our culture is definitely the eighth grade. It's run by eighth-grade boys, and the way these boys show a girl they like her is by humiliating her and making her cry.

Beware the old man in young guy's clothes. If he's over 35 and comes to pick you up looking as though he's headed for a skateboarding competition while you are dressed to go to a nice restaurant, this is not a good sign.

I’ve made my life’s work spotting assholes. And you know, I think it’s harder now than ever before because there’s so many socially acceptable ways to exhibit a pathological lack of empathy.

It's surely no accident that there are horoscopes in Vogue, Glamour, Mademoiselle, Woman, New Woman, Elle and Cosmo ... but not Sports Illustrated, GQ, Esquire, Field & Stream or Guns & Ammo.

We are pretty sure that we and our pets share the same reality, until one day we come home to find that our wistful, intelligent friend who reminds us of our better self has decided a good way to spend the day is to open a box of Brillo pads, unravel a few, distribute some throughout the house, and eat or wear all the rest. And we shake our heads in an inability to comprehend what went wrong here.

I sometimes look into the face of my dog Stan and see a wistful sadness and existential angst, when all he is actually doing is slowly scanning the ceiling for flies.

My dogs, the only creatures on the planet marked by my singular nurturing imprint, have all turned out to be rude and self-absorbed. In all likelihood, if they were children instead of dogs, I would have foisted more Charlie Sheens or Kardashians onto our crumbling culture.