I hate having my photo taken, and I know you find that hard to believe. I am like a multitude of terrible angles and sometimes I loom over a group like Shrek over the princess. And I don’t smile. I don’t for photos, at least.

In my intermediate circle of friends there are very photogenic, somewhat photogenic and…not at all photogenic. The difference is that they don’t give a shit and I do, which is stupid. I am going to work on that. In time for the Selectism.com bloggers calendar shoot in sunny St. Bart’s.

I was thinking about how it would suck to be famous, even if you were rich, because you would have to adjust to having your photo taken a million times a week, and how that probably made Michael Jackson’s life a living hell.

I have been watching the coverage wind down (although, the “Daddy’s Just Clowning!” NY Post headline today is pretty electric) and what I overwhelmingly feel is relief for my senses, and for the man himself. Thank God he has been put out of his misery. You don’t do the things he did to his face, if you are feeling groovy about things. And you don’t do things to kids like he did (if you say “allegedly”, we’re through) unless your issues have issues.

Chris Rock said a few months ago, “I wouldn’t let Michael Jackson see a photograph of my kids.” But now, that he is gone, everyone is much kinder (and their youngsters much safer—and I am not even joking). Which doesn’t help Jackson, but will help his children, as they are finally released into society.

Culturally speaking, I am not smart enough to figure out how important he was. (I believe that Sidney Poitier’s and Bill Cosby’s impacts on white America were more important. So there.) Musically, too, it isn’t easy to quantify. He has kind of sucked for more than a decade, limping around the world like a Michael Jackson impersonator, recycling his themes and melodies. But anyone can see how great he was at the height of his powers, the Off the Wall-Thriller period. Was he better than Prince? I say no. I am curious as to what you think.

But, regardless, he is a great loss. The difference between this one and those of Kurt Cobain and Jeff Buckley, however, is that this is one that I have been mourning for near-on twenty years.

Of all of the statistics—numbers of the dead, maimed and missing, among them—that are dribbling out of Iran, there is one that has trumped all others. And it’s also the reason that I believe that the sitting president, that Pinocchio-if-he-was-a-crackhead-looking guy is probably packing a little “jump bag” in case he needs to flee town like that broke-ass magician in Frosty the Snowman.

The number is 71. That is the percentage of female university students in Iran. Three out of every four, roughly. And the most stirring images I am seeing are of some fierce-looking, najib-wearing young women who seem to be pretty much done living like third-class citizens and suffering the indignities that come with every day life in that country. Some crazy shit women have to endure, and if that rumpled-suited clown gets his way, it’s only going to get worse for them. Apparently, while he was handing out money to the nation’s poor voters—hey, that’s democracy— he was explaining his desire to diminish the Iranian woman’s role in the private sector.

The fact that equal rights are even an issue in this day-and-age is ludicrous. And these Iranian ladies are all sorts of fired up and, I don’t know about the women that you know, but the ones I do will outsmart, out muscle and outlast anybody. They not only know how to play dirty, but also seem to relish in it. Manipulative, vituperative, all kinds of –atives. And when they are done, they’re done. Period.

Last night, GG (who possesses none of those qualities, of course) asked me why, if the government is so bent on keeping women down, do they permit them to even go to college. Shouldn’t they be shielded from learning that they have secretly been blasted back to the Stone Age? I was stumped.

Maybe because, even as they sit in their semi-circle, the clerics are realizing that they are merely sticking their finger in the proverbial dike, trying to hold back the inevitable and just. And that they hope that the next group in power will be merciful conquerors, despite offering no such quarter themselves.

I truly believe that hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. Now multiply that by the number of college women in Iran (about 1.4 million or so) and the scope of what is happening, and will happen before long, becomes apparent.

Recent history is littered with brutal government crackdowns, and we have all witnessed the aftermaths, on CNN and the Beeb. That is what constitutes news in our age of armchair upheaval, where we can literally watch people tear each other apart while we eat ice cream. We all thought the students in Tiananmen Square had a chance. So naïve.

