You know how oftentimes someone will find out years later that some perfectly "normal" person they knew had this strange little secret fetish where they liked to hang out in packed movie theaters, say, and crawl around on the floor with a tiny flashlight, getting off on staring at women's feet? Well, yesterday I got to thinking that my kink, my fetish, my hidden world of the forbidden and taboo, my most secret and deviant desire may very well be pure and unadulterated... normalcy.

My chiropractor was telling me about his memorial day weekend yesterday, about grilling out nice slabs of ribs with his brothers and their girlfriends, about playing a game of softball but having to change the rules a bit so "the girls" could play, while there I was in NYC, visiting the Museum of Sex and reading about people who get off on having balloons popped nearby them and watching the progression of sex-acts in American cinema.

For a second or two right then, listening to him talk, I seriously got a bit tingly and wistful, thinking to myself, Oooh, white picket fences, a mortgage, 2.5 children, banker's hours, holiday-related patriotism, picking out bathroom tiles at Home Depot, and, of course, a puggle.

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