Well, in the New Yorker, he’s gonna (further) disarm you with Dowton Abbey — and cats!:
Look, I never want to tell stories about my children, because it always seems a little lazy. Children tend to be sort of dumb, and, in the end, the stories are always the same: children say hilarious things, and I am old and dying.
So when I tell you these stories about my children let’s just pretend they are about my cats.
So my cats and I were watching “Downton Abbey” last year. (I have two cats, one girl cat, who is twelve—in cat years, obviously—and a boy cat, who is seven.) And at one point my younger cat turned to me and said, “What is that human woman trying to say to that other man?”
And I said, “That is Mary Crawley. She is trying to tell Matthew that she is in love with him.”
And my younger cat thought about it and said, “Well, that is a very hard thing to do.” And then he said, “You have to pick just the right time.”
Then my older cat turned to him and said, “WILL YOU BE QUIET, PLEASE?”…
So, what’s on the agenda this evening that isn’t maddening and/or depressing?