"It would be a great networking opportunity," she said.

"Sorry, but I don't do networking," I replied.

"The hell you don't!" she exclaimed. "If it weren't for your parasitic networking, an idler like you might actually have to work."

"I'm an artist," I indignantly explained. "The world owes me a living."

"What a load of crap," Jill responded. "You're always networking."

"Ah," I exclaimed, "what we have here, I believe, is a semantic problem. I only collaborate with people I like. And when I'm with people whose company I enjoy, it's not working. It's notworking. I notwork."

Jill looked skeptical, but then again she always does.

Imagine that: going outside to feel the sun for perhaps the last time; spending each day with your partner of forty-five years as if it could be your last, because one of those days soon will be the last.

And here I am, in a dark mood in a dark room on a brilliant day, tapping on a computer keyboard.

Tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, tappety, and then it's over.

The destruction is complete and intentional. Dr. McGrath's junior assistants are tearing everything out of his laboratory's film developing chamber. They're wrecking everything recklessly; everything in the film developing chamber is headed for the dump. Everything.

It's sad to see what appears to be the end of an era. I developed my first roll of film over thirty years ago, but my darkroom's been in storage for over eight years. I intend to resurrect it one of these days, but that day seems increasingly elusive.

Nevertheless, I was grateful when Dr. McGrath said I could rescue whatever I wanted from the rubble. I grabbed a few dozen film holders and reels, a timer, and a couple of stainless steel tanks. When I get around to developing film again one of these days, I'll have more than enough hardware.

Flip.

Flop.

Rainier Ale is an amazing adult beverage.

Ordinarily, I would never pay much attention to a comparison between two topics of no interest. But the problem here is Ellen Steinberg, or, more exactly, her observation on the same subject.

"Does anyone know the difference between erotica and pornography?" Steinberg asked theoretically. "In erotica you use a feather; in pornography you use the whole chicken."

I tried to decide whether either, both, or neither woman was right, but I didn't try very long. Neither pornography nor erotica merit that much consideration.

A month ago I used what would have been Ernest Hemingway's hundredth birthday as an excuse to write about him; I suppose I could repeat myself and do the same with Borges.

Instead, I think I'll go for a long hike in the library.

At first, it seems like the price should be obvious: $1.89 plus tax plus CRV. The problem is with the CRV, which turns out to be the nature of the CRV itself. CRV stands for Constant Random Variable; that means that the variable in question is, in fact, variable.

And so it is that on any given day that my takeaway price of a forty-ounce bottle of Rainier Ale ranges from $1.89 to $2.23. The price is never ever the same, a fact that must be attributed to the elusive Constant Random Variable. The retail price, by definition, must be both random and variable.

Is that any way to run a business?