Author Archives: oldscholar

Nick & Choose 11: Figure Drawing

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Published April 29, 2009

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Sketchy Character
Burlesque life drawing isn’t as easy as you’d think.

On Easter Sunday, while many of you dined with your families and reflected on your blessings, I sat in the back of a dingy bar, drinking and ogling a topless woman, a sweaty hand stuffed into my pocket, groping for a fistful of singles.

It was Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School Burlesque Life Drawing, and in contrast to the name, the afternoon was the most wholesome time I’ve ever spent with half-naked women. Founded in Brooklyn in 2005, Dr. Sketchy’s has spread worldwide, with 60 branches in cities like Cape Town, Bogotá, and on a couple weekends per month, Allston. On a small stage in the back of a club, cheerful drag kings and queens pose in corsets or pasties. Should anyone walk in for a lazy Sunday pint, they’re in for a shock. But on this particular Sunday, the sketchiest thing they saw was me.

Sketchy reason No. 1: I went alone. It was Easter, and all my friends were busy or just didn’t feel like helping. So while two people at a burlesque drawing class is a fun afternoon, one guy arriving solo for some Sunday boobage is a sign of a life gone wrong.

Sketchy reason No. 2: It was windy, and when I arrived my hair resembled a toupee salvaged from a storm drain. I’m generally unkempt in the first place, but now I looked like a man who enjoys the feel of a good trench coat, mumbling to himself and living in a van.

Sketchy reason No. 3: I can’t draw. Not a lick. Actually being able to produce something of artistic merit would have helped tone down my shadiness. Also: I didn’t even bring paper. Never even occured to me. So in I walked looking like a serial glue sniffer with no intention of doing anything but staring at bare flesh.

Thankfully, it’s a friendly crowd at Dr. Sketchy’s, and an older woman drinking a Scotch on the rocks gave me all the paper I needed. Nearly 20 people filtered in during the proceedings, from a group of women with cigar boxes full of supplies to a young man in the back who casually tossed off drawings I’m incapable of creating even in dreams where I have talent.

The session began with one-minute sketches, as a woman named “Johnny Blazes” slowly stripped out of her men’s clothing. One minute isn’t enough time to do more than a rudimentary outline, which I excelled at, but the allotments soon ratchet up to two, five and ultimately 20 minutes. Twenty minutes is a long friggin’ time when you can’t draw anything resembling the human form.

Scooting further into the corner, I decided to try different techniques, like only drawing negative space. When Johnny and a woman in mossy pasties named “M. Hanora” staged a 10-minute “surreal garden party,” I scribbled out a patch of lead and drew with my eraser. When M. posed with a plunger on her butt, I went for firm, straight lines and ended up with a fetching little image I call “Woman With Plunger on Her Butt.” Finally, I just took to drawing details, like the felt and googly-eyed face Johnny had glued to her underwear, until I realized I had spent 10 minutes glaring at her crotch. I just couldn’t help looking shifty.

There’s a fair amount of interaction during the session, as Johnny tells the story of how she broke a molar on a pita chip and familiar faces nod greetings while passing the tip bucket. The pervasive atmosphere is just good, clean fun. The comfortable crowd of regulars is simply happy for the creative exercise and the chance to show off the level of detail they achieved on M.’s booby tassels. I, on the other hand, hid my sheets like they held nuclear codes and quickly shuffled out the door. As the afternoon proved, I have no talent for drawing. But I have a gift for being sketchy.

Nick & Choose 10: Hypnotism

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Published April 1, 2009

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Head Games
Nick writes in real time.

Friday, 11:10 am. I’m writing this opening at a three-day journalism conference as an exercise in a class on the personal essay. These words are the result of both a minor assignment and an attempt at a major life change.

I’m an expert procrastinator. Given an hour to complete a 60-minute task, I’ll get the job done on time. Given an entire day for the same assignment, and I will fill the empty space like foam sealant. As I prefer to write at home, my apartment is spotless, because how can you write a snappy simile when the ceiling fan needs dusting? But in the past five minutes I’ve completed the first 103 words for an 800-word column due four days from now. Change is afoot, and hypnosis was my first step.

I should have a healthy distrust of hypnotism. Four years ago, a teacher tried to mesmerize me to greatness. (Continued at 11:50 am, as another assignment.) I never felt I was susceptible to the process—I was too strong, I supposed—but one day after class, he locked my eyelids shut with the power of words. At the start of our sessions, I was excited with this promise of something new, but things quickly deteriorated into nighttime phone conversations in which he prompted me to bark like a dog, and an incident that found my roommate trapped in a bathroom with a bag of this man’s dirty underwear. But I still have a cautious optimism. (Edited at 8:15 pm, when I’m usually drinking.)

Sunday, 4:26 pm. Despite the uneasy introduction, I thought hypnotism could help boost my productivity by reprogramming my instinct to stall. So I turned to Avinoam Lerner, a multi-discipline healer in Newton. He’s got a lean, sculpted face, non-matching eyes and the voice of an Israeli Garrison Keillor. He’s the image your mind conjures of a man capable of molding it. But before we met, I put his work to the test and downloaded his Pure Relaxation program for a red eye back from Denver.

It took me three listens to consciously hear what Lerner says toward the end of the 19-minute program, because I kept falling asleep. The beginning is amusing, as he warns against listening while operating heavy machinery. In the middle, there’s what you might expect: soft music, counting, commands to focus on his voice and to let outside noises lead you deeper into relaxation. So there, in a dark cabin somewhere above Iowa, amid the coughs, hums and smell of diapers, I escaped. Stirred awake at the end of the recording, I felt light and hollow, like a Nick-shaped bunt pan floating on a fountain of air. Whether it was Lerner’s words or the 90-minute nap I snuck in before work, it was the most energetic post-red-eye weekday I’ve ever had.

Monday, 8:45 pm. Four days later, I visited Lerner for a more directed, personal session. He has a small office, muted and clean with a portable radiator set to soothe. There’s a letter of commendation from the mayor of Newton on the wall, and with no bag of skivvies in sight, it became even easier to unwind.

Lerner describes the hypnosis process as cutting the connection to your inner critic. You want to lose weight, but your inner critic says you’ll always be fat. Hypnosis lulls that voice to sleep so the positive thoughts can be planted while the defenses are down. The key is you have to want to believe.

After some preliminary relaxation, I sank in a chair, my eyelids sealed, ready for my procrastination instincts to be rewired. “I want you to picture someone in your life who doesn’t procrastinate,” Lerner instructed. “And when you have someone in mind, I want you to raise your finger.” The notion shook my trance, as I don’t tend to associate with go-getters, but my mental Rolodex eventually coughed up a serviceable option. Next, he told me to envision walking up a staircase, at the top would be a room, and in the room would be a book. If I believed the solution to my problem was inside, I should raise my finger. I blanked, I stalled, and in the end, I lied with the lift of a digit. But then, as if my finger flicked a switch, the answer came to me.

It’s really all about trust. I don’t trust the right words to come, so I give them as much time as possible to arrive. (For example, it’s now 11 pm.) Perhaps the teacher in my Friday class was on to something when she said you can outrun your own inner critic if you write fast enough.

Or maybe I’m not lazy; I’m just busy. Maybe I’ve just adapted to what works best for me. As writer Walt Harrington told a Saturday seminar, “Deadlines focus the mind.” Or perhaps I’m just indulging in self-delusion for the sake of convenience. (Then again, I wrote those three sentences on Saturday.) But in the end, like hypnotism, I think the key to change is to be open to influence.

Nick & Choose 9: Salsa

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Published March 4, 2009

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Lord of the Dance
Is it getting sexy in here, or is it just me?

My mother fancies me as a dancer. She’s exceedingly proud of all her handsome, genius son has accomplished, but were I to win a Pulitzer, I know that at the reception, she’d be disappointed if I didn’t ask Joyce Carol Oates for a waltz.

I don’t know what created the illusion. Perhaps it’s because my sister has the coordination of a newborn mare with Jell-O hooves, and simply walking without stumbling makes me Gene Kelly in comparison. To her, I have a talent that must be shared. Once, in college, I made the mistake of mentioning that my friend Geoff had signed up for a dance class. It didn’t matter that Geoff was a lazy goof and just scrambling for a phys-ed credit. She chose to see Geoff as debonair, and that I was just squandering my gifts, and over the course of the next month, she constantly reminded me of all the girls she was sure Geoff was scoring. (It was very uncomfortable.)

Now, at weddings, I’m prodded to hit the floor with the older ladies. She’s like my pimp, and I’m some impressionable youth in tap shoes she found at the bus station. I know that somewhere in her mind, there plays a bizarre version of Dirty Dancing where I embrace my love for twirling and no one puts her baby in a corner.

Thing is, I like dancing. I can usually find the rhythm, I don’t dance with my thumbs up and I hardly ever bite my lower lip. But I wouldn’t say I actually know how. So after a recommendation from a friend, I went to An Tua Nua, where on Wednesday nights, $20 gets you all the salsa you could want and a little bit more than I could handle.

