My springtime allergies—which since moving to Portland have turned into year-round allergies—have been raising hell the last few days, staging surprise attacks in the predawn hours. I used to think I understood hay fever, but none of it makes sense anymore. You'd think with the dry winter we had that pollinating plants would be less erotically exuberant, limp and forlorn, their enthusiasm for reproduction dampened by the parched environment, yet here it is only early March and I was up half the night sneezing and wheezing, explosively discharging viscid matter in all directions like a teenager with the house to himself and a fresh stack of pornos.

One spring a long time ago I went to an allergist for a consultation. I didn't want to start immunotherapy shots but I thought I'd see if the science had advanced beyond crude medieval practices. I was given a heap of questionnaires to fill out, lifestyle and dietary questions, areas of possible exposure to allergens. Then the nurse or whatever asked me additional questions. Suddenly I felt like my very life was being held up for judgment, I had the obscure conviction that it was up to me to defend it since the poor thing was unable to speak for itself. When she asked me if I took part in any sports or athletic activities I immediately said yes, too loudly and nodding too aggressively, as if the simple mention of my active sporting life caused my body to twitch in anticipation of competitive physical pleasures. Which ones, she wanted to know. I hesitated, panicked. My mind raced, trying to think of a sport within the realm of possibility given my obviously lumpish, inert appearance. Eternal moments ticked by. She began to read some possibilities from a list. "Basketball?" No, don't even try to say basketball. Picture Herve Villechaize throwing a head fake and driving to the hoop. Absurd. "Tennis?" Yes, tennis! My sudden exclamation made her jump a little, and she checked off the box. She started to continue but I had all I needed. No, no, just the tennis. "I play tennis!" I practically yelled this like an amnesiac struck with an epiphany of self-knowledge.

Of course I'd never played tennis in my life and still haven't, although I once spotted Vitas Gerulaitis eating at an airport Wendy's. People lie all the time in such situations, it's a phenomenon that bears further study. Just think if somewhere in some parallel dimension, a universe exists that is conjured into being by all the harmless lies told to authority figures, census takers, telephone canvassers. Clipboards encourage the utterance of falsehoods. A universe where there are so many volunteers wanting to help the less fortunate that many are turned away; where donations to public broadcasting are abundant and generous; where inappropriate or disturbing masturbatory fantasies are unknown; where everybody washes their hands after using the bathroom, every single time.