"David," Scotty patiently replied, "this does not taste like beer-flavored water."

Scotty seemed sincere, but I wasn't convinced.

The people at the Rainier Ale factory have changed both the label on the beverage container as well as the formula of the goo inside. I am not pleased.

"Scotty," I beseeched, "tell me this big, red, blobby 'R' on the label that now obscures my view of Mount Rainier doesn't look pug-ugly."

"David," Scotty answered, "it does not look pug-ugly. In fact, you could interpret it as an improvement."

"Explain yourself," I commanded. (I almost never talk like that, but this was an extraordinary traumatic occasion.)

"Well, for one thing, Mount Rainier's bigger on the new label than it was on the old one. That has to be a good thing. And as for the 'R,' just think of it as 'Rinehart on Rainier.' "

I had to admit it was a fine argument, but there was one more problem with the new formula that still had to be addressed.

"Scotty, what do you have to say about the undisputed fact that the factory technicians have twiddled down the alcohol content from 7.2 percent to 6.6 percent?" I asked.

"Well, I suppose I could say that means we can drink more," Scotty replied thoughtfully, "but I'm not going to say that. Instead, I think the more appropriate response is a toast: a pox on greedy, shortsighted, bean-counting twiddlers everywhere!"

We repeated the toast again and again until the swill tasted as good as it did in the good old days of last week.

To be "inspired," in its most clinical sense, means that we continue. To have been "inspired" is one of those miracles, the mystery of which may yield awe and terror. Of course, for an intimate, we offer our intangible caring and grief. These are the moments of our divided nature--the moments when we may best know ourselves--and perhaps the most enduring gift, bestowed as subtly and naturally as inspiration itself.

I think I probably misinterpreted what he said, but who cares? Comforting words are welcome, regardless of their veracity.

Noting my skeptical expression, he admonished me to look it up in a dictionary. I did, and here's what my lame reference volume told me:

To say that we will ravel the history of ravel is an ambiguous statement, given that history. Ravel comes from the obsolete Dutch verb ravelen, "to tangle, fray out, unweave," which comes in turn from the noun ravel, "a loose thread." We can see the ambiguity of ravel already in the notion of a loose thread, because threads can be loose when they are tangled or when they are untangling. The Dutch verb has both notions present in it, denoting both tangling and unweaving. In one of its earliest recorded uses in English (before 1585) the verb means "to become entangled or confused," and in 1598 we find a use in the sense "to entangle." But in 1611 the word is used with reference to a fabric in the sense "to fray out," and in 1607 in the sense "to unwind, unweave, or unravel." In 1582 we already have an author using the word in a figurative way to mean "to take to pieces or disentangle," while in a work written before 1656 we have a figurative instance of the sense "to entangle or confuse." Clearly there was a need for the word unravel, which is first found in 1603, but strangely enough it did not solve the problem, ravel retaining up to this day both "entangling" and "disentangling" senses.

I found a couple of old anecdotes I hadn't heard, like the one about the feud between Marc Chagall and Pablo Picasso.

Picasso: "I know, Chagall, why you don't exhibit in Russia; there's no money to be made there." (Chagall stomps out stage left.)

Chagall: "Picasso is a great artist, but why doesn't he paint?"

And so on.

And then there's the dinner invitation from that ne'er-do-well Avidas Dollars (dba Salvador Dali) to that nice Mr. Yves Tanguy. The flaccid Señor Dali gave Tanguy a plate of fried eggs to eat while he enjoyed course after course of gourmet vittles.

"You have talent, Tanguy, therefore you need only to feed it," explained Dali. "I, on the other hand, am a genius, and must nourish my intellect with the most exorbitantly costly dishes. But I am offering you a chance to elevate yourself to my level by serving you fried eggs, a highly Dalinian foodstuff."

And so on.

And then I got bored. Trying to find something to ridicule in an art magazine was just too easy, even for someone as slothful as myself.

"I think the important thing to remember when talking about a midlife crisis is that ..." I began.

"You weren't listening," she interrupted, "I said midwife crisis."

Her interjection confused me.

"You're not a midwife and you're not going to have any more kids, so what's a midwife crisis?" I asked.

"That's the problem," she replied, "I think I may be having a midwife crisis, but I have no idea what that might mean."

And for once, I couldn't come up with a single platitude.

Oh well. My father had a crooked finger after he broke it; my brother has a crooked finger after he broke it. I guess crooked fingers run in the family. It might even be genetic.

Who knows?

I'm curious about the semantic ramifications of such a procedure. Why is it a head transplant and not a body transplant? I know of people who hold their bodies in higher esteem than their head. (And with good reason, too.)

To be "inspired," in its most clinical sense, means that we continue. To have been "inspired" is one of those miracles, the mystery of which may yield awe and terror. Of course, for an intimate, we offer our intangible caring and grief. These are the moments of our divided nature--the moments when we may best know ourselves--and perhaps the most enduring gift, bestowed as subtly and naturally as inspiration itself.

I think I probably misinterpreted what he said, but who cares? Comforting words are welcome, regardless of their veracity.

You can say that again!