Try using a window instead of a mirror.

“I thought you always said detox was for quitters,” Joey protested.

“Detox? I guess I misheard you,” I replied. “Detox may be what you’re looking for, but I’m afraid I’m suffering from a toxin deficiency.”

And with that, we went down distinctly separate paths; mine led to Bus Stop Liquors.

Whilst staying in someone else’s home, I respect my friends’ privacy and restrict myself to public areas of the house. For example, I’ll open every container in the kitchen looking for cayenne pepper, but I’ll look never in a bedroom drawer for a pair of scissors, even if I have reason to believe they’re there.

And that’s why I felt comfortable rummaging through Katia’s refrigerator looking for some horseradish. That’s where I spotted the Nuvaring Vaginal Ring with some remarkable instructions: “Insert one ring per vagina monthly as directed.”

One ring per vagina?! I’m embarrassed to admit that, like most hombres, I’m less familiar with the nuances and specifics of female anatomy than I should be. I never thought about this before, but I wonder if some women have two vaginas just as some men have two penises.

Maybe that’s where twins come from? The thought of sextuplets makes my teeth hurt.

She decided to treat herself to an expensive makeover at Hari’s, a posh hairdresser in Chelsea. There, one of the stylists tried to give her the “Aberdeen organic hair” treatment. It turns out that the process involved massaging bull semen into her tresses. Michelle was aghast, and told the coiffeuse what she thought of the idea.

“Look, I work in advertising, and you know what that means?” Michelle asked in her loudest New Jersey accent. “It means that I know all about bullshit, and I’m not buying any of yours.”

And with that she walked out.

I think she did the right thing. After all, no one cares about flouncy hair, especially if it smells funny.

Not long after Andy left, Andrea awoke and told me she wanted some “bat juice.”

I went to the refrigerator and offered her apple juice.

“No.”

“Grape juice?”

“No.”

“Orange juice?”

“No.”

“Prune juice?”

“No!”

“Pomegranate juice?”

“No, bat juice!” Andrea demanded.

Oh dear.

When Andy finally returned with a case of Rainier Ale, he explained that “bat juice” came from batteries. Aha.

I’m grateful to Andrea for expanding my vocabulary. Now my computer, phone, and cameras all run on bat juice.

“You know,” I told Hannah, “since you and Rivka are both nine and twins, that means you’re legally eighteen and can come out to bars with me.”

“Nope,” Hanna replied in a condescending voice she reserves for stupid old men, “you gotta be twenty-one to do that.”

And so, we stuck to maple syrup and vice-versa.

I got my first inkling that something was wrong when I overheard a conversation between two barkers on Broadway.

“Damn, look at all the cops,” one of the barkers remarked, “no wonder they call this the year of the pig.”

And that’s how I found out that this was the year of the boar, not the year of the bore.

Or, perhaps not. The parade began with a succession of waving politicians sitting in convertibles. Boring. Followed by a twenty-minute wait. Boring. Followed by a gaggle of Asian schoolchildren dressed like piglets. Cute, but boring. Followed by another interminable wait.

Since the parade was going full bore, we left. I’m glad I’m not Chinese; the year of the bore promises to be a tediously long one.