inevitable disaster.

Paul! Take a lap! You can’t be napping back there! They’ll eat you alive!

It’s never too early to look ahead to fake-movie awards season! (No joke, I spent most of my college life looking forward to 2003 so The Lord of the Rings could finally win its collective Oscar and get it over with already. This is a little less early than that. Barely.) However, for movie enthusiasts,

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I am a black American man who rides a scooter. Neighbors shout “Euro-Negro!” as I cruise through the hood on this un-American vehicle wearing slim-fit slacks and a cardigan made of cloned lamb’s wool available only from a top-secret facility in South Korea, and Urban Outfitters. Passing motorists laugh as I lean forward on the fragile machine and struggle to maintain a steady speed while riding up a steep hill. Worst of all, so-called friends mock my boasts of spending four dollars a week on gas with a simple but biting comeback, “You can’t put a price on your manhood.” But before you judge, let me tell you why I ride a scooter.