A computer is like life itself; you tend to take it for granted until it’s snuffed out. The old Dell desktop finally gave up the ghost. Imagine what life would be like if you suddenly and unexpectedly had your computer snatched away from you. The horror. I saw the blue screen of death and the next thing I knew I was in Best Buy being cradled and consoled by a chubby member of the Geek Squad. It could have been repaired, but the cost was approaching that of a new computer and the thing was already six years old. And so it goes. It’s the circle of life! That chubby bastard is charging me $160 to have the data transferred from the dead Dell to the newly-born HP. There’s nothing sadder than losing an old friend forever.

The biggest heartache is not the fact that we’ll have to waste untold hours acclimating ourselves to the power-sucking horror show that is Windows Vista, it’s the fact that I can no longer attend a critically important rare book auction taking place on Thursday at Bloomsbury. The assets that were earmarked for the auction have been deferred to Best Buy. I already have a paddle in hand and had my eye on a snappy first edition of Wait Until Spring, Bandini, by John Fante and The Man Within by Graham Greene but that dream, like the old Dell, is dead, dead, dead.

I was one of the 16 people in America who watched the Tony Awards last night. I found most of it to be mildly amusing but some of the acceptance speeches were a bit nauseating. It was like listening to the thespian dweebs from high school gush about their “craft.” Mary Louise Parker, who is my pretend girlfriend, presented the award for best ak-tor in a play. When announcing the nominees, instead of saying Macbeth, she said The Scottish Play. Now, I’ve had some exposure to that community and I knew was she was up to, but it struck me as being an incredibly pretentious thing to do on national TV. And she wasn’t backstage; she was standing front and center at a podium. She didn’t see it, but I rolled my eyes. I think I’m going to have to have a pretend break up with her.

Other winners spoke a bit too long and lovingly about New York. I mean, Jesus Christ, it’s just a city for cryin’ out loud. I was mortified to realize that I might come off sounding the same way in this stupid blog when I prattle on endlessly about living here. So now I’ve developed a creeping paranoia about sounding like a high school dweeb getting an award every time I write about the city. Image is everything. I have a reputation to protect. I’ll tone it down a bit.

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Father’s Day is the most unlikely holiday for me. I never thought I’d be on the receiving end of it, that’s for sure. Particularly at my age. 6-Year Old Daughter gave me a painted rock paperweight, a bookmarker with her picture on it and a bunch of coupons. I have coupons that entitle me to a back scratch, for some help washing the car, a hug, to have a story read to me, etc. I might have her read me a Bukowski poem.

Daddy’s got a few corners that don’t get much light.

I wish you knew H or had someone like her in your life. She radiates joy and has good wishes for you. She’d dip everyone in a big vat of warm hugs if she could. Pretty much the antithesis of me.

Two important things happened to H. First, she just graduated from NYU’s nursing program. She left a career as an account exec at Brand This! because it was cold and lacked soul. She entered an accelerated program two years ago and just finished with honors. NYU is a tough school so that’s not an easy thing to accomplish.

Second, H turned 40. She decided that these two events weren’t going to pass uncelebrated, so she threw herself a fete on Saturday night. Mrs. Wife and I drove through a biblical rainstorm to be there. She bought out the private room at The Havana Room on E. 76th St. Miss H is a damn fine singer, so she had a few very talented hired guns play and she was the entertainment. People were encouraged to take a turn on stage. In her typical unselfish way, she didn’t want it to be just the H show. Her open bar policy led to a general lack of inhibitions and there were many fantasies fulfilled that night. Deep down, who doesn’t want to be on stage in front of a live, loud band?

Miss H and her friend, also a lovely singer, sang a duet, which led to my favorite bit of stage patter:

“This is my friend, Z. Years ago we took tae kwon do lessons together and we’ve just graduated together. So we can kick your ass, but then we’ll bandage you. And sing to you.”

And she fed us, too. Congrats, H. And thanks.

A shocking article on the front page of today’s New York Times reveals that Gay Couples Find Marriage Is a Mixed Bag. You have GOT to be friggin’ KIDDING ME! Those blabbermouths at the Times! Okay, you caught us. We in the heterosexual community have conspired to keep this small but important detail regarding marriage from gay couples. Guess what? Marriage is a shitload of work. Here’s my favorite quote from the article by Jacob Venter, a 44-year-old child psychiatrist who recently married:

“Nothing turns out the way you imagine…”

Dear Gay Community: Please refrain from revealing your charming, innocent, cluelessness all over the front page of my Sunday paper. You caused me to do a spit-take with my coffee.

Just a reminder that the Tony Awards are on tomorrow night. What’s that? Not the least bit interested? Well, that’s understandable, but not to worry. Just click over to BBC America and instead of watching a dreary award show featuring a bunch of plays you’ll never see, you can see a fascinating documentary called Britain’s Worst Teeth.

Britain’s Worst Teeth follows four twenty-somethings with some of the worst teeth in Britain. Their teeth are so bad they affect every aspect of their lives. They are in pain and are embarrassed to go out. They find eating and speaking difficult, and not surprisingly, they find it difficult to attract partners.

Not surprisingly, indeed! On second thought, maybe the Tonys aren’t so bad after all.