Because I don’t know why I’m so depressed.

“But wine generally comes in a glass,” I noted, “albeit a glass bottle.”

“That’s an astute observation,” Dr. Landweber observed, “coming, as it does, from someone who buys his wine in a box.”

“It’s a matter of practicality,” I continued. “Why pay for redundant glass?”

“It’s not about the delivery device,” Dr. Landweber replied, “wine is all about style.”

I didn’t know what to say; it appears that I’ve been enjoying wine for all wrong reasons for decades. I guess I shouldn’t have listened to Priscilla Post, who helped me discover that wine makes one inebriated.

Style, imagine that!

Jody told me she associated depression with amnesia. I agreed. I’m reasonably content because I barely remember my myriad mistakes; I recall then just enough not to repeat them.

It turns out Jody was thinking about something else. She explained that depressed people can’t remember not being distressed; they can’t remember what it feels like to be elated, alive, fulfilled.

There’s a lot I don’t know about depression, and I intend to preserve that ignorance.

“You’re right,” Dr. Goodlatte agreed, “I’m afraid I’ll have to have him killed soon.”

I was struck by her directness. When it comes to ending a companion animal’s life, I’ve only heard and used euphemisms: euthanize, put down, put to sleep. Of course, killing is killing, but it’s rarely ackmowledged as such.

After lunch, Vanilla sat in the sun beside me, rubbed his head against my leg, and purred. I hope no one kills me while I can still enjoy doing that.

But enough about irrelevant superficialities.

Bonnie organized a spectacular evening, with a sea of tasty wine leading to hectares of scrummy food and back again. I quite enjoyed chatting with her guests—especially Rosemarie, an international woman of mystery. Throw in a few opera singers and a great bluegrass band, and that’s about all there is to say about a lovely evening. Especially since that’s about all I can remember.

Today’s story comes from The China Daily, which reports that stores and beauty parlors in Guangdong are selling cheap hair bands comprised of used condoms. That sounds like a fine new life for used prophylactics; it’s clearly better than using them for birth control.

Now that I think about it, the story is the opposite of curious; it’s thoroughly rational. Why is there no condom recycling program in San Francisco? As usual, the city’s not nearly as progressive as its publicists maintain.