Only the time I spent with you.

And now I read headlines about two recent (un)notable scientific research projects, “Study Finds Men Go for Good Looks,” and “Rockers Are More Likely To Die Early; Study Points To Drug, Alcohol Abuse As Factors In Stars’ Premature Deaths.” In other words, men prefer attractive women over unattractive ones (based on an analysis of forty-six Germans), and accountants who enjoy a few watery beers on the weekend generally live longer than musicians who ingest enough cocaine to paralyze a hippopotamus.

I wonder if I could get some reactionary organization to give me a juicy grant to find out whether artists are slothful? What a great idea! If I ever get around to it.

That makes all sorts of sense. Since people generally outlive their dogs, I suppose it’s nice to have continuity from one beast to the next. I read that the Neuticles Internet site even has a helpful “how-to” video, but I’m too squeamish to watch it.

According to Minnisha, the authors offered tedious papers of little consequence. And what’s more, the offerings were poorly-edited, and based on scant data. She was so frustrated after a particularly poor presentation, that during the question-and-answer segment, she asked, “Do you realize that everyone in the room feels stupider for having listened to you?”

The presenter smiled, thinking that she’d complimented him on his superior intellect. Everyone else in the room also expressed satisfaction; they knew what she really meant.

That’s what Philo Taylor Farnsworth said here in San Francisco eighty years ago today, when he first demonstrated his insidious creation. Although I’m not hesitant to interject my biased opinions, I think Farnsworth wouldn’t dispute my description of his creation. According to his son Kent, “I suppose you could say that he felt he had created kind of a monster, a way for people to waste a lot of their lives.”

The RCA corporation and its battalion of lawyers prevented Farnsworth from fully capitalizing on his invention; he went on to suffer from depression, alcoholism, and shock therapy. Still he managed to demonstrate good judgment in some areas.

“There’s nothing on [television] worthwhile,” Farnsworth told his son, “and we’re not going to watch it in this household.”

No wonder Farnsworth was one of the most respected inventors—and television critics—of the twentieth century.

“It’s only twenty-two kilograms,” Annalee said defensively, “but it’s a lot more visible.”

The Fuda Cancer Hospital in Guangzhou, China, released a photograph of Huang Chuncai, who suffered from a meter-long tumor before the successful operation to remove it. Unfortunately, the thirty-one year old man nevertheless suffered permanent injuries from the growth, which was first spotted when he was four years old. The tumor deformed an ear, his teeth, his spine, and blocked his left eye.

I agreed with Annalee; Chuncai’s tragic case was as exceptional as it was tragic. Having said that, I’ve decided not to write about upsetting medical conditions for quite some time, if only to stop my friends from trying to introduce me to increasingly disturbing stories.

I rarely play checkers, and, when I do, I don’t play very well. Nevertheless, I find this news rather disturbing. That’s because the scientists used rigorous math to prove that Chinook cannot be defeated.

Even for a mediocre player like myself, that conceptually changes the nature of the game. Suddenly, checkers is as predictable as tic-tac-toe.

Oh well, there’s always chess. I’m even worse at chess than checkers, but at least it’s not a mathematical certainty that I can’t possibly win the next game against the most formidable computer opponent. Even if such a victory is about as probable as snowshoeing across San Francisco Bay, it’s still an important distinction.