I’m almost ashamed to confess it, but the Missed Connections section on Craig’s List fascinates me. What are these people thinking? Why are they spending all of their time regretting a mistake? If it’s a matter of following up with someone, why are they resorting to a bulletin board that only a handful of people will read?

With these questions in mind, I briefly emerge from my candy-baking, holiday-themed hiatus to give the gift that keeps on giving: questionable advice.

Dan Dan the Mexi Man: Have you considered calling the Academy of Art and asking if Dan works there? Failing that, are you aware that there are other Dans in the universe? It might also help if you stop referring to some stranger as “the Mexi Man.” Outside of WB sitcoms, that doesn’t really win points with people.

Danced with you at 1015: Sorry, sweetheart. Roberto ain’t coming back anytime soon. People go to dance clubs for two reasons. Dancing is one and I’ll let you do the math on the other. Chances are that if Roberto was really interested in you, he’d have taken you home or asked for your number. How much vodka did you have, darling?

Rita from Queens: It’s always possible that Rita might call back. But here’s the way it works. When a girl calls, if you don’t call back within a reasonable time, she moves onto the next prospect. May I suggest that you go to your cell phone dealer and obtain a cell phone that you can operate. Failing that, spend at least six hours becoming infinitely familiar with your voicemail system so that this doesn’t happen again.

To the bush lover whose jaw I broke: Two words: anger management.

Beautiful JWF on the BART: Go up and talk to her, you putz! And be prepared for the possibility of failure. Also, discretion is the name of the game. The last thing a woman needs on public transportation is a stranger’s desperate eyes searing into her soul. Is she reading a book? Does she have a nice overcoat? Make small talk instead of living with fear.

My girlfriend and I…: The place is “Missed Connections,” which involves people, not highly specific beer bottles.

PHX – SFO flight: Ask him for coffee next time. Look, nothing makes a man’s job easier than when you boldly suggest a date. It takes a lot of the weight from our backs. After all, we’re the ones constantly putting ourselves on the line here. Live dangerously. Start a trend. For the future of gender equality, ask him out if you’re interested! They did it on Sex and the City all the time, right?

Jo, 500 Club? Start drinking.

Nemo?: The San Francisco DJ scene isn’t nearly as large as it seems. With a name like that, it would be very easy to track the guy down if you hung out at raves and clubs and asked around. Of course, it’s also possible that Nemo was a one-night pseudonym, in which case you might be SOL. If you’re into DJs as prospective lovers, perhaps you should hook up with Skratchy Seal’s girlfriend and get some tips.

Were you checking out my package?: Perhaps purchasing a penis pump might confirm your hypothesis.

Squat and Gobble: The number is 415-487-0551. Play it safe. You may come across as socipathic, assuming he’s interested.

Now, back to the hiatus. Really.

Like Mark and Maud, we’ve completely obliterated Amazon as a purchasing option. No gifts or random packages sent from there anymore, thank you very much. You won’t even find our wishlist. Those kind and remarkable people lurking behind the scenes will have to stay the course until we get our obscure objects of literary desire tranposed and listed onto safer pastures. Rest assured, we don’t take Amazon’s PAC funding lightly and, as previous actions have demonstrated, we’re adamantly sociopathic in our boycotts. This week’s dartboard cutout? Why, Jeff Bezos, of course!

We do, however, think that the inestimable Mark Sarvas is overdoing it with his Time subscription legerdemain. The magazine is, without a doubt, useless. When you factor in their neurologically inert coverage of current events (witness such prima facie pronouncements as “The poisoning has already given him martyrlike status among his supporters, but it also raises questions about whether his health will allow him to serve with sustained vigor,” and the moronic machinations become apparent) and the fact that a mere four (four!) of their Persons of the Year have been women, it’s really a no-brainer. The magazine was established by Briton Hadden and Henry Luce to reduce the information of our times to jejune gardyloo processed by dullards. Or to cite Luce directly, “Of necessity, we made the discovery that it is easier to turn poets into business journalists than to turn bookkeepers into writers.”

Birnbaum might drop-kick our asses for riding the adjective with two Js, but in Time‘s case, it’s readily apparent that no other modifier cuts the mustard in quite the same way.

(Furthermore, it would be criminal for us not to reveal how much we loved the Man of the Year moment in The Big Lebowski, whereby slacker Jeff L glimpses himself in a mirror styled along the Time yearly hard line. It’s one of the film’s most overlooked gags.)

We now return you to our regularly scheduled hiatus.

We can’t think of anything particularly compelling to say. And every time we open our mouths, it results in gardyloo. So we’re taking a sizable break. Happy holidays.

One 2004 book that seems to have been entirely overlooked by all the end-of-the-year listmakers is David Markson’s Vanishing Point. (Full confession: I’m just as guilty, having only just hit Markson’s latest on my bookpile.) Nevertheless, Markson deserves some special consideration, given how he’s mastered the ability to juxtapose obscure personal tidbits involving artistic figures against the emotional dilemma of the “Author.” (For example, “David Garrick, retiring from the stage: Now I will sit and read Shakespeare.”)

This is the kind of cultural obsession that almost anyone who reads thinks about to some degree. That Markson’s tidbits are both fascinating and unsourced almost lends his work to compulsive fact-ferreting among the truly obsessed “Jesus, did that really happen?” scholars. (In fact, Markson’s phrasing reminds me of Don Marquis’s poetry with its seemingly simple gimmick masking a deeper emotional patina.) But Vanishing Point (much like This is Not a Novel and Reader’s Block) also addresses the broader problem of how literary culture often marginalizes the art in favor of the artists’ lives. How far removed are we really from the People subscribers? In dwelling upon the personal foibles of high cultural icons, are we groping for an existential meaning that we lack?

These are the bold questions that Vanishing Point and Markson in general dares to unfurl. But even if you’re not into this kind of obsessive probing (although you probably will be), Vanishing Point is still a supremely enjoyable novel.

(Also, happy anniversary, Mr. Syntax of Things.)

“It’s saving humanity!” “It’s just like reading a book!” “It’s just like partying!” These and many other excuses can be found in Suzy Hansen’s amusing article on gaming and relationships, a connection that I suspect goes far deeper than anyone cares to admit.