I found a dry cleaner in my neighborhood this week. It might sound fancy when you hear that I use a dry cleaner but, really, I'm just paying someone to iron my Billy Squier rock t-shirts for me.

Because nothing in my neighborhood is easily explained, the dry cleaner offered the latest puzzling detail in what is shaping up to be an epic mystery. Sitting on the counter, next to a box of bag ties, was a plastic jar. (the kind you usually find at little league concession stands, stocked with Atomic Fireballs) The jar was filled with free lubricated condoms. Of course.