A Kleptomaniac’s Guide To My Condo


The following luxurious items can easily fit inside a purse or coat pocket.

iPhone — I think it’s a 3G, that older model with the roundish underside. It’s in very good condition, as I’m timid with it, and compulsively clean it with Windex, as if the evidence of my fingerprints mark that of my guilty texts. You are free to take this. You might find some “dorm porn” in Safari’s cache, but my rule is: if the girl has a nice attitude, so should you. I also have a lot of cool music on my iPod, if by “cool” you mean the adequately marketed alt-pop emotionally cloying stuff with album covers that don’t make sense proposed by Pitchfork. And my contacts, while finding you perhaps a little less charming, will find you probably more attractive and ultimately better friendship- or even relationship-material. Give them a call, or try to. AT&T’s “network” — an insulting euphemism — barely works in my neck of the woods.

L’Occitane Soap — Imagine a creamy 250g/8.8 oz. bar of Shea Butter “Extra-Doux, Lait (Extra-gentle, Milk)” soap lathering up my smooth hairless dolpin-esque torso. Imagine how that must feel to a man with elevated sensibilities and a penchant for self-pleasure. Imagine this lather getting so thick, that a bubbly creature is formed inside his shower, a tentatively happier one. This could be yours. This could be you. I also have Verbena, Lavender and Cinnamon Orange “flavors” stashed in the bathroom cabinet (I’d stay away from the Lamisil, though). Those who can’t afford a ticket to Provence, France can afford to dream, and those who dare to steal should do so with class. You will love this soap.

Club Monaco Socks — I like to keep unworn pairs of fine cashmere or merino wool knit socks around in case I have a date or something. I find that the right pair of socks — in my case, with a modern metrosexual-ish “cute” pattern, in semi-bold i.e. confident colors — will augment one’s outfit as a kind of aesthetic anchor in similar capacity to nice shoes. The women of these dates have yet to agree, or show amorous corroboration, but I remain a firm believer in the power of somewhat gay socks. They are like $18.00 each, located on my “next date” shelf from which I have not worn anything in some time. Be careful though. If I see you on the street wearing my awesome socks I may want to sleep with you, or at least do your laundry.

Truffle salt — Give a man a fish, feed him for a day; give him a jar of white truffle salt, and everything will taste like he actually had truffles — which, if you don’t know, are extremely expensive (est. $200/oz.) mushrooms in odd forests in Europe that only trained hogs can find. A 5.5 oz. jar of Dean & Deluca Truffle Salt will run you $29.50, a modest price in comparison to the imported ones. It’s located in my herb cabinet, next to the curry power and smoked paprika. I can also sprinkle some on your rear and oink like a pig as I go in for a mount, if you are of the lovelier species, that is. I do have my boundaries.

Bvgari cologne — I spent $45.00 on this at Nordstrom Rack, and have since used it on my face, neck, wrists, and testicles, the latter region in correlation with my desperation that someone besides my 46-year-old married co-worker will notice. If you smell like a eurodouche, then eurodouche things may happen to you, which as off putting as it may sound, is one of my fantasies — a mental measure upon which a full set of wavy hair, a taller body, a dark olive tan, maybe even some ripped abs, is bestowed. I suppose this dream ends in a hotel room in Genoa, Italy or something, some red wine and lipstick smeared on my face as the rising sun flickers through the undulating limbs of the person on top of me.

Te-Tao Ching — Although this item (Te-Tao Ching, Modern Library Ed., Random House, 1993) is not expensive, its content is priceless. The more humiliated and defeated you are as a human, the more alluring Buddhism and its vague associations will seem. You get to walk around saying “Oh, this loveless empty life of mine is fine, I’ll just sit in that corner over there and meditate,” or something. And what better way to say to the world (specifically, last Saturday night, on the 22-Fillmore Muni), “Hey look what I’ve been reduced to. I’m actually reading Spiritual Text on public transportation! Wow, somebody needs to stab me now. Where is the paranoid schizophrenic when you need one?” Anyways, my friend, the J.A. Henkels Chef’s knife ($90.95, Williams-Sonoma) is in the drawer next to the oven. Do it, but do it quick.

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