But Iran is no China. Clearly, China had its shit together and Iran still can’t figure out how to pump all of its oil and put more of its people to work. And when religion is thrown into the mix, everything gets twice-as-hairy. The world continues to modernize, while religion stays fixed at a time when people still worshipped sun gods and fertility gods like, you guessed it, my old pal and Canaan’s favorite son, Ba’al.

The friction is inevitable, the conflict is too, and revolution will follow probably more often than not. Yet never before has a revolution been led by a country of smart, strong women won’t forget a single indignity foisted upon them. My wife remembers every last one of my transgressions, down to the smallest “I forgot to ask for your dressing on the side.”

And I would reckon, that the Iranian women know who did what to whom, and at some point in the near future you can rest assured that those clerics will never know what hit them.

But they will sure as hell know who hit them.

I broke out a new pair of Air Jordan XI lowtops the other day, which isn’t noteworthy, I guess, except the fact that I purchased them in 1996. Along with two other pair. One is still in the attic and the other fell apart last year. I just don’t do reissues. Not because they aren’t good or anything. The technology is surely better, and let’s face it: the fake Fives are still doper than the LeBrons or Melos. But because they are, at their base level, phony offerings so you can relive my youth.

I have no interest is giving you youngsters an opportunity to enjoy the same crap I did when I was your age. I lived and bought my way through the Golden Age of kicks: Barkleys, Foamposites, CWebb 2’s (still the greatest non-Jordan ever released, in my opinion) and bought so many great shoes the day they came out. I waited on lines. Serious lines.

Dunks, Air Force Ones, Vandals, and so forth. Brand-new and ours for the taking. (Russ remembers, right?) On the downside, my back hurts when I sneeze. Translation: I’m old. Yet occasionally I can still muster that romantic notion of first-on-my-block.

Last year, on a pretty cold, rainy Saturday I lined up outside of Nort-Recon because Nike was releasing a shoe that was only being sold in one store in the US, and only 86 pair at that. The fact that they were a buck-eighty-five, and I was up to my eyeballs in free kicks was not lost on me. But I wanted them and didn’t feel like calling in a favor (just after asking for Lobster Dunks and AF1 KAWS) so I chilled out there for three hours with people half my age. When I finally got inside, I bought a pair of size 13’s, which was the largest size that Nike had made in the style.

I am actually a size 14. Chew on that for a while.

If your husband is making a movie with Megan Fox your marriage is in a great deal of trouble.

Men should always pay for women, unless they are gay or unemployed.

You date the Stones, but you marry the Beatles.

Friends are either trustworthy or they aren’t friends.

This is the correct order: mini-Krackel, mini-Mr. Goodbar, mini-Special Dark, mini-Hersey’s bar

Prolonged eye contact with strangers always leads to trouble…or sex.

Friendships, like milk, have expiration dates.

Crabs legs are seafood for idiots.

Guys with bowties will cheat on you. No exceptions.

Laughing when delivering bad news is a sure-fire way to scare people.

People who use the word “gay” as an insult have experimented or thought about it. Those who say it to be ironic are, in fact, gay themselves and haven’t acknowledged it.

On a date, ease into the subjects of appetizers and relationships.

Vegetarianism for anything other than health reasons is silly. Veganism is retarded.

You can never be too rich. You can, however, be too thin.

Men will often choose straight girl friends based upon their ability to attract other women.

The people who make the most noise are not the ones you need to worry about.

Age is not just a number, it’s a lot of numbers.

Sometimes words just aren’t enough.

Smart people think they have the most to learn.

Sincerity is exhibited in deeds, not words.

If you think your “other” is unfaithful, it’s because you already know they are.

Let old people talk your ear off. They deserve it.

I am rarely wrong about such things.

I have this friend, whose acquaintance I have made recently, and she’s a pretty resourceful and clever character, and a little off, but no more than me (ahem). I think that is why we have hit it off so famously. (In my opinion, at least.) Her one blind spot, however, appears to be her love of a certain term that apparently came to her in a vision. Or so her adoration of it would have you believe. It’s actually pretty crazy.

The day had started innocently enough, a few weeks ago, when she stormed into “work” all sorts of breathless, and telling me how she has coined a derogatory term and wanted to know how she could protect it. Like, legally. I think she was serious. Her problem is that she looks serious pretty regularly.

