In other news at airport security, it now appears that I have metal in my penis. I went into the spinning phone booth, lifted my arms, and was waved out to stand on the big yellow footprints. The agent, a guy in his fifties, pointed at the image the scanner had yielded. There were little rectangles in four places: each shirt pocket, the small of my back, and the bull’s-eye of my groinal region. The machine had picked up the staple in my plane ticket in one pocket. In the other, it had picked up two foam earplugs. Since when are staples and foam earplugs the weapons of hijackers? As for the small of my back, the guy found nothing. And, apologizing and saying that he was just doing his job, he asked if it would be alright if he patted down my bull’s-eye. “Yeah, but go easy,” I replied.