I cut you loose a long time ago.

The fishy flesh and wine proved to be the catalysts for a welcome state of ebullience, and I made a snapshot that pleased all three of us to varying degrees.

Being of a certain age, I’ve learned how to do everything I need to do is a single year in three hundred and sixty-five days or less. Today is a bonus day, which raises the obvious question of how to spend the extra time.

What to do?

Even though the weather thus Sunday is fine, I’m reminded of Susan Ertz’s observation, “Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.”

Thinking about that called to mind Cyril Connolly’s take on the day, “The boredom of Sunday afternoon, which drove de Quincey to drink laudanum, also gave birth to surrealism: hours propitious for making bombs.”

I think Ill spend the rest of the day swimming my database of quotes.

Heard but not seen, what to do? Answer: trap.

I had the lads concoct a giant trap on the roof. Once the brute takes the bait, the trap will slam down, and I’ll be able to interrogate the beast at my pleasure.

There’s just one problem with my admittedly cunning plan: I have no idea what to use for bait. Bones and entrails? Discarded electronics? Cheese and oatmeal?

I was about to conclude that the problem clearly required more study when I realized that a problem that doesn’t merit further inquiry probably isn’t a problem.

“Clifford, no one I know uses more recreational drugs than you,” I replied, “all of which are generally illegal unless you’re in San Francisco.”

“Exactly,” Clifford responded, “If I’d had drug education I probably never would have spent ten dollars on some bird seed the woman in the bathroom of a Detroit bar insisted was marijuana.”

I had to agree; who can argue against greater knowledge?

I’d never heard that word before, so I looked it up in my piss-poor dictionary. “Literally, the love of looking.” So far so good; I guess I’m a scopophiliac. Or maybe not. The dictionary went on to say, “The term refers to the predominantly male gaze of Hollywood cinema, which enjoys objectfying women into mere objects to be looked at.” Oops; then I’m not a scopophiliac.

Even though I love to look at everything and everybody, I’m going to resist the temptation to call myself a scopophiliac. Since David Hockney’s gay, he can get away with it. I’m not, and can never seem to win an argument with people who cite Freud and Lacan.

Having seriously considered redefining midnight for almost two minutes, I’ve concluded that this has to be one of my more ridiculous ideas. It’s around midnight, and that means it’s around time for bed.