Really?

I think you’re rancid scum.

I wish she was still in San Francisco, for I’m curious about a couple of recent legal cases. In North Carolina, a district attorney charged a couple of gentlemen with the crime of, “castration without malice.” I wonder of there’s some nuanced legal differentiation between that crime and castration with malice. I should think so, but no one except those au fait with the law ever knows these things.

Meanwhile, in Germany, a woman driving her recently-deceased mother’s body from here to there was fined for, “disturbing a dead person’s peace.” Once one’s dead, is there a state other than peace? And isn’t that a theological question, not a legal matter?

I miss Dr. Kilpatrick’s learned company.

“What’s the matter, m’dear?” I asked.

“I’m depressed because I’m not making any art these days,” Nora confided.

“Well then,” I replied, “perhaps you should make some art.”

“That’s a great idea!” Nora responded after thinking about my proposition for a couple of seconds.

I wonder why the obvious solutions are the hardest to find?

By the time the band came on, I’d enjoyed enough of the free wine to deeply appreciate the horse fiddle players. And regardless of any imbibing, I can say with certainty that I’ve never heard more moving Mongolian throat singing.

Later, I called a friend who’s spent quite a bit of time in Mongolia to tell her about the delightful evening. She said it sounded like an atypical Mongolian experience, and recommended that I go on a yak butter fast until I started hallucinating from a lack of fruit and vegetables. I’m not going to take her well-intentioned advice; I much prefer Comrade Dingle’s edited version of Mongolian culture.

Over a delicious dinner from a local restaurant, Doctors Rosen and I debated whether we were eating “Chinese take out” or “Chinese take in” food. The debate lasted for hours, and now I can’t remember who—if anyone—won. I suppose it doesn’t matter, for I also can’t remember my position on the issue. As pedants go, I’m certainly not a very good one.

“Can I smell your crotch?” she asked after the door closed.

I was stunned by her query, and couldn’t come up with a reply.

“Then it must be your feet,” she announced as she backed away from me.

Dang, that’s the most embarrassing elevator experience I’ve had since the misinterpreted sex request in Berlin. I really should take the stairs more often.