Yes, even more than my contempt would suggest.

In 1977, the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency planted one of its agents on a Greenpeace boat, the Ohana Kai. Apparently, the CIA didn’t send one of its better spooks to spy on some drunk and stoned hippies. At least, that would explain why the secret agent took LSD with some of the crew members, then blurted out that he worked for the CIA.

The Greenpeace protesters eventually found the Soviet whaling fleet thanks to others in the U.S. government. It seems that an attractive Greenpeace employee was having an affair with a high-level State Department bureaucrat. Or was it a senator? I don’t recall the details, but I do know that her paramour was kind enough to pass along the coordinates of the Soviet fleet he received from his Pentagon contacts. Whether or not LSD figured into any of these transactions, this I do not know.

He scanned the article, then stopped when he read, “Paul later admitted to taking mescaline during this period.”

“That’s a lie!” he said.

“Who cares?” I replied.

“It was LSD!” he explained. “I hated mescaline!”

He paused, then added reverentially, “There’s nothing like pure LSD, boy!”

I outlined plans for the study, and Min helped me with the practical considerations. She supplied me with eighty-four ISO-2110, forty-milliliter ice cubes, complete with a carrying case refrigerated with dry ice!

After dozens of experiments, I came up with Climate Change Documented: Eleven Alaskan Ice Cubes, from 27-31 May, 2007. (Unfortunately, I can’t reproduce Min’s text until it’s passed peer review and been published in the scientific journal, International Climate Gleanings.)

I may or may not return in a few years for further research.

I’ve just spent nearly a week photographing ice cubes in an unremarkable city, with the “real” Alaska in the distance, untouched, and unreal. I took a snapshot the airport bears; I’ve never been able to resist a diorama or a simplistic visual metaphor.

The woman standing in line behind me asked me if I had a cat. The long checkout line was barely moving, so I decided to give her a creative response.

“No,” I replied, “the cat food’s for my sister. She doesn’t have any cats either.”

The woman looked predictably confused, so I explained that my nonexistent sister used Slaughterhouse Surprise as an aphrodisiac.

“Do men really go for that?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” I said, “but women do. My sister’s a lesbian; she works as a dominatrix at House of Distress.”

“Why would a dominatrix need an aphrodisiac?” the woman continued.

“I have no idea, but if you give me your phone number I’ll have my sister call you if you’re interested,” I suggested with a smile.

My insincere offer brought an abrupt and welcome end to the conversation.

I thought she was talking rubbish, but admired her creativity in coming up with a great explanation for procrastination. As if one was needed.