So I walk into Mattress Firm near the Domain area of Austin. The store has more mattresses than Esti Ginzburg has likes on Facebook. I’ve got to choose between kinda firm, firm, extra-firm and wurtzite boron nitride. Amongst seven brands. With or without cooling gel. On a motorized base. Or not. Factoring in price and Fourth of July promotions. In my attempt to stave off Stendahl Syndrome I find myself doing more mattress hopping than a nympho at a Peter North imitators’ convention. At some point in the proceedings, my shirt rides up to reveal (wait for it) my Caracal C. “Wow, that’s some gun,” the salesperson says (pinkie swear promise). “I’ve got a license,” I reply. “Relax honey,” she says. “You’re in Texas.” Imagine that.