Everywhere I've gone today (other than in my office), Dan Savage has been there. On the #10 from downtown, Dan Savage was there. He even got off at the same stop (granted, his office is a block from mine, but still). When I had lunch at The Honey Hole, in walked Dan Savage. And as I walked back to the office—Dan Savage. I'm afraid to go home because I don't want him to know where I live (though he probably already does). No, I haven't read The Stranger yet this week, Dan. Yes, it's been weeks since I even bothered to pick it up. Just let me run my errands and eat my sandwich.
Mister Rogers had bakers and fire fighters and letter carriers in his neighborhood. I have a sex columnist. Go away, Dan Savage. Go away.