He burst through the apartment door like a savage. It was just past one in the morning, and Michelle was in bed asleep. He started to kick his shoes off, but he noticed that she hadn’t closed the closet doors. He hated it when she left the closet doors open during the night. He pulled the folding doors to close but something was on the sliding track preventing him from closing the closet. Lou thrashed and thrashed them again. When he realized what was blocking the doors—some of Michelle’s shoes that had been pulled out—he kicked at them and a heel or two slammed against the wall of the closet as the door path became clear. “Fucking shoes!” he shouted. “To hell!”

There was blood everywhere because, even though I am a vampire, I am a klutz.

The Eagles are a grossly overrated band. Separate from that, Hotel California might be the most terrible song ever recorded. Worse, yes, than Rebecca Black’s Friday.

David Himmel turns forty today. As usual, he didn’t plan ahead and botched his own birthday article. Enjoy!

2018 was a good year for The Ape. As Hall and I bait the internet for search results, we’re offering up our year-in-review, Best of The Ape. He has his opinions and I have mine. And if they differ, well, that’s what sometimes makes us a great team.

I’m canceling my subscription to Esquire after more than a decade of being a loyal subscriber and reader. Since Jay Fielden became editor-in-chief, it’s become an apologetic magazine for angry feminists and their terrified husbands. Granted, the reporting and fiction is still of value but it’s become too hard for me to get past the loaded front half of the rag — even flipping through it — without getting annoyed or feeling talked down to. I’ll miss you, Esquire, but I’ve missed you for a few years now.

The songs were about being in a state of certain uncertainty. A place of transition with the balls to step up and have no fear of fucking it all up. The songs were about girls and friends and getting older and being younger and parents and longing and having and missing and distance and places and things and giving a shit and not giving a shit at all.

They were all from Michigan. Detroit area but not the city proper because they were white women, and white women don’t live in Detroit city proper. They were in Las Vegas for a girls’ weekend. Weezy and I got past the pleasantries. I asked the question she was always asked: “Is Weezy your real name?” Her real name was Linda. But she hated that name so she went by Weezy. I don’t remember where the Weezy name came from. I may have asked her if she was asthmatic. I don’t know. It was a long time ago and there was a lot of free vodka making the rounds. The name fit her. She was short — “fun size,” she told me — with short brunette hair. She was silly and smart. I liked Weezy. And I dug her polka dot skirt.