If you're a baker*, flying in the face of received wisdom and flirting aleatorily with the cosmic implications of the number 13, we've struck a dozen.

I directed the chaps to gab re: Valentine's Day, but we settled on an embargo until any of them have a love life.

Instead, I offer an excerpt from my upcoming (auto)biography†, Still Sings He. This passage details the inaugural intersection of me and my first wife, or "meet-cute" if you WILL insist on this incessant assault:

"And so he had fingered his final key. He had sung his final note. In a desperate bid for bowel vacation, he had instead vacated the land of the living. Elvis had left the building. Or so reported innumerable media outlets, collectively lunging for that staggeringly obvious headline as though it were genius. It is only repeated here for pos ...