Intelligence is overrated.

The forty-year old executive lept from the twenty-seventh floor of the Fairmont Chicago Hotel. Let’s see, someone who jumps from a ninth-story window hits the ground at about eighty kilometers an hour, so when he slammed into the pavement, Tilly would have been traveling about, roughly, well, really, really, really fast.

Obituaties suggested that Tilley wasn’t really lovin’ it, and suffered from depression. If I was known for hawking heart disease and obesity, I think I’d probably be depressed too. Oh well, at least the last seconds of his life must have been exhilarating.

Christopher suggested that I make twenty-six films, one for each letter of the alphabet. I initially liked the idea, but then rejected it because I didn’t want to introduce a plot.

Eleven Four-Letter Films are online, don’t forget the popcorn!

Deer are a problem in the country; they eat every plant in sight and tend to jump in front of speeding cars. No one’s figured out how to solve the former problem, or the latter one either.

Nevertheless, county officials haven’t been idle. They posted “Deer Crossing” signs here and there to warn motorists about the wayward ruminants. And that’s why Andy is at odds with his neighbor, who’s been urging the local authorities to remove the warning sign on their stretch of road.

“Right after another car hit a buck, the buffoon asked the road department to take down our deer crossing sign,” Andy said. “The nincompoop told them that since so many deer had been hit near the sign, he said he didn’t think it was a good place for them to cross any more.”

“That’s brilliant!” I replied, “even better than when another one of your neighbors reported the farmer to the Humane Society because he left his cows out in the rain.”

Now that people living in urban settings outnumber their rural counterparts, I imagine the stories will just keep getting better.

When the sun is six degrees below the horizon, that’s civil dusk. We can see the odd planet or two, and objects on the horizon appear as silhouettes. Once the sun sets another six degrees, we experience nautical dusk, the horizon is indistinguishable. After that, it gets even darker, so by the time the sun is eighteen degrees below the horizon no effects from its light are visible. In technical terms, that’s astronomical dusk. Or, in lay terms, “dark,” or “night.”

I wonder if there are three kinds of dawn as well? Probably; everything has too many names.

Mice nibbling away at art has to be some sort of metaphor, most likely something to do with patrons or critics.