In any case, I’ve had it; I’ve had it up to here. And what’s more, I’m going to do something about it.

I’m launching a new airline: Nude Bondage Airlines. What could possibly be safer?

At last, I’ve finally come with an idea that has wings, metaphorically and literally.

Fly the NBA way!

Many years ago, Hubert told me a story about a flight aboard a Boeing 737 in South Africa. Hubert was flying on a domestic flight on a clear day when he saw something amazing. One of the two pilots was talking to passengers when the other half of the two-person cockpit crew came out to ask a question, or perhaps to deliver a message.

It’s not important to understand why the entire flight crew was outside the cockpit. For the purpose of the story, the only important thing to know is that no one was in the cockpit when the door separating the pilots from their plane’s controls slammed shut.

Oops!

Hubert, who knows a thing or seventeen about jets, watched in amazement as the hapless pilots tried to pick dozens of locks to re‘nter the cockpit.

They failed. And that’s when one of the pilots grabbed a microphone to address the passengers.

“Er, folks, every so often we need to conduct certain safety exercises,” one of the airline drones drawled, “so there’s no need to be alarmed at what you’re about to see.”

And with that, the pilot used a fire axe to smash through the cockpit door. And that was that.

Many years later, I heard Hubert’s story repeated as an urban myth about a private jet flying over New Jersey. I laughed when I read the “apocryphal” tale; I knew it must have been based on Hubert’s experience. And that’s why I believe that all apocryphal tales and “urban myths” are all true, each and every one of them.

Earlier this year, I ran into Hubert’s partner Pam, and asked her to thank Hubert for providing empirical evidence to support my beliefs.

“Actually,” Pam replied, “Hubert wasn’t on that flight, but a friend of his saw the whole thing ...”

Last night I had dinner with Pattie, then went back to her place to drink a lovely bottle of spiced Polish vodka.

Pattie asked me if I enjoyed recreational surgery, then she gave me a knowing wink.

I told her I’ve never been interested in recreational surgery, then gave her an unknowing wink.

Damn, those Poles really know how to twist a potato!

I wished that Darrin would be away from home, and I got my wish.

Later, I had second doubts. Although I got my wish that Darrin wasn’t home, I wondered if I might have squandered a wish. Maybe I should have wished for world peace, half-price burritos, or for aliens to abduct Paul Anka.

I’ll guess I’ll never know.

Today, that phrase comes to mind when reading about an incompetent “investigative journalist” who decided to demonstrate the vulnerability of a local water supply in Florida to contamination with anthrax and/or smallpox and/or whatever.

WTVF reporter Rob Manning demonstrated how easily a person could crawl, unchallenged, under a fence near the city’s “water supply.” The would-be journalist scoffed at the ineptitude of public servants. “A security guard pulled up in his truck,” the erstwhile reporter announced breathlessly, “but didn’t question us.”

One of the government water facility employees wasn’t upset at Manning’s jibes. “After all,” he said, “if a terrorist tried to put something in our water supply, we’d rather he end up at the sewage plant.”

That’s right, the idiot journalist managed to demonstrate that he could introduce toxins into the local the sewage treatment plant.

Stupidity is always amazing, so amazingly amazing.

And soon thereafter I walked out. Total meecrog!

Although I was glad that I hadn’t financially contributed to artistic mediocrity, my aesthetic snobbery was mitigated by aesthetic and financial doubt. I wondered what kind of world I would live in if only easily-accessible artworks were readily available?

I didn’t wonder very long. After all, I nominally live in such a mediocre world. That’s why I spend so little time there.

I was right, as usual. A trip to Point Reyes is almost always a pleasant experience, and I liked Katy’s paintings, even though they were mostly retinal. I only found one trace of amateurism: the food and wine.

Most experienced artists know the formula for opening fare: cardboard crackers, cheese-like plastic food substances, and wine that’s only a few molecules away from vinegar. Since this was Katy’s first significant show, she made the understandable mistake of providing a delicious middle-eastern buffet and some really, really good wine.

Since Katy’s a smart artist, I’m sure she’ll have the confidence to serve inedible food and undrinkable wine at her next opening. And that’s just fine with me; I live on inedible food and delight in undrinkable wine.

Ah, the life of the artist: that’s the life for me!

There are days when I think I might have enjoyed a career in science. Today is not such a day.