You’re drunk.

The two states are congruous.

For decades, the lyrics have been transcribed thusly:

When I think about the past, it always brings me down,
All the friends I though were cool, six feet underground ...

When I think about the past, it always brings me down,
All the friends I though were cool, six feet under brown ...

Who knows? Who cares? Women and men of letters, that’s who. Although I’m far from being an intellectual, I applaud their tireless efforts to settle the underground versus under brown debate, although I doubt they ever will. I have no interest in the dispute or its outcome; I’m just glad these brilliant people are ensconced in ivy-covered buildings instead of achieving world domination.

It seems his wife Rebecca insists on staying in hotels when they travel; she casts aspersions on the hygiene in his friends’ guest rooms. Randall said that after she read what I wrote about police identifying thirty-eight different semen stains on a hotel bedspread, she now insists on avoiding hotels whenever possible. As a result, he gets to spend more time with friends and less time in sterile—or not so sterile—hotels, they both save lots of money, and I got a very nice bottle of whisky. Yummy!

I just wish I could remember whether the story about the thirty-eight different semen stains was true, or if I concocted it.

Today’s new word is lickerish, a synonym for lecherous. I doubt I’ll want to use it very often, but it’s a great word to have on the right occasion. And so. I’m off to look for the right occasion.

A year and a half ago, I gave myself a quota of making a “serious” piece of work every month, as well as recording a new song every month. It’s almost the end of July, and I haven’t started a new musical composition. And all my visual art projects in gestation are still in gestation, and that’s where the cheating comes in.

For this month’s piece, I’m publishing Eleven Chilean Circles, a project I completed last month. I shelved it because I didn’t like it very much, then took it off the shelf to meet my self-imposed quota for July. The photographs look like they’re trying to look like good photographs, and thus they are not.

Actually, there weren’t any drinks; Dr. Batlan offered a single drink, a can of champagne. It wasn’t a colossal liter can like Australians use for their breakfast lager; it wasn’t even the size of a can of American beer-flavored water. Instead, he handed me le frou-frou petit can of champagne. I enjoyed two gulps, and then the Lilliputian can was empty. Finished. Kaput. The end.

I hope my first can of of champagne will be my last. Champagne belongs in magnums and jeroboams, not miniscule, ineffectual cans. When it comes to champagne, I pooh-pooh the frou-frou.