David is out of town in glamorous Arizona with his glamorous boyfriend Rob, who is getting a glamorous award. Until he gets back, you are in my hands, which one hopes are at least semi-capable.

Two and a half years ago, I called Rob up on a Friday and said, "Hey, do you want to go to Six Flags tomorrow?" He said, "Yeah, that sounds like a great idea." Six Flags, for those of you who don't know, is a chain amusement park with perhaps half a dozen sites around the country, including one a 45-minute bus ride from Manhattan.

So Rob and I met up at the Port Authority bus terminal in plenty of time for the 10:00 bus to Six Flags. We had some breakfast, made fun of people we knew, and got on the bus, which took off presently, headed for a day of fun and adventure.

About fifteen minutes into the bus ride, I started talking about what roller coasters I wanted to go on. I said, "Well, I definitely want to go on the Lightning ride, and if they have any kind of Indiana Jones or buried treasure kind of ride, I want to do that too, and—"

"I don't really like roller coasters," interrupted Rob.

I looked at him.

"But Six Flags is an amusement park. Why did you say you thought it would be a great idea to go?"

"Well, I thought we could do other things."

"Other things like what? All they have is roller coasters."

Silence.

"Oh."

We ended up eating pounds and pounds of sugar-coated fried dough and going on five rides that were unroller-coaster-like enough for Rob and roller-coaster-like enough for me. Rob won a stuffed animal, which he gave to me to give to my boyfriend, who then broke up with me.