I went to a science lecture this week for the first time in a decade, and if more lectures were this interesting -- or if they were held in a bar, like this one -- then I probably would have taken science more seriously. Or I would have at least shown up for class.

University of Pennsylvania psychologist Robert Kurzban held the lecture to discuss his not-yet-published study on "mate choice copying."

So I'm totally ready to spend the next year-and-a-half of my life talking non-stop about five hours that aren't going to happen until mid-2008. I'm really fine with this. Seriously.

She said "of course." I was expecting a "yes" and tears, but instead she gave me an "of course" and broke out in hives.

It was fitting though. The answer to the marriage proposal was unusual, just like the proposal itself and the whole courtship.

The girlfriend and I have our second anniversary coming up, and this year I promised her that unlike our first anniversary, this will not be the worst night ever.

For some reason, men often propose marriage on their anniversaries. For some reason, men often propose over dessert. For some reason, men aren't that creative.

I've picked a fight with my own team. Men, it turns out, hate me.

I recently wrote a largely satirical column about how sperm banks, cloning and the increasing financial independence of property-owning women are making men (and fathers) virtually obsolete.

Men, apparently, are NOT going silently. With the exception of a few touching e-mails from women about how they depend on their husbands, I was bombarded with angry e-mails from dudes around the world (or at least America and Australia).

I'd like to sit here and tell you looks don't matter. That "what's on the inside" is all other people value in you. That true love happens in a vacuum filled only with snuggles and cuddles, void whatsoever of receding hairlines and breast sizes.

I'd also like to tell you the women on the The Girls Next Door, the reality show about Hugh Hefner's three girlfriends, are hideous because they're cosmetically and surgically altered.

But in both of those cases I'd be lying. I'm an American -- show me some skin and then I'll decide if I like you. (And by the way, how much money do you make?)

Back in the day, women burnt their bras and men made crude comments to female coworkers without fear of retribution. The Gender War raged from coast to coast.

Unfortunately, the Gender War has gotten pretty lame these days. No one is burning anything at all, and it's rare to see men and women shout sexist comments at each other. It's even hard to figure out whose team everyone is on, what with men supporting women and vice versa.

I'm just hoping the museum exhibits about men are at least somewhat favorable.

Because dudes are done.

We've outlived our usefulness, purpose and relevancy, and soon enough we're going to go the way of the human appendix and the eight-track player.

 I got my first nemesis in fourth grade. His name was Ofer. 

He was my nemesis for two reasons: 1) I was totally jealous of his name, which started with a vowel and was therefore cooler than "Matthew." 2) Even though he was short like me, he was amazing at sports.

This wasn't fair. And therefore he was dead to me.

I had to see for myself.

So I walked up to the Starbucks counter, ordered a coffee for $48 and settled into a chair. When my friends (let's call them M&M) arrived, they glanced in my direction, smiled slightly and turned away, pretending not to know me.