You’re not miserable, you’re a cartoon character.

Don’t be so prejudiced.

Pi drives people to do strange things. Akira Haraguchi, a sixty-year old Japanese counselor, can and has reeled off the first hundred thousand numerals in pi from memory.

“What I am aiming at is not just memorizing figures,” Haraguchi explained. “I am thrilled by seeking a story in pi.”

Actually, I can’t find a story in pi. For me, memorizing pi to two decimals has always been sufficient. Ah, but phi; that’s another number for another day: 11 July 2001.

Fortunately, the rogue astronaut failed to brutalize or kidnap the other woman before the police arrested her. The authorities thoughtfully released a photo of the fallen astronaut, which every news outlet on the planet juxtaposed with the press photo of the mother of three as a model astronaut.

“Isn’t that great a brilliant, cautionary diptych?” I asked Duane. “A morality tale in just two photographs; it’s no wonder the media have been milking the schedenfruede for weeks.”

“As a parent, I think I see something in the second photo that you don’t,” Duane replied. “You see her forlorn expression? That’s the look of someone with overflowing diapers.”

I can’t endorse police abuse of prisoners, but in this case I think that the public humiliation was called for, if only to make other astronauts think twice before they go on a maniacal, dirty-diaper rampage.

And that’s when I wondered, for probably the first time in my life, whether art is much more than a performance. How much of art is about ideas and emotion, and how much is about cleverness and technical virtuosity? That’s not limited to fast-fingered violinists; I’m also thinking of writers, visual artists, actors, and even conceptual artists like myself. No, especially conceptual artists like myself.

I never meditate, but perhaps I should. Or, perhaps not.

Today, I read about Victor Hugo’s fantastic love story. I’m referring to the one he lived, not to any of his litterary works. It seems that Hugo and his brother, Eugene, spent much of their early years together: cruising around Europe, writing plays and poetry; they even started a joint publishing venture. Their common interests didn’t end there; Victor and Eugene both fell in love with the same woman.

Hugo got the girl; I wonder if she was impressed by all the plaques?

When Hugo married, Eugene suffered a nervous breakdown. He never recovered, and spent the rest of his days in a mental hospital.

That’s amore! Or, rather, c’est amour!

Like most great innovations, Cornwell’s invention seems so obvious it’s hard to imagine why no one thought of it before. The software engineer simply combined three things almost every home has: a refrigerator, an electronic remote control device, and a personal catapult.

Et voilà! A cold beer comes flying across the room with the click of a button. I’m glad I never invested in one of those humongous armchairs with a built-in refrigerator; the monstrosities now appear quaint and outdated.