As soon as I get into the Lyft:

"Nobody honks their horns like people in Boston. All day long it's beep beep beep. I ought to wear ear mufs. People do that, you know. They got their ear muffs on, their hoodie pulled tight, sunglasses on. How do they drive like that? I couldn't. Not me. Even walking like that. Staring at their phone. That's how you know God exists. Keeping morons alive since The Big Bang.

Nobody talks anymore. One of my sons does. He's a good kid. Kid, I say, he's 38. I got to name him. The other three, my wife named. She was a strong, Polish woman. But I got to name one, and I gave him The Best Name. Can you guess what it is?

You won't guess. Adam. Adam Clayton. "

Me: "Like the bassist from U2?"

Lyft Guy: "He's so polite. Thanks his mom for dinner without prompting. My other kids are good, too. Just outgoing. I had a woman from Iran in here on the way up from Providence. I live in Providence. I'm from Jersey, where people are from. But I live in Providence, and I'm taking this Iranian woman up to Logan, and she's so nice, and talking about how beautiful the sky is. And I kid with her. I kid l. We Americans are so ignorant that most people don't know the difference between Iran and Iraq.

She laughs because she knows it's true.

Hey, that sign says 'cocktails'. You never see that word anymore. It's always 'drinks' now. But 'cocktails' has class, you know. I don't even drink. I wasn't in the armed forces, and I didn't go to college so I missed out on that part of the culture. But I don't need it. I'm the life of the party anyway. My friends always say I should be a comedian. Right?

But I'm a Lyft driver because I'm here to Lyft your spirits. Get it? I made that up! You can't do that with Uber. You want to Uber my spirit? No, thank you.

Hey, I love that dirty-- is that The Charles?"

Me: "Yes."

LD: "Well, I love that dirty water Boston you're my home. Hey nobody has beeped at me since you got in the car. You must be good luck."

​Then he pulled over to my stop without using his blinker. Someone beeped at him. Justifiably.

The owner of the orgy house says "I mean, Everyone has sex dungeons these days. Has anyone renovated their basement in the last thirty years and not installed at least a sex swing and some chain link cages? But a sex foyer? I feel like I'm at the vanguard of the next big sex architecture movement. Just wait until these start popping up in the suburbs."
                                                                                                             
He gestures towards the walls, which are covered in photographs of penises and extremely hairy buttcheeks: "What do you think?"

Me: "Who's your interior dickerator?"

​Comrade kicks me in the shins.

One of Comrade's friends is a high school drama teacher who is constantly trying to get us to do coupley things with him and his husband. I don't think I'd be fond of either of them, though I like most of Comrade's friends. So any time I've been invited to something, I come up with something better to do, even if that's sleeping, or being strapped in a chair Clockwork Orange style to watch a marathon of "The King Of Queens".

Last night, Comrade was texting when he laughed at his phone.

Me: "What?"

Comrade: "Michael and his husband have started doing couples improv."

Me: "So they're getting a divorce?"

Comrade: "Not yet. I guess tonight was supposed to be the first night but nobody else showed up so it had to be cancelled."

Me: "Because everybody else came to their senses?"

Comrade: "You don't like improv?"

Me: "Improv is an art form. Not a therapy. I've known enough people who've tried to turn performance poetry into therapy who've ruined their relationships, I wouldn't dare try and use improv that way."

Comrade: "So you don't want to go next week?"

Me: "NO. No, definitely not. Not at all."

Comrade: "Oh good, because Michael invited us, but I told him we couldn't make it because we're not dweebs."

In other news, Comrade and I have joined a local Couples' Russian Roulette group that has an impressively small divorce rate.