Way, way back in the day, I had a perfectly good Valentine. What had initially attracted me to him was his enormous, regal afro. Seriously, wow. I am not kidding when I tell you that my Valentine had the perfect afro, and I would stare at it in wonder for hours on end. Generally, I felt like a lucky man. But things went awry when, on Valentine’s Day of 1996 he showed up at my house with a bright blue stolen candle that was covered in hand-painted stars and shaped either like a mushroom or a very unfortunate penis. His other hand cradled a bottle of Night Train. ...