She appeared compelled to tell me her term’s genesis, but her roll-out  took more than twenty minutes and involved a scene setting worthy of Trevor Nunn. (Word to Imogen Stubbs.) In addition, she had her business partner’s viewpoint of the proceedings. It was like a mini-Zapruder film, except far less climactic. Needless to say.

When she finally unveiled the term—of which I have promised to protect, lest I have my face sued off—I was amused. Not hysterically so, but amused. It certainly wasn’t as scathing as “douche nozzle” or “tramp stamp” and I privately thought it to be too erudite to get a real foothold.

It was the kind of term that another friend at The New Yorker would chortle heartily over while he was wax-sealing his letters. But not the kind of term that will make it all the way to middle America.

Yet my friend thinks it will and was wild-eyed when she told me so. And I just haven’t had the heart to tell her. Until now.

For a person who prides himself on giving good, salient advice to people, I generally am tone-def when the subject changes affairs of the heart. I believe that it is because I hold my friends in such high regard; it is tough for anyone else to measure up. Seriously.

With guy friends it’s easier; all the woman has to be is nice, and not try and separate him from his friends, namely me. Rarely, I think of it in terms of marriage. Or any kind of future plans, except if her (or his) folks are wealthy. Then I try and speed the process right up.

For the women I’m friends with, forget it. I’m a nightmare, I think. Over-protective, suspicious and guarded. I am in no hurry to be buddy-buddy with the douche bag (there I go again) that is trying to sleep with them. I would rather he focus on treating her well and not try and go all playboy.

But my eyes are on them at all times. Does he help her on with her coat? Is he constantly staring at other women? Is he cheap, or worse, short?

I am constantly on high alert because most straight guys in their twenties and early thirties today are tools. Not all of them. (And certainly not you, reader. Certainly not.) Just, like, 85% or something. And not all types of twentysomethings. Just fashion-y ones. The pretty boys. You have no idea how little time I have for them and their skinny jeans and knit ties. No idea. And I know what lurks in the minds of men. And I want it knocked off.

I should talk. Back in the day I toiled and staggered through a series of doomed liaisons (which is probably far too strong a word) with lady douche bags, and suffered for years before I hit the motherload. And she hit me back.

I was 29, and decidedly not a tool. And by decidedly, I really mean, hopefully.

Had dinner on the LES with an old friend last night and we kicked our circumstances around like a hacky-sack filled with fizzy red wine. While we share very little other an irrational (in modern day) definition of loyalty, enormous “mega-brains” and exceptional looks (ahem), we have both been shadowboxing with the same existential crisis: what is next? We have been taking turns dipping our toes in various industries, and yet we are both, on our best days, still magazine people.

I think we both knew that going in but it was refreshing to hear someone else say how good you are at something. Especially someone with a mega-brain. And exceptional looks.

But about next steps we both were hoping to have some light shed. That light came in the form of GG, fresh from yoga and emitting sparks. She did about twenty minutes of standup and dazzled, even zanier and more unpredictable than usual. Then we all left together.

In retrospect, I should have realized that my friend and I spent a total of zero time talking about our former gigs and tons of time talking about our future ones. And for the first time in a long time I really believe that they are just around the corner.

Either that, or I am hoping that it’s the waitress and she is carrying another bottle of fizzy red wine.

I’m a good waiter, but I would be a terrible waiter. Let me explain. I show up 20-30 minutes early for virtually everything, casing the outside of any meeting spot in a manner that would make my brother proud. I have friends that I know will be on time and others that are twenty minutes late for everything. That’s okay because I know that karma will reward them with a sig. other who is even later than them. I think it’s rude, and speaks to their general lack of courtesy (“Really, is your day so important that you can’t make it on time?”) and poor time management, but in the grand scheme of things, there are far worse habits: like dating guys with bowties and manicurists. (Hey, it’s just one man’s opinion, douchebags, relax before I step on your hats.)

But the waiting time gives me an opportunity to stop sweating and make those phone calls that I know will haunt me during dinner.

