Less than negative zero.

Well, ’twould appear the American cold warriors may have been right after all. That’s my fear after reading this headline in the Moscow News.

Russian Scientists Claim to Invent Drug-Free Cannabis, Suggest it to Replace Wild Cannabis Worldwide

Inhale deeply and think about it. Where would the music business be without tetrahydrocannabinol? Surely the donut industry would collapse with out the patronage of customers without chemically-stimulated appetites. And so on and so on.

Communist alert!

But, perhaps too late, I fear. Communists have come and gone, but evil scientists live on forever.

That was Rob’s reaction to the news of Pink Floyd cofounder Syd Barrett’s recent death. Rob was of course referring to the truckloads of recreational drugs Barrett gulped, snorted, and inhaled in his younger days, before his brain imploded.

It’s an ill death that blows no good, or something like that. In any case, I was delighted to read the last paragraph of the obituary Adam Bernstein wrote for The Washington Post.

After brief hospitalization, Mr. Barrett was cared for by his mother, and he rarely left home. After his mother died in 1991, his health worsened, and his eyesight began to fail. He enjoyed gardening, however, and was said to be skillful at stuffing peppers.

The trouble is, the police cannot—by definition—be far-out trendsetters. The Suffolk, England constables have provided the latest example of a failed attempt to gain street cred, or credibility.

The cops published a “free magazine” targeted at young women featuring this dubious advice.

“For those of you intent on getting ratted [drunk] this weekend, think. If you fall over or pass out, remember your skirt or dress may ride up. You could show off more than you intended—for all our sakes, please make sure you’re wearing nice pants [underwear].”

“That’s a tough one,” I admitted. “It could mean he’s not ready to make a commitment to anyone, or he could be using weasel words to avoid saying he doesn’t want to make a commitment to you.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” Evelyn replied. “I expected you to be more supportive.”

“Well, you did ask for my opinion,” I protested uselessly.

“Frankly, I expected you to be more positive,” Evelyn said. “I see no point in talking with you if you can’t be more encouraging.”

“Well, then I encourage you to find a boyfriend who’s not a jerk,” I suggested.

That proved to be the wrong response.

“I’m wasting my time with you,” Evelyn concluded. “From now on, when your phone doesn’t ring, that will be me not calling.”

She hung up before I could give my spoiled friend an insincere apology.

And thus began the French revolution, a bloodbath that murdered most of the intelligent French people. Subsequent wars killed most of the remainder of the intelligentsia and/or ambitious French citizens. And that more or less explains the pathetic state of the French nation state.

I know that’s a grossly unfair and immature caricature of the state of the French state, but I don’t care. The French government killed a fellow photographer when its agents sunk the Greenpeace boat on which I used to sail. And for that, I shall carry a grudge—between large glasses of Saint Émilion—for the rest of my days.

“How can that be?” I asked, “she’s not in Bulgaria.”

“Good point,” Michael agreed. “Come to think of it, she’s not a lesbian either.”

I was unpleasantly reminded of my deficiency when I read Jim Guigli’s award-winning entry in the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.

Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you’ve had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean.