Rachael and I were leaving the house at nearly the same time – I to go to work, and Rachael to go somewhere girly. She was murmuring something about a button, and I was focused on my own issues, mostly the mess of newspapers on the bench by the front door. “I’m putting things in the recycle. Do you want me to save the Sunday Style section for you?” I asked. That’s another girly thing. “It’s radical left-wing.” She firmly replied. “Huh?” I thought. “The NYT fashion section is left wing? How can that be?” I debated whether that meant she wanted to read it because she too is a radical left wing sympathizer, or not read it because she isn’t a left wing sympathizer. I was thinking that she was actually a left wing person, although not terribly radical, but in that case, she would have simply said, “Yes, save it for me.” We both went our separate ways, me still pondering this odd exchange. Later, looking at her knapsack, I realized that her new Mumia button, which she had gotten at the Anarchist Book Fair, was actually the radical left-wing thing she was talking about. Our conversation had been like one from some farce where everyone is on a different page and confusion reigns. When I later mentioned this to her, she said, “I thought you looked awfully confused about what I was saying, but I attributed it to you just getting old.” Harrumph! I’m not THAT old, I think!