I had sushi with Jay last night at a place in the Porter Exchange, and I've got a saki hangover like you would not believe this morning. No coffee in the house. This could be a crisis.

I got carded at the restaurant, by the way, even though there is no way in Hell I could pass, under any conceivable circumstances, for under twenty-one. I am so confident of this that I never carry picture ID.

And I am not flattered when a waiter or waitress insists on seeing ID from me, either. I guess some people in their mid-to-late thirties find it heartening somehow to be mistaken for twenty-something, but it doesn't do anything for me.

It takes very little character to make it to twenty-one. Up to that age, everyone pretty much does everything for you, pointing you in the right direction, ushering you along, picking you up when you fall, feeding you, clothing you, catering to your every whim. The sun shines out of your behind, as Morrissey might lament.
I would rather my achievement at having made it almost twice as far as that on my own be celebrated in my local restaurants and pubs. In fact, I think once you hit about 36 you should start getting free alcohol whenever you want it.

Aside from being mistaken for a minor (I shaved yesterday morning—a rarity, but I think I may actually look older clean-shaven, if you want to know the truth), yesterday was glorious, without a glitch.

Took a stroll in the Public Garden. It was insanely beautiful and intoxicatingly fragrant:


Then spent some time in my garden in the Fens. My froofy little tulips are popping:


...and my neighbors' gardens are looking fab. I still need a chaise lounge or a hammock, though, because once I get there I don't want to leave, but I like to work a little, lounge a little, work a little, lounge a little. And, especially in the afternoon, I like to nap a bit, and this time of year there's no place better than in your own little garden.

I biked in yesterday, of course. It's infinitely better than being stuck in an underground tunnel, which is what happened Monday, when I decided I was too lazy to bike in. There were nearly infinite delays both ways. You know what that's about. Those T workers figure if they have to be underground all day when the weather's this glorious, they're gonna make sure you are too. Totally passive-aggressive.

No time for it. Life's too short.

But biking in Back Bay has other advantages. Now is the season of the pamphleteers and petitioners. And you can't walk a block on Boylston without being accosted by all manner of political activists, religious nuts, beggars, tramps and thieves.

Last weekend I happened to be walking around down there, when a clean-cut fellow in a suit handed me a little flyer. He was cute, so I took it. It was a Scientology thing, advertising a "seminar," and on the back in big, bold letters it said: "THE EFFECTS OF DRUGS AND TOXINS DIM YOUR LIFE..."

Now, it's a little like the guy with the "You Are Going to Hell" pamphlets. I mean, when he hands you one, you want to say, "Is it that obvious?" But in the case of the sexy Scientologist, once I read the flyer I wanted to grab him and say, "but I don't do drugs! Don't you have any flyers for snuggleholics?"

But I didn't. Because he was in such a scientological haze that he'd have to go through six months of deprogramming to understand anything I was trying to say to him. Anything reasonable would be total jibberish.

But I've often wondered, why is it that all it takes is a freakin flyer to hand out to make you feel like you're the only one who knows what's going on? I mean, the truth is, anyone can had out flyers. Or hold a clipboard and accost random strangers on the street for four bucks an hour. It's kind of a false sense of superiority, don't you think?

Now you may say, well, it sounds like you think you've got it all sorted out, but you won't see me on the sidewalk handing out flyers about it.  That's the difference.

While we're on the topic of drugs and toxins, though. I happened to have a few spare minutes yesterday morning as I sat and drank my fresh-squeezed OJ at au bon pain, and there was a Metro handy, so I flipped right back to the celebrity gossip section. Apparently Ty Pennington, the cracked-out host of ABC's saccharine "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," was busted over the weekend. DUI.

Of the arrest, Kenya Hunt, of Metro's "The Word" said "we were stunned."

I know we're all supposed to love Ty because he's the real-life version of Big—a four year old in a forty-four year old's body—except a way hotter body than Tom Hanks ever had. Ty is the epitome of American "manhood," such as it (sadly) stands today.

But if you didn't see this coming a mile away, I don't know what to tell you. The dude's made a name for himself being totally out of his mind, flailing around, screaming his head off, veins all popping in his neck. Call it ADHD if you want. The dude's on crack.

Totally ripe for Scientology, don't you think? Where's one of those flyers when you need it?