The other kind of waiting—on people, in a restaurant—is my worst nightmare. To being with, I am a terrible listener unless you are interesting. I would drift off in the middle of your order and miss the “dressing on the side” part, which would ruin your salad. And I have flat feet, which means that my sense of balance is sketchy at best. I could see myself dumping red wine on you. Sorry in advance.

When I was in high school, one of my jobs was as a short-order cook at the local greasy spoon. It was fun. actually, because I didn’t have to see people. I would just assemble their BLTs and cheese omelets. But the infrequent times that I had to venture from the kitchen, I would walk through the place like it was a minefield.

Eventually, I decided that…..oops, my coffee date is here. Twenty minutes late. Let’s talk soon.

I watch so much crappy reality TV that I need to give my television 500MG of Lipitor twice a week. Unable to get my Panasonic health insurance, I am paying through the teeth to buy his/her meds from Canada (put that in the vault) but I feel that it is well worth it in the end.

Because TV is my lifeblood, or one of the small handful of them, even though my tastes are “eclectic.” In other words, I don’t watch just any crappy reality TV, just the worst of the bunch. Quality shows like “Amazing Race” and “Top Chef” are too highbrow for my tastes.

I much prefer reality TV without having to follow rules. Like “Cheaters.” The host, Joey Greco, got stabbed once by an angry dude. You don’t need a panel of judges to tell you that old boy was pissed. You had a bleeding host. That’s my kind of TV.

My friends love “Dancing with the Stars.” I don’t. DWTS has a computation that I don’t feel like paying attention to. I have enough on my mind trying to keep track of Drew Barrymore’s current boyfriend status and I certainly have no intention of lifting my eyes from the laptop.

I do try and counterbalance “Daisy of Love” with the news, though. But the fact is, I would rather sit through two hours of that idiot Zach whatever yelling like a tool on “Ghost Adventures” than watch Keith Olbermann give himself a sports hernia with his righteous indignation.

When I was younger my father broke everything down into neck up or neck down: jobs, books, people, everything. Neck up required thought, neck down didn’t. I like me some neck-down TV. When the “Real World” kids were forced to get jobs, I bounced.

I just have enough crap to worry about, not having to keep track of immunity idols and roses. “DOL,” as I like to call it, mostly because it would probably confuse the show’s star, has no such rule. Everyone gets drunk and makes out with Daisy. Then when it is clear that she has actually begun to like someone, he quits in a hurry. That scenario has played out three times in seven weeks.

Daisy is completely confused by the developments, but not me. I am too busy checking my head for signs of holes that crap TV is known to exacerbate. And that, as near as I can figure, is as neck-up as neck-up gets.

I used to have it good at Shea Stadium. There was me, some chicken fingers and the pretzel. But really, anyone who came to the game had a hot dog with mustard or kraut. Why? Well, I go with everything—beer, soda and water.

Looking back, I may have taken my popularity for granted. That happens. Look at the Pizzone. But hindsight is 20-20 vision, even if you are strapping young frank.

Then I heard about CitiField and all of the new facilities. Oh, happy day. New grills, new condiment dispensers, new everything. I began my victory lap, shortly after last season ended.

Early on I noticed the name Danny Meyer popping up in the newspapers. At first I thought that he was the kid who caught Jeter’s ball, all those years ago. But then, pretzel, who has wireless, told me that he was the restaurateur responsible for Blue Smoke, Shake Shack, Esca and a number of other overrated (by the way) food joints in NYC.

I was as nonplussed as the day in 2006 when they introduced Dogzilla, that steroid freak of a hotdog that lasted one season. The size of a small child’s arm, Dogzilla was to hotdogs as Dennis Miller was to football announcing. It was gone before I knew it. Haha, Dogzilla. You prick.

So I assumed that the same fate would befall the burgers, ribs, tacos and effing lobster rolls. “People like goddamn hotdogs!” I screamed into my iPhone from vacation. “Relax, pretzel. You worry about everything.”

Long story short, Opening Day came around and my cruel fate was quickly apparent. With the eight million other choices, the classic hotdog has not just taken the backseat to the other food choices, I’m in the trunk. Now the only people who eat me are idiots and losers. And folks who don’t want to stand around for a half-hour.

And you, old friend.

Hey, where are you going?