Dear Cary Tennis, Salon Advice columnist,

I've been writing to you since you first started your column. Remember the baby spanker? that was me. The porn lover? Me too. Yesterday's hipster wannabe? Also me. Today's empty column about racquetball? Not at all me. But I love you. I really do. Without your advice I wouldn't be the 32-year-old I am today, that is to say, the slightly chubby skirt-and-sneaker wearing junior account executive at a PR firm whose membership to NYSC goes unused since I spend all my time trying to get ahead at work but all the while knowing I am not nearly attractive enough for those bastards at corporate; also, my slushy "S" speech impediment. Without you, I wouldn't be living in my Fort Greene apartment, sharing it with a girl I found on Craigslist who is 8 years younger. I wouldn't smell like cats.

But, old Tennis, it is was with an increasing anxiety that I read your response to my latest letter, "I'm obsessed with being a hipster." After reading and re-reading your response, I could only conclude you have totally fucking lost it. For instance: "We live in the electronic wind. We live in twitters and tweaks and snippets. We live in dream sequences and stream of consciousness. We live in downloads and compression. We live at 120 miles an hour. We live in Sensoria, Ill."

Cary, that doesn't mean anything and makes no sense. It might not even be "advice" as our culture understands it. Later on in your response you mention Sean Penn, the Cowboy Junkies and the Pylons. This also doesn't make sense.

My question is this: What has happened in that noggin of yours? Are you drinking again? Is there a boa constrictor wrapped around your neck, squeezing the air from your brain? Did you stay up late trying to kill that life-size cut-out of Randy Cohen again? Mostly, are you all right?


"Maer Roshan"

Dear "Maer Roshan,"

Thank you so much for your letter. First of all to address your concerns, I was at a Cracker concert a few years ago and Robert Oppenheimer was onstage doing a killer rendition of Low. Nancy Sinatra hates me. So what I'm saying is this: It's ancient, it's natural. Fluffy cotton. Pig smack. Yurp.

Earlier: We Need Advice From Cary Tennis