Now, leaving aside the question of how appealing Ms. Carter's charms are when they've had a light dusting of mock-monkey (Yes, yes, I know; it's "Planet of the Apes," not "Meteor of the Monkeys." However, the word "monkey" just sounds funnier. Try it.) fur, one can still wonder about the fact that late studio pressure was exerted to excise the scene from the film. While it's the suits' job to look after the bottom line, caution over showing too much, err, animal sexuality seems a bit hypocritical from the folks who brought us Temptation Island.

And as one friend said, "If the monkey's sufficiently hot..."

The first, and worse offender, is a Rogaine commercial wherein the viewer is asked (as he watches a Young Beautiful Couple alternately cavort in bed and check the guy's hairline) if your wife will still sleep with you if you start to lose your hair. The actress in the piece, who comes across as frighteningly plastic, implies that, well, you know, female creatures are fickle that way, and that she certainly isn't going to be knocking boots with her hubby in five years if he develops a widow's peak.

In other words, the makers of Rogaine really want to know if you're married to a shallow, insecure hosebeast whose commitment to your lifelong marital partnership is predicated entirely on the density of the hair follicles on your scalp. One cannot help but wonder if, should the answer to this question be "Yes," one is better off getting rid of said shallow hosebeast immediately, before one's impending resemblance to Telly Savalas becomes an issue.

On the other hand, if you buy Rogaine, you can keep this grasping shrew in your life forever!⁴

Almost as bad is the Lexus commercial whereby an Attractive Young Thing shmoozes via cellphone with a friend while waiting for a blind date to arrive. Her mantra is a familiar one - she just wants a guy who's nice, who can appreciate her, who doesn't necessarily have to drive a fancy car or be hung like a pachyderm, blah blah blah. Then her blind date shows up with carefully trimmed stubble and *gasp* a Lexus, and suddenly it doesn't matter if he can't recite the alphabet even with fourteen letter head start. He's cute, he's well-dressed, and by God, he drives a Lexus, and that's enough to imply that our heroine's ankles are going to be up around her ears by the time the waiter comes around and asks if anyone wants dessert.

So buy a Lexus. After all, the owners of the company want you to know that they're great for picking up shallow, hypocritical women.

With cell phones.

Now, on rare occasions I actually make the mistake of tuning into Imus on the drive into work in the mornings, usually because I was listening to a Carolina Mudcats game the night before and forgot to change the station. However, a few words of Imus' dulcet tones are generally enough to rectify this, because honestly there's little in life less grating than listening to a verbally constipated middle-aged curmudgeon declare that his coworkers are morons. If I want to hear that, I'll drop in on a management meeting at work, thank you very much. One of the "comedy" stylings I stumbled across the other day was, quite literally, a list of people Imus would like to have killed, as read in a bad Andy Rooney imitation. The humor of this escapes me. At some point, the veneer of cynicism has worn off the naugahyde-faced Robert Plant lookalike, leaving his unfunny, angry misanthropy on ugly display.

What's truly frightening, however, is how, slowly but surely, Imus has turned into the Kathy Lee Gifford of morning radio. Witness: Endless anecdotes about how his toddler is doing? Check. Long on-air promotions of products he's tied to? Check, though at least we have no reports of sweatshop conditions in the factory making Fred Imus' thoroughly unappetizing-looking salsa. On-air babytalk? Check; a recent broadcast brought the revelation that something was "icky," an adjective no doubt cribbed from frequent guest Doris Kearns Goodwin. Far-too-intimate details of a marriage between an over-the-hill macho type and a younger woman? Hoo boy, check. (and if you could read that one with a frisson of horror, I'd appreciate it.) Relentless plugging of personal projects to the exclusion of on-air content? Check; as noble a cause as the Imus ranch for ill children might be, I really never needed to hear the details of every brick laid. As some dude named Maimonedes once noted, charity is of a higher order when you don't insist on credit for it at every turn.

I'm sure the Imus ranch does a great deal of good. I'm certain that somewhere, there's a salsa aficionado bathing his sweet patooties in Fred's mixings and some chips. I'm certain that in some hamlet somewhere, "icky" passes for insightful social commentary. But, for the love of God, you don't have to remind me.

Well, the answer is simple: It all went to hell well over a year ago, and I haven't spoken to the woman in question since last Halloween. However, all is not lost (and the single women of the world are safe) because in recent months I've actually gotten off my duff and started dating again. Even better, the woman I am involved with is witty, charming, lovely, intelligent, attractive, and sensible enough to refuse to let her friends know she's dating a guy who writes under the pen name "Elfpants."

However, there is one fly in the ointment. (Well, several, but most of them are none of your damn business, and no matter what Martini says none of them have anything to do with whether or not we want to hire midgets to film our lovemaking) Simply put, I find myself at a loss for what to call her when I'm scribbling one of these things.

Miss Pants? It sounds vaguely obscene. She-Pants? Reminiscent of a Cyndi Lauper song. On-Staff Crafts Expert? Technically true, but hardly an adequate summation of our relationship. She Who Must Be Obeyed? Too H. Rider Haggard, I think, and besides, Rumpole of the Bailey got there first.

It really is a vexing problem. I find myself at the stage of the relationship where all is euphoric, and every passing vista promotes the endorphin-soaked response "I wish she could be here to see this." And so, I want to talk about her. I want to write about her. And most of all, I want to talk and write about her in such a manner that she won't suddenly realize that she's dating a borderline psychotic with delusions of being Garrison Keillor, and flee screaming into the night.

On second thought, writing about writing about her is liable to provoke that response anyway. Back to pornographic monkeys for me -- it's safer subject material.