I don’t want to die.

One of us needs to change.

“If you are not completely satisfied with this CD, listen to it again and then realize you have wasted your money.”

In the unlikely event I should ever decide to warranty my work, I shall use some variation of the Funky Porcini approach.

Scorchio!

Cliff Arnall of Cardiff University has come up with scientific proof that today is the most wretched and depressing day of the year. According to the news account I read, he reached this conclusion, “after using an elaborate formula expressing the delicate interplay of lousy weather, post-Christmas debt, time elapsed since yuletide indulgence, failed new year resolutions, motivation levels, and the desperate need to have something to look forward to.”

I think Arnall’s theory is complete rubbish. I’m glad the hollowdays are over, the weather in San Francisco is just fine, and just the thought of being far from grey, miserable Cardiff is a source of some satisfaction.

After Ritch died, his partner spent days looking for the site without success. It wasn’t until weeks later that a friend correctly suggested that the site didn’t exist. Ritch had the last laugh; I have no idea where his partner scattered the remains.

Dead people always have the advantage.

“If there was a way in, then there’s a way out,” was the best advice I could provide.

That turned out to be all she needed to hear. I’m always pleasantly surprised when my advice works; that’s rare.

“That’s not a scar,” she explained, “it’s a story.”

Of course. I forgot that I knew that. A few years ago, I thought about photographing friends’ scars, then abandoned the nascent project when I realized that I was pursuing a cliché.

“Look at the patterns!” she explained. “No one needs that level of detail for cleaning up a spill. I think the perforation marks are the key; have you ever noticed they’re all different?”

Eileen seemed relieved when I admitted that I’ve never paid any attention to paper towels.