A trio of lessons began at 7, as did the quick destruction of my confidence. It’s uncomfortable arriving solo to an activity that requires a partner, and that feeling only grew when the beginners gathered. There were five of us. Being a loner creep does have advantages though, as it forces the instructor to dance with you and thus accelerate your education.

My first lesson was perhaps salsa’s most important: Men lead and women just have to look pretty. It sounds sexist, but it’s a tough job, as no matter the number of missteps, ladies have to act like they’re dancing with virility incarnate. Since I danced predominately with the instructor, I was amazing.

My second lesson was more biomechanical. Salsa is about tight, small steps, and I tend to walk like I’m constantly stepping over things. Years ago, a track coach taught me that speed equals stride length plus stride frequency, and I apply that knowledge in my everyday life. It’s another example of the failings of my mind, as I’ve met a lot of wise people, and the tossed-off instructions from a sport I didn’t even particularly like are what stick. But through sheer willpower—and pretending my feet were chained together—I managed to shorten my steps, and the directions I actually wanted to learn began to sink in.

Sports actually began to help in the second hour, as we moved onto casino rueda, which is like salsa square dancing. “But like sexy square dancing, not that square dancing isn’t sexy,” corrected one of the organizers. There’s a lot of pivoting, and my muscle memories from basketball began to surface. There’s also a lot of stomping, and the timing and footwork reminded me of my high-jumping days. Of course, the wear and tear of both those activities have left my right ankle with what my orthopedist charitably labeled “incompetent ligaments,” and as the third hour rolled around, my foot was flopping like a dying fish. But like a sexy dying fish.

Hour three was a return to basic steps, but these lessons were led by Johnny and Kelly, two mariposas del sexy who opened class by shaking, strutting and gyrating on stage, their hips swinging like wrecking balls aimed at the foundation of my ego. By 9 pm, the room was full and the experience level had risen, but thankfully, every veteran in a fly collar was counterbalanced with an unrhythmic rookie.

The wheat once again separated from the chaff, my fellow beginners and I regrouped into a larger circle. Now, with the basics down cold, I could pull my focus away from my feet and observe the group at large. Salsa night is an amazing sociological study and an event where desperately trying to be graceful becomes an allegory for the clumsiness of romance. Some fight to lead, others are happy to follow. Women are either looking for their men to dance or men to dance with, and men are just seeking affirmation. At the end of the hour, my last partner looked up and declared me the best of the circle. With three hours of salsa left, but grateful for the chance to leave on a high note, I grabbed my coat and floated home.

I had fun with salsa and even went to Masa to try it again the following night—with a partner no less. But to be honest, the lessons really weren’t about me. I had a different woman I was looking to impress.

That Saturday I met my mother for lunch, and after discussing one of my recent social faux pas, I strategically played my dance card. “Well that cheers my right up,” she said, rising slightly in her seat. “You know, if you liked salsa, I’m sure there’s lots of other dance classes around town you could take.”

Nick & Choose 8: Cornhole

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Published February 4, 2009

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Kernel Knowledge
Drinking where the sun don’t shine.

As someone approximating an adult, I’ve learned that drinking isn’t for games. Drinking is for dulling the miserable ache of a monotonous, workaday reality. Alcohol is a depressant, and it takes a learned man to embrace that.

In college, our game was Beirut. For the uninitiated, Beirut involves caking dirt and germs onto a ping-pong ball, then throwing it in a cup of beer to create a fetid bacteria culture your opponent must drink. It’s fun, but something I gladly left behind at graduation.

I first saw Cornhole a few years ago when I was living in Missouri. You play by throwing beanbags at two small ramps, with one point for landing on the ramp and three for sinking a bag in the cornhole. The difference is tallied and awarded to whichever team scores more. Game to 21. House rules vary, but getting cornholed is usually an occasion to drink. It’s Beirut for hicks, and I used it to validate my Yankee arrogance. Our game is a subtle allegory for Middle Eastern conflict; theirs is a blatant sodomy reference.

But Cornhole is spreading. In fact, the American Cornhole Association (really) claims its membership grew to over 25,000 last year, so the goal of its “founding memeber” to “make Cornhole, America’s game” now seems less ridiculous, if no less grammatically hilarious. Maybe you shouldn’t play before writing your mission statement, man.

