Show me.

I always though it was self-evident that Detroit was unfit for human or beast. And, it now seems, the dead as well.

It never occurred to me to wonder about the race of anyone I heard on the radio. All broadcasters sound about the same, except for the token Romanian. (There used to be a reporter whose name sounded like Winky Duck; I miss his stories now that he has returned to Viet Nam.)

Since the current political campaigning has exposed a scourge of racism, I’m glad to know that at least radio is color-blind, mostly.

I remember, savor, and treasure all the wonderful things that I’ve experienced in the last few decades. I barely remember my disappointments and mistakes—just enough to avoid repeating them. And now, thanks to the wonders of modern science, it looks like everyone will be be able to experience my pleasantly selective memory.

The journal Neuron reports that a neurobiologist at the Medical College of [Augusta] Georgia was able to manipulate the protein alpha-CaM kinase II to erase discreet memories. Joe Tsien used the classic scientific approach of assiduously torturing mice. Still, the research is in its early stages.

“Human memory is so complicated, and we are just barely at the foot of the mountain,” Tsien said.

I fear he and other researchers will climb over a lot of dead rodents and primates looking for a lofty peak. I wish they’d experiment on me instead. I’d be happy to share my hunch that selective memory loss has a lot to do with Rainier Ale. If they take me up on my offer, I’d be paid to drink the mountain-fresh brew. Scientific drinking, don’t mind if I do!

“Do you always carry a tube of hot sauce with you?” Devorah asked.

Before I could answer, she added, “and if you say, ‘I’m just glad to see you,’ believe me, I really will hit you.”

I explained that I got that idea—and a number of others—from Henri Cartier-Bresson, who routinely traveled with tube of puréed peppers.

“Just like Lee Atwater,” Devorah replied. “He put it on everything, even ice cream.”

I was aghast. Atwater was Ronald Reagan’s Goebbels, but nastier. I pointed out that Cartier-Bresson was a nice guy who lived to be ninety-five, whereas Atwater was so vile and malicious that his malevolence putrefied into a brain tumor that killed him when he was forty.

Love and hate are more powerful than chilis, even.

As always, things are getting worse in England; the latest example is that, as of next April, glasses of ale are going to be a third smaller. No more pints! A pox and buggerarion!

I’d lament the fate of the English and their pints, but, since I don’t live there, I won’t. Instead, I’ll be positive, sip a proper pint of Rainier Ale, and enjoy another lovely day by San Francisco Bay.

Had I seen these sketched and painted arrows in a gallery, I would have opined that they looked derivative and unimaginative. But, since Two Sketched and Two Painted Arrows were made by workers following directions in the course of commerce, I appreciated their simplicity and directness.