Jessica, it means the world to me that you love me more when I’m naked. Even though we’ve never met, I feel absolutely certain that I love you more when you’re naked, too. God, how I wish you had been there last year when the cops utterly failed to love me more when I was naked. In fact they got so friggin’ uptight about the degree of nakedness I was displaying (approximately 100%) downtown at 3 a.m. that they insisted I wear a pair of handcuffs and join them in their patrol car. When we arrived at the municipal jail, there was no love, only some gray cotton shorts and a pair of leather cowboy boots that I was made to wear in the city drunk tank, stray articles of apparel left behind by someone with a size 13 foot and (a different someone, I’m pretty sure) with a 29-inch waist. Somehow I was able to pull together that look for one day, until my shorts and boots were replaced by a set of orange coveralls and I was processed into county. After that the days sort of melted together and before I realized it my 90 days were done and I was released back into the wild — if wild is the right word for a place where you can’t even go naked downtown at 3 a.m. If I get a vote, I’m saying, No, wild is totally the wrong word for it. Unwild, maybe. Because you and me, Jessica, we know wild, and this place ain’t wild, not by a longshot.