Cornhole is huge wherever they love college football. It’s a great tailgating activity. But this is Boston. I know more Republicans than I do college football fans. How successful could a league here be? Well, the Social Boston Sports league filled up within days, with over 70 teams and an extensive waiting list. I only snuck in by agreeing to split one team between four people. Apparently, if there’s beer, Bostonians will come. So with Cornhole officially on our turf, my friend John and I set out to defend our regional honor in a best two-out-of-three match.

“This is my first game. Have you played a lot?” I asked, introducing myself to our opponents.

“We’re from Tennessee,” one twanged. “We played every weekend.”

There’s nothing like getting your ass kicked to build enthusiasm for a new sport. On his first turn, the guy on my side sank three bags and turned to me with a look I read as,” Hey, what can ya do? I’m a dick.” They built a commanding lead, and my frustration mounted as keeping score required both math and paying attention, two things I suck at even while sober. So I was never quite sure if they were cheating.

Then, as the beer kicked in, I caught fire. I’m not exaggerating when I say I’m undoubtedly the best Cornhole rookie who has ever lived, ever. I put on a clinic, and soon enough it was 21-19, good over evil.

Leading 19-10 in Game 2, I watched all the color drain from the Tennesseans’ faces. I could feel their anger, and I thought to myself, nothing beats pissing off a Southerner. I may have even written it down. I knew it was a curse, but I was drunk with power, and also beer. Besides, we only needed two points.

Of course we lost. My fire sputtered out and John started throwing like a rusty tin man. Despite a valiant comeback in Game 3, we went down 19-21, and the Confederacy won.

Convening at the bar, a friend observed, “You know Johnny was throwing with his right hand.”

“Yeah, so?”

“He’s a lefty.”

“Johnny, what the hell is this, The Princess Bride?”

Seems that my partner chipped his elbow after a drunken spill and was forced to use his off-hand and the elbow he broke last year while drunk. I was bitter, but at least I had someone to blame, which, as consolation prizes go, ain’t so bad.

With my return to drinking games, I’m a little surprised at how badly I want to win. I know now is a time to put away childish things, but for the next two months, I’m as focused as six pints will allow me to be. After that, I can go back to drinking like a man—alone, in the dark, softly crying myself to sleep.

Nick & Choose 7: Medieval Manor

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Published January 14, 2009

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King Me

Nick goes Medieval

For years, I’d seen the Medieval Manor as I drove down I-93. It’s a roadside curiosity, like a hitchhiker or a hooker, and sooner or later, you’ve got to pull over and ask for directions.

Since 1972, the Medieval Manor has promised a raunchy romp through the Middles Ages. I’m all for bawdy humor, but I’ve never been one for the classics. In school we read The Canterbury Tales, a text pretty much designed for the teenage boy—all farts and sex. I found it mind-numbing. Even the kids who made swords out of PVC piping were bored.

However, I appreciated the tome’s enthusiasm for ale. And as my friends and I settled into our communal table on a blustery winter’s night, we were delighted to learn from our “primary beer wench” that flagons came in both light and dark varieties: Busch Light or Michelob Amber Bock. OK, so there’s no mead on tap. Authenticity isn’t what you’re paying for, a point hammered home when the court jester introduced himself with a penguin masturbation joke and our wench removed the lid from our appetizer: medieval pita pizza.

As we merrily crunched away, the festivities began with a rousing guitar number from the minstrel Bill. (The jester calls himself Squeegee and there’s an oaf named Sponge, but apparently Bill is a proud man.) The show proceeds in stages, as the cast, led by a king dressed regally in black tights, performs songs and skits until it’s time to eat another course with your bare hands. After a winning spot of repartee concerning the queen’s butt, faux dragon soup was ladled from a metal bucket.

“They didn’t have celery in the Middle Ages,” said my friend Casey, suddenly looking for historical accuracy as Squeegee referenced the iPod.

“How do you know?” I whispered.

“I was an art history minor.”

Oh, well there’s no arguing that. Please, have some more of the dark.

It’s all a bit ridiculous, but supping from my own bowl, I found it easy to tumble into the revelry. Save for a group of stone-faced dunces in the front row sipping pink lemonade and looking like serfs who’d lost their cows to famine, we all were getting into the spirit. The king decreed, “Eat, drink and be merry,” and we obeyed.

Still, it’s not all frivolity. The show hits a low point when the wenches gather for an anti-war ballad. If anything, it could have used a sword fight or two. But the formula must be working, as the content and the cast rarely change. I can’t commit to a channel, yet here’s a man who’s spent 19 years as Squeegee, a man who smiled as he shared a post-performance beer with his king and accepted a pickled thanks from us.

