I was hearing nothing but lies so I went to the audiologist. "I need a hearing aid," I told him. "Someone part-time." Right away I noticed the comeliness of his auricles. His otoscope brusquely helped itself to more of my ear canal and the front of my pants decided to make camp right there. He asked me the standard questions, reading from a checklist on one of those small, slightly effeminate clipboards. Had I been keeping my ears open? Anything sound suspicious lately? He remarked in passing that he'd found trace amounts of eavesdropping in the whorls of my pinna but that topical relief was available. He again peered through his device, now turning avuncular: "Foreign tongues have been in here. The world has changed, you've got to protect yourself these days." He said my eardrums were sporting but frequently beleaguered and if I wasn't careful I'd find them beaten. "You collect too many sounds," he said. "Ease up, don't be a packrat." He looked in my ears but neglected to listen to my eyes. I consoled myself with the thought that it wouldn't have worked anyway. I'd had my Eustachian tubes tied after a previous relationship—I'd never handle the pressure.