I checked the mirror today and felt pretty good about myself. A bit puffy around the eyes, a few extra wrinkles, minimal chin sag. The hair, of course, is history. If there were a Hair Fairy I’d be wealthy. Then I opened the mail. The Johns Hopkins Health After Fifty Medical Letter’s fourth renewal reminder chiding me for not accepting their holiday offer of $28 a year to learn in detail the risks of electromagnetic fields, how to understand the lymph system and spleen and recognizing Immunologic Rheumatic Disorders. The Tufts Health & Nutrition Letter examining the benefits of Yo-Yo Dieting, asking “Should You Be Cleaning Your GI Tract?” bursting the scandal of Eating Disorders Among Dietitians. A large envelope contained an offer from The Cleveland Clinic Men’s Health Advisor extolling its 75-year history, ready to alert me to the toll long-term stress takes on short-term memory, and a way to avoid hospitalization if you have a hernia. As much as I admire the effort to improve our health, the city of Cleveland had better start concentrating on improving attendance at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Devoting an entire floor to Moby Grape, it seems, has been counter-productive. A letter from Avalon Products in North Hollywood deals entirely with male impotence. A photo of the remarkable ERECT-PLEX, a device that resembles a Viking hood ornament attached to a hand grenade, promises full-proof potency, increasing size and thickness. “Brings results fast!” Hold it. Isn’t that the problem? A penis creme, Mr. Stiff is guaranteed to make “your penis stand up and salute.” “Watch your penis start to grow ready and hot before your eyes!” At this point I’m asking, who needs a partner? There’s a photo of a graying guy and his wife fly-fishing. I suppose the rod is a Freudian symbol. “Clout” is a secret ingredient. “The sub-conscious scent of a sexually aroused male B the same scent that has switched on the mating instinct of all women since cave man days!” No, this is the same scent that has driven women off crowded subways in July. Lastly, an ad for the J.O. Pleasurizer, “A Male Masturbator that creates its own sucking action!” A smiling brunette is pictured behind a photo of this pleasure machine, which appears to be the size of a bedpost. Evidently one inserts one’s Mr. Happy into this thing (complete with instructions and lubricant) and it takes care of the rest. “A masturbator that is slick and supple, clinging maddeningly to every part of your penis! A masturbator so alive it wraps itself around your organ, searching out and teasing to frenzy every single tiny nerve ending!” Okay. You’ve got this thing on, you’re clicking away on your PC, deep frying halibut, calling the plumber, removing excess nose hair (and who exactly decides how much is excess?), sketching, sculpting or practicing mime. All the stuff you need your hands for. A steal at $17.95 plus shipping. My Dr. Leonard catalogue invites me to order a cordless electric nail file, therapeutic magnets for every part of my body, a neoprene adjustable Velcro mask to protect from cold but looks like you had massive scarring below the eyes and need a cover so you won’t scare kids. And of course, the ever-reliable long-stemmed, jet-streaming gutter flusher. Seeking entertainment, I open my Whole Tune Catalog, pick up the phone and quickly order “Porky Pig: Ham on Wry,” 105 min., 1937-56, 14 titles, laser, $34.95. Please rush I tell the operator. My mail is depressing me.