Don't Bend. Don't Break.

Just outside my apartment there's another door. It is my favorite door in all the world, surpassing even that door the Pope opens every century so guilt-ridden people can spend a week trampling millions of their closest friends and saying, "Excuse me," in every language on earth. There's no vaginal symbolism gooping up that picture, no way. I enjoy that mental image but this door outside my door is better. It opens onto a bad sheetrocking job nobody bothered to tape and mud-up.

This is nothing short of a golden opportunity.

When Dad and Darla visited, I pointed them to this door and told them I had a plan involving larceny and one of those drugstore cardboard figures, preferably holding a beer. They liked that plan.

I had another, but it's kind of generation-specific. Swinging gals about my age - now the first group of grandmas to join the KISS ARMY - might recall a game foisted on us in 1970 by Hasbro: Mystery Date. I never played this game myself but I was emotionally scarred enough by the commercials to remember it. Anyway, girls and girly-guys try to figure out where the dreamboat's concealed behind a door. Plan B is a life-size cardboard cutout of a teenage boy in an ill-fitting suit. Dad and Darla felt that had too many comic limitations.

I had a third plan: Superman in 2-D. As in: Closet superhero. I would however settle for pretending I'd hung Aquaman out to dry. They liked the idea but felt not even epoxy would adhere a seven-foot cardboard Christopher Reeves in blue tights to bare sheetrock for longer than a few minutes once anyone under 50 opened that door. Plus, I couldn't find one on EBay. Dad had an economical plan.

Dad: That wall needs a map and a sign: "You are HERE."
Tata: Map of what?
Dad: Doesn't matter!

My co-workers are accustommed to my behavior. This morning, one stood at the edge of my cubicle and offered me a gift from that place of apparent safety. The present was even better than he knew: it's the book jacket from On Drink by Kingsley Amis. The cover photo is priceless. Amis is holding a glass of dark liquid at approximately Windsor knot-height. The expression on his face dares you to say, "No, sir, that's no beverage," so he can tell you you are indeed full of excrescence and this is certainly a beverage. I like this photograph and will hang it up on my cubicle wall. When I am introduced to strangers I will pretend he was my grandfather and that photograph of that other guy holding up a glass of dark liquid in my cubicle was his Evil Twin, Alessandro, also my grandfather. I like the blurb:

Kingsley Amis, one of literature's most versatile craftsmen, here shows another side of his talent, as portrayed on the front of this jacket - his mastery of the art of drinking. Calling on his many years of experience, and with an eye toward both economics and enjoyment, he presents this witty, informative handbook for the drinker, both amateur and professional.

From a brief dip into alcoholic literature, our bibulous guide moves to a selection of prime drink recipes - the fruit of untold diligent years of research into the field.

I had to share - though few jargon innovations irritate like the puke-inducing caring and sharing twist on interpersonal relationships of the mid-nineties. One night, a superhot bartender and I walked all over New Brunswick in search of a condom we never actually found. He said, "That's okay. We had a nice evening of caring and sharing." I laughed. I love him dearly but I thought, 'When you want to throw your clothes at the ceiling fan and play Ride 'Em, Cowgirl, a beer and a conversation about throwing your clothes at the ceiling fan and playing Ride 'Em, Cowgirl doesn't cut it.' So I'm sorry I shared, but it had to be done.

This morning, I printed a Google map of my street. It's small, which I will think of as understated. My co-workers paid no attention as I walked around the office, cackling and stealing Post-Its to compare contrasting colors to find which amused me most. I settled on orange. I wrote "You are HERE." I drew an arrow, in case the explorer who finds this map is as confused as predecessors like Stanley and Livingston, who couldn't get away from that damned six-sided lake. The Raritan River is about 200 yards to the left and straight down, like a giant, filthy hint. The fun lies in taping the thing to the sheetrock, closing the door and never looking back. Maybe. If I find a life-size cutout of John Ashcroft and the Venus de Milo all bets are off.