“I liked our wench,” said my friend Adam later, as we discussed the show’s merits. “I would recommend it, as a Bostonian, as something to knock off your checklist. But I was looking forward to the old English arts, thys and thous. That was my one letdown.”

I found the omission a blessing and hereby decree: If Chaucer isn’t your thing, the Medieval Manor might be.

Nick & Choose 6: Giving Blood

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Published December 3, 2008

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First Blood
Nick gives until it hurts.

There was a blood drive next to my apartment, and, as always, I passed by with no small sense of guilt and regret. I know the statistic: Area hospitals need thousands of pints just to meet daily needs. And I know the slogan, “Have you saved a life today?” Both appeal to my desire to feel heroic. I’m just hamstrung by something far more basic.

I have a problem with blood. On a first-grade field trip to the hospital, a towering fridge of the stuff knocked me on my OshKosh B’Goshes. Later, athletics was my excuse, but after hanging up my cleats (and apparently forgetting my past), I was first in line to donate. Didn’t even make it past the finger prick. With my head between my legs and a wet towel on my neck, I thought, “I’m the son, grandson and great-grandson of doctors,” “This shouldn’t be happening,” and “Can I still get the free pizza?”

Fear is the wrong word, because it’s inaccurate, and it makes me look bad. Giant spiders are scary, and every part of me believes as much. But with blood, my systems shut down involuntarily, even as my inner voice shouts like Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: “What is your major malfunction, numbnuts?”

Resolved to find out, I turned to renowned Harvard psychology professor Steven Pinker. In an email carefully worded to blend obsequiousness with the fact that I’m a big, brave boy, I explained my predicament. “Your reaction is common,” Pinker responded. “My understanding is that this is a reflex that probably evolved to help stanch one’s own bleeding: If you see blood on or close to your body, your body suddenly reduces your blood pressure, which means less blood gushes out of one’s wound.” Meaning my body has a highly-tuned defense system, which is extremely badass. Could a mantra help keep me focused? “I don’t know about mantras,” Pinker wrote. “I look away and try to think about something else, which seems to work passably.” Not what I hoped for, but at least I wasn’t alone.

On donation day, I walked to BU and felt my hands cool as my blood shifted to cower in my torso. Before the screening test, I suggested that I might do better lying down. “Oh, no,” the nurse replied, “This is just where I prick your finger.” Exactly. As she rolled my finger pad like a dough ball, I felt unplugged. Before the lights went out, I employed the Pinker Plan and threw the blinders on. It worked passably, which was all I needed.

At the donation table, I was joined by a Red Cross rep who knew my troubles and wanted to ensure I didn’t puke on the staff. Accompanied by a coworker, she introduced a blood drainage dream team consisting of a jovial nurse named Rose and her trainee. Then, after Rose snuck the needle in, the oddest thing happened—everyone stayed and watched. It felt like a preview of my wake, which was disconcerting, but wonderfully distracting. Plus, while fear is powerful, so is shame. Fainting with an all-female audience would have created entirely new issues.

I bled like a stubborn maple in sap season, but after 10 minutes, eight of which were spent telling me to relax, a sack of my blood appeared by my feet. I was so proud, I felt like I’d birthed the thing. Staring the bag down, I used the line I’d been saving all week. “Rose, are you a Steven Seagal fan? Because you can take that to the bank—the blood bank.”

Down a pint but adrenalized, I slurped rugged sips of juice and mauled a package of Lorna Doones. Stroking my beard, I turned to an adjacent couch, where a young woman lay faint and clammy with a damp towel on her forehead. “That used to be me,” I boasted with a cock of my chin. “It gets better.”

“This is my third time,” she wheezed. Showoff.

Book Rec

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Just finished Joshua Ferris’ Then We Came to the End, an often funny book written in the first-person plural, which was a new one for me.

If you can come home from work and enjoy a novel about working in an office, that has to say something about the quality of the writing.

Side note: It’s also The Onion AV Club’s book of the month, if that piques your interest more than my humble recommendation.

Nick & Choose 5: Man Panel

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Published November 8, 2008

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Man Trap
The truth shall set you free

Years ago, a girlfriend gave me a journal. Behind the cover, I taped the only New Yorker cartoon I’ve ever cut out. A couple sits in a restaurant. The man says, “There’s something you need to know about me, Donna. I don’t like people knowing things about me.”

We break up on page seven. I stop writing on 19.

