I wasn’t lost.

Simon Munnery said that; I’ve never heard of the hombre before. Noah thinks Munnery’s a comedian, but I’m not so sure. His observation strikes me as more insightful than humorous. I can’t be certain, since I rarely suffer and can’t draw.

The latest farcical example of such an advertising campaign features Pablo, a dead talking dog. The English video ads begin with Pablo not doing so well. He’s sprawled on a dirty, concrete floor with a large, open incision the length of his underbelly. He’s as dead as a dead dog. Someone reaches into his abdomen, then pulls out the canine’s entrails and finds a packet of cocaine.

Poor Pablo! Someone slipped some cocaine into his mongrel chow for him to smuggle! Bad traffickers! Bad dog! (Or something like that; I’m not sure what the message is.)

Removing the cocaine has a miraculous effect on Pablo; he comes back to life! And what’s more, the beast can speak! (I’d be tempted to conclude that cocaine is an antidote to muteness and death, but I’m sure that isn’t the intended message either.) Pablo the Lazarus dog then goes on to chat up drug dealers and users to learn more about cocaine.

The ad wasn’t very enlightening vis-à-vis cocaine, but may provide an interesting perspective on recreational drug use in the advertising industry.

I went over to their house this afternoon for a tutorial in beast management.

“First thing you do when you get up in the morning is you take the dog for a walk,” Jacob explained. “In an emergency you can just let him out into the back yard, but then clean up his mess if you do.”

Jacob went on to explain that his wife was more tolerant of shit than he was, and would greatly appreciate it if the dog defecated on someone else’s lawn.

Later, I told Alina that Jacob revealed the secret of their successful marriage.

“What’s that?” she asked, “I’ve always wondered.”

“Jacob says you tolerate a lot of shit,” I replied, then added, “but you needn’t repeat that I said that.”

Alina smiled knowingly; she knew why their marriage works all along.

I visited Lani this afternoon at a Hunters Point Shipyard studio; that’s where I received my latest grant. All the other rolls I’ve received have been more or less identical, but this one is massive. I couldn’t establish its provenance; I can only guess it may have been designed for nautical use, i.e., substantial enough for a long ocean voyage.

So now what do I do? Put an asterisk next to Hunters Point Shipyard on my list? Create a separate category for mammoth rolls? Cite Hunters Point Shipyard next year as well? I don’t know.

I don’t know and I don’t care; I’ll improvise something later. Today, making such a decision smells like bureaucracy. That’s not what I want to stick my nose in at the moment; I have a more appealing option that I can’t mention for all the obvious reasons.

What a brilliant idea; the musicians can’t go wrong! If someone in the audience likes the music, that’s obviously a good thing. Conversely, if someone on their deathbed despises the singing, they might look forward to their imminent demise. (I’ve heard lots of alleged music that makes the silence of a grave seem like a preferable option.)

The hospice circuit isn’t a good way to develop a following, but, since someone’s always dying, it doesn’t really matter.

About the only thing I can say is that computers have never worked with the reliability of, say, a fifty-year old Leica or a ten-dollar Japanese watch. They’re undependable now, and I expect them to perform erratically until I pop my clogs.

I know such an obvious observation certainly doesn’t qualify as any sort of insight, but then I’ve never come up with any insights on Tuesdays or Thursdays.

Melamine wasn’t found in food until recently. There’s a good reason for that: the compound created from cyanamide and formaldehyde is poisonous. It also contains a lot of nitrogen; that looks good in lab tests, as long as the technicians are looking for protein and not toxins. And so, innovative Chinese entrepreneurs have been adding melamine to all sorts of foodstuffs from pet food to infant formula to candy. The move has generated lots of profits, as well as a number of dead dogs and dead babies.

Given the sweets’ dubious radix, Nico did what any good daughter would do. She sent her mother a nice thank-you note, and gave the white pellets to Josephine. Rats overrun Josephine’s cabin every winter, and if the aggressive rodents die a horrible death after eating some Chinese candy, well, Josephine can still sleep with a clear conscience.