Earlier this year, in March, I signed a contract not with Faust, but with someone far more pleasant. I believe his name was First. Mr. First was dressed in a dark oxford shirt, a pair of wrinkle-free Dockers, and had very polished shoes. He said, “Son, can you play me a memory. I’m not really sure how it goes. But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I know it’s complete. When I wore a younger man’s clothes.” I sat at the piano and played the only two things I know outside of “Chopsticks” — the riff for “Lady Madonna” and Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor. Mr. First told me that this wasn’t acceptable and that the two half-songs I played weren’t really memories, but melodies. I didn’t argue with him. Jonathan Ames’ name was brought up and well, you know the rest.

Or perhaps I’m getting my last karaoke experience confused with the papers that I’m sure that I signed — if I did indeed sign papers. (Was it the apartment lease?)

Either way, I’ve made it my duty to report any and all Jonathan Ames developments. And right now there are two: first, this Slate piece whereby Mr. Ames chronicles his midlife situation and this piece from The Stranger, whereby The Extra Man and Wake Up, Sir! are both used as cases against suicide.