I’d forgotten about that embarrassing incident until this afternoon, when I was enjoying a Thai lunch with Judith. After I showed—or, perhaps more accurately, showed off—my fancy and ridiculously complex new digital camera, I didn’t hesitate to pass it across the table when she asked for a closer look.

Big mistake!

Judith looked through the viewfinder, turned toward the window, and, without hesitating, released the shutter. She made a fine photograph—a fine color photograph, even. (Although my electronic camera only makes color “originals,” I automatically convert every image I make to black and white [or is that greyscale?].)

I simply must not let my friends use my cameras again. Once everyone finds out how easy it is to make very good photographs, half of my game is over.

I don’t know why I bother making such photographs. I can easily create much more interesting or funnier signs than “Holesale Supply” by manipulating and altering photographs in my computer. I can, but I won’t. Visual jokes are rarely worth the effort it takes to tell them.

Since neither Naomi or I fight, I didn’t find the bakery boy’s words particularly relevant. That’s why I gave Naomi the best marriage advice I ever heard: “Don’t do it again.”

“What?” I asked. (I don’t really remember my exact words; I may have said, “What!” )

“I heard you told everyone at the bar last night that you could speak Martian.”

“I don’t remember saying anything like that,” I replied. (That was the truth, about all I do remember is helping to run up the first thirteen-hundred dollar bar tab I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t all that bad, though: a friend billed the entire amount to his company’s credit card.)

After a long talk, we finally figured out that when I said, “I speak a little Russian,” everyone heard me say, “I speak a little Martian.” I guess people were slurring their hearing; that’s one of the many reasons I dislike bars.

Rocks love gravity, but I can understand why gravity is sometimes too busy to reciprocate. If I were gravity, I too might be preoccupied with more interesting pursuits—such as snatching passing meteorites from space or pulling toddlers to the ground—to worry much about the odd group of unfulfilled stones.

I have more time on my hands than gravity does, so I act as gravity’s helper. When I see an unnatural construction that’s an insult to gravity and stones alike, I step in and restore the natural order of things. Although some of my friends think unbalancing rocks is a thankless task, they are quite mistaken. When I see a stack of rocks toppling, without hesitation, into gravity’s all-encompassing embrace, I am gratified to witness the purest manifestation of love.

If that’s not falling in love, then there’s no such thing, no such thing at all.

The person who coined the phrase “comfort foods” is a marketing genius. Most people fear high blood pressure, rotting teeth, heart attacks, obesity, et cetera, but what sane person would deny themselves a modicum of comfort? Although the concept of “comfort foods” is intellectually unsound, it does have a certain emotional appeal, especially after a couple of comfort drinks.