This is me at the drugstore. The sound system is singing a song I happen to know is performed by Shania Twain because I happened to watch a good half-hour of her TV special a couple of years ago because her hips were encased in a silvery synthetic material that was enormously flattering. A member of her backup band had one of those guitars or basses where it’s just little and square and the neck ends abruptly. Also: Pyrotechnics. And: I think in-the-round.

This is me at the drugstore looking for fifth-generation sodas. I also happen to know that Shania Twain is married to Mutt Lange, who produced Def Leppard’s Pyromania. Whose perfectionism knew no bounds. Or at least she was. This is why I can’t calculate the tip. This is why I nod knowingly at countless stand-up comedians. I seek Mister Green, a soda named after the Clue character that my grandfather always played since he was also Mister Green. Q.E.D. my middle name: Green.

I settle for the Red Fusion. Like I’m settling. I pretend to settle; it’s a handy technique.

“Drinking this soda is like fucking my mouth with a hammer,” I say. And they ask if I have a CVS Super Saver card and I say, “Here.” And I say, “My preference in pornography is women with regular-looking pubic hair, if you must know,” reminded of the first time I ever saw the word pubic and misread it as public, which seemed flat-out wrong. Namely a book dealing frankly with sexual issues discovered in my mother’s bookcase. “Like no creative shapes or the like.” And they say: “Very good, Mr. Kottke.” Because I totally lied about my name.