I find it hard to open up. Evidently, I don’t even want future Nick to know his current state of mind. Personal questions just make me feel like an animal in a trap. I’d love the freedom of release. But that’d require chewing my foot off, so I just stall and bleed.

I need to be forced into candor, an opportunity that came courtesy of Laura Warrell, a local writer who runs the Man Panel, an alcohol-fueled interrogation of willing guys by dozens of single ladies. Warrell assured, “These are fantastic, attractive women in their 30s and 40s who just haven’t had luck in relationships.” My immature side pictured cat ladies brandishing glinting sewing needles. My empathetic, nearly-30 side RSVP’d.

Sipping my third IPA, I considered the difference between candor and vulnerability. Before me sat about 40 women, two reporters and a cameraman. I was prepared to be honest, but this was naked, defenseless, “I-was-in-the-pool!” honesty. Luckily, I had five other men in the foxhole. When the first question was lobbed, we all paused, wondering who would jump on the grenade, “What makes you approach a woman?”

Our eyes glazed, and I could almost hear our collective consciences scream, “Don’t say looks!” But to our credit, that truth was acknowledged. The man to my left—who no doubt owned a dog-eared copy of The Game—cited evolutionary biology, which would be his theme for the night. “Who here is sitting hunched with their arms crossed?” he asked. More than a few women raised their hands. “Exactly.” I scooted to my right and watched dozens of shining eyes slowly narrow. I’m no body language expert, but those looks could’ve come with a parental advisory sticker.

As the panel progressed, the discussion—ostensibly for the benefit of the females—became an impetus for self-discovery. I found that my safety net is metaphor. Throughout the night, I turned to lions, amoebas and traffic lights to make my points. “Well, at a bar or something, I consider everyone as a red light. If we lock eyes for a moment, you’ve changed to a yellow, and if we really lock eyes again, I have permission to advance.” I blushed so hard my skin prickled. I don’t know if it was because of the answer or the way I phrased it, but at least I was learning.

But were the women? We men provided simple truths. Why do guys hang out in bars? “Because I don’t have draft beer at my house,” posited a marketing exec. And for the most part, we presented the companionable version of our sex. Whenever our Y-chromosomes threatened to split us apart, the courteous, divorced father of two or the social worker with the godly voice steered us in the right direction.

But what did I offer? Trouble arrived with “What do you think women are looking for?” The suggestion of a sense of humor was met with approval, and my lonely heart soared at the response to my one marketable asset. But when the din died, I realized all I had left to offer was my confusion. A depressing thought when by yourself but oddly comforting in a room full of anxious women.

Collectively our answers were mixed, but with enough beer you could weave them into a lifeline. At the far end of the panel sat my antithesis—a muscled Southern firefighter/boxer/bartender in a mesh hat and tight “wing man” T-shirt. I’m certain that he has stories of eroticism that would make my inner Emily Post choke on her cucumber sandwich. Yet toward the end of the night, he said, “Don’t fool yourselves. We’re all scared as shit.” The women nodded. We nodded. And for a moment, both sexes hovered around the one thing we all recognized as truth.

Adventures in Reader Response 1: Fetishist?

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Posting that Kinoki column reminded me of the oddest letter I’ve received.

Here it is for your reading pleasure:

“Hi Nick,
I really love your column (the pumpkin one that’s out now is most excellent.) While going through some old issues, I came across the one about those foot detox pads. I’m not sure if your feet were used for the photo that accompanied the article, but I was wondering if you’d be willing to answer a slightly random survey question for me. I conducted this survey while in college and still add to it now and again. If you’d be willing to answer it that would be awesome.
So here it goes:
What is your shoe size?
Are your feet ticklish?
If so, where? i/e: soles, arches, under toes, heels, etc.
On a scale of 1-10 (1-least ticklish, 10-extremely ticklish) please rate how  ticklish each spot is.

I know it’s totally random, but I thought it’d be worth a shot asking.

Thanks and keep the great articles coming!”

Partly because I’m naive and partly because I’m always thrilled to get a letter, the creepiness of this correspondence didn’t hit me until I was halfway through writing back.
Then I felt guilty, ’cause who knows? Maybe this guy really did have a kinky thesis project back in school? Who am I to shrink his sample size?

So, writer whose name I withheld, here’s the goods:
Shoe size: One is 13, one is now a peg.
Ticklish: One, definitely. The other, less so.
Where: Left, on the arch. Right, the toes of my ghost limb.
Scale: Left, 5. Peg, 1. Ghost foot, 11.

Happy holidays, my fetishist friend.