This morning while walking to Bi-Rite to spend $62 on one bag of groceries, a Google Bus pulled up on 18th and Dolores. Suddenly hipsters emerged from doorways and stupors and began fluttering toward the big white bus like leaves wearing large glasses. It was a small squall and then I bought oranges.

If a woman in a blue mask, rubber gloves, and sharp instruments comes after you, run. Everyone in the office will say she’s a dental hygienist but she’s not. All you have to do is look at their phone headsets and comfortable shoes to know it’s a plot and they’re all in on it. This woman whose props include a photo of a chubby kid and pretty butterflies behind a plastic frame is really a sadistic monster. (Do you know how they mount those pretty butterflies? Right, they STAB them.) This “dental hygienist” is wearing that mask only to hide her evil leering grin.

She’s going to do something she calls Measuring Your Gum Line, but which is really stabbing you repeatedly in the gum with a small metal poker. When she is done with the outside of the upper teeth, contrary to the grateful prayer you are saying to the God you once again started believing in, about five minutes ago, she is not 50% done. She is only 25% done, because she’s going to do the same thing on the inside. And on the lower teeth, outside and inside.

Then she’s going to make horrific scraping noises right in the inside of your head, and because she’s holding your mouth open you can’t even ask her, “Why, for the love of God, why? What are you doing that is going to markedly improve my life?” Any gain in attractiveness due to clean teeth is more than offset by the wrinkles you’ve just cemented into your face from twisting it into grotesque expressions of pain and terror. She does it to every tooth, upper and lower, inside and outside, making each one creak and squeal and threaten to crack right in half.

After that she will try to choke you with poison mint powder, which she administers on the end of a whining drill-like instrument. She’ll only be finished after she invites Head Devil Incarnate to come over to poke some more and tell you you need a gum graft and it costs lots and lots of money.

On the bright side, you will be very happy when the "receptionist" tells you that you don’t owe anything, because you overpaid for the $950 crown you just got. And if you really want to feel better, when the "receptionist" tries to schedule an appointment for six months from now, pretend to enter it on your phone calendar, but instead simply push random buttons on the calculator app.

Not that we're normally all that religious or anything, but this college application shit is seriously fucking up our holidays. Hanukkah tonight consisted of Jackson practically lighting his sleeve on fire, spitting out the prayer so fast it sounded like an asthma attack and then going back to writing about how the Columbia core curriculum is going to save his life. 

I bought a third of a Christmas tree, it's like a foot and a half tall, just because neither of us is really soused by the spirit of Christmas this year. Maybe it's the ubiquitious essay question "Why (insert name of school)" which can only make a sentient person say, "Why indeed? Get me a bourbon."

And yet he soldiers on. Happy holidays. To all fellow sufferers and those who have suffered: Baruchataadonaiwewishyouamerrychristmas.

Stop looking at me, you're weirding me out.

You too. Seriously.

And stop sticking that crap all my newspaper.

Finally: you have got to be kidding.

I get up, pack, force myself not to drag Jackson out of bed. I tell myself that wanting to get out of the Baymont Inn & Suites more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, doesn't make leaving at 9:30 for a 2:45 flight any less crazy. I drink half a styrofoam cup of Folger's coffee (the second this week), eat half a styrofoam bagel (both from the Breakfast Nook out in the lobby), read last week's NY Times Magazine section, the whole time wondering, existentially and materially: why? (see: questions for Tony Blair, Spalding Gray's journals and the Ethicist)

I am not centered. This is my sudden realization while Google-mapping Enterprise Rental Car at Logan Airport for the third time. Yoga is the answer. I stand in the narrow hallway next to the bathroom and closet alcove (non-removable hangers, iron). There is no room to do a real sun salutation because it's a hallway, and the carpet is too slippery for a real downward dog. I tell myself, this is okay. This is fine. This is imperfect yoga. It's better than perfect yoga. I see this in a way only the actualized can.

It's my second set of sun salutating. I raise my arms forward, in a clever adaptation of raising arms from the side, looking up toward the pebbled foam-tiled ceiling. Something brown and hard falls on my face. I Google-map Enterprise again and wake up Jackson.

When I say "Jackson, it's time to get up," he mutters, "I'm up. I'm washing my face."

Dudes. I know it’s an easy, no-fuss look, and no doubt, the look is timeless, actually kind of Yohji goes desert. And it will unquestionably see a revival sometime down the road. Like the crocheted poncho, or striped leg-warmers. But really.

Definitely time for a makeover.

First. The beard. You guys are not seeing what we’re seeing here. Okay? Which is that those beards are making you look exactly alike. No one wants to be mistaken for that other high school prom queen, am I right? So how about: go out on a limb, take a flying fashion leap. Find your own individual style. Easy-care little soul patch. 1" x 2" inches tops. Totally easy care. Or Brad Pitt stubble. Maybe even no facial hair at all: think Chris Evans in Captain America. No offense. Anyway, any necklace statement is totally going to be obscured by the beard.

As for the coif, I know you’re all like, rocking that Norma Desmond turban look. But it is 2011, and it is time to say, “Hello Vidal Sassoon!” I’m thinking a Justin Bieber, forehead sweeping feather cut. Brushed forward around the face, the look accentuates cheekbones and is surprisingly easy to maintain. All you need is a bottle of Johnson’s baby shampoo and a blow dryer (120 V. generator-adaptable).

Also, hello, News Flash. The floor-length white robe is so 13^th century. How about a Lululemon pant, flattering for every body type, lengthening the leg while perking up the posterior. Top the flared crop, or the boot-cut yoga pant with a slimming tank and wrap sweater – in masculine Yankee-pinstripe no offense print – and you’re ready to go from sand-swept tent city to walled-in Pakistani compound in the blink of an eye.

As for footwear, I totally know where you can get some street-savvy plaid Van’s slip ons. Or some super cute peep-toe pumps.

White male seeking supplementary girlfriend - something along the lines of a walker, only the opposite sex, and no patent leather dress shoes or knowledge of opera and/or Martha's Vineyard ferry schedule required. Ideal candidate:

Loves spicy Mexican and Chinese food. Make that: loves any Mexican and Chinese food. Okay, make that: eats Mexican and Chinese food.

Sleeps in tents outside.

Listens to and appreciates Gillian Welsh and other whiny white female singer/songwriters.

Embraces all variety of men's footwear, including Van slip-ons (plaid), and Crocs.

Enjoys huge, crowded outdoor concerts like Hardly Strictly Bluegrass and Outside Lands in spite - or even because - of the possibility of death by trampling and the sight of old guys in khakis and fleece really getting down, man.

Likes bacon fried in butter, butter soup sprinkled with peas, spaghetti sauce with shaved butter, and fish marinated and sauteed in butter, served with a butter topping.

No sex or talking required. Just have a sleeping bag, UV protective hat, collection of folk vinyl, faulty peripheral vision that doesn't allow you to see below the knees and a good cardiologist.