I got into a huge fight with some people at the Brewery tonight, after a Shadow Art Fair planning meeting, about the relative sizes of our heads. I started it by maintaining that my head was significantly smaller than my friend Molly’s. No one believed me. Words were exchanged. A string was brought out. Heads were measured.

It turns out that the circumference of my head is exactly the same as the circumference of Molly’s. I maintain, however, that this one particular measurement doesn’t tell the whole story. (Molly has a fleshy bit at the back of her head that isn’t captured in the standard circumference measurement, which is taken at the temple.) I’ve challenged Molly to a real test, administered by a scientist, in which both of our heads are submerged into a tank of water and the displaced water is measured…. I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life. I just know that my head is smaller, volume-wise, than Molly’s. (It’s going to be a central tenet of my religion.)

And, I should point out, in the context of our conversation, having a small head was not a desirable attribute. It’s not like I was bragging about the size of my small head the way someone might brag about, say, the size of their small, overly-aerobicized ass. This whole thing came about after a conversation in which I quoted Merv Griffin as saying that only people with very large, fleshy heads could become famous. Big heads, you see, at least in the context of this conversation, were good… I only wish that my head could be as freakishly large and lovely as my friend Molly’s.

The fellow in the picture is our friend Tim. I know the shot is kind of dark, but, if you look closely, you can see that he’s getting his head measured. It was also his string that we used. Tim’s the only person I know who carries string. He, as someone pointed out, would totally kick ass on “Let’s Make a Deal.”

And, it’s not really relevant to this conversation, but Molly’s dad is absolutely terrified of giraffes. He carries an extra shoe in his pocket just in case he has to fight one off.

Today was father’s day. Clementine gave me the gift of a hacking cough, a runny nose and a new moleskin notebook, just like the one Hemmingway was scribbling in minutes before he blew his head off. Linette gave me the promise of a very cool new record player. (She says it’s on its way from Amazon, and I don’t have any reason not to believe her.) And, I got taken out to see Judd Apatow’s new movie, “Knocked Up,” at a theater in Canton that allows drinking. Aside from the phlegmy cough, the fact that I poured half a $7 beer down the front of my shirt, and the pitch black depression that always sets in after I see a good comedy, it was a pretty good day.

Oh, yeah, and it looks like the site crashed while we were out… It must have been all the traffic generated by my big post on Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

Anyway, happy Father’s Day to all of you men out there in the audience who have experienced the pain of childbirth. This day is for you.

Well, my beautiful wife and I are going to curl up on the couch now and watch a few episodes of “Battlestar Gallactica” while eating Cheese-Its by the fist-full… The perfect end to the perfect day.