Perambulating about the Upper East Side the other day I saw the remnants of an apartment move-out on the sidewalk, looking for all the world like a shipwreck washed ashore. The grim skeletons of lamps and furniture jutting out at odd angles, black trash bags bursting at the seams with last season’s wardrobe, broken pottery scattered over the curb, and the obligatory boxes of books that Manhattanites tend to amass. Atop the pile of discarded volumes was the amusing title, "Sex for Dummies." Was there really such a book? Who would read it? My mind, working as it does, tried to fill in the backstory to this scene: a middle-aged couple hit a few bumps in the road, bought a few books, successfully rekindled the flames they once had, and packed it all up and moved to Borneo to live out their days in connubial bliss…or something like that.