I’m glad that you’re glad that I’m sad.

I’m sad that you’re glad that I’m glad that you’re sad.

I think these researchers are brilliant, but not because of their new theory. No, I like their approach of predicting something that’s not going to happen within the next sixty-some million generations. That’s quite clever; no one will ever prove them wrong. They can even be off by a few billion years and no one will care.

Too many forecasters make the mistake of predicting something that will—or won’t—happen in their lifetimes. I’m thinking of the scientists who predicted that the earth will be whapped by a meteor around October 2028 and/or by an asteroid on 21 September, 2030. That was a big mistake; those scientists may live long enough to have their miscalculations exposed.

And then there are the Heaven’s Gate idiots, who killed themselves in preparation to be picked up by an interstellar transport. Their ride never materialized, perhaps proving that intergalactic bus drivers are as unreliable as their earthly counterparts. The thirty-nine would-be travelers rotted in the San Diego heat before authorities collected their decomposing corpses.

The moral of this story is that one should only predict absolute certainties and/or the very distant future.

Nevertheless, I did appreciate Abbie’s conclusion, “your writing is really just typing.” I suppose she’s right. That’s especially unnerving, since I can’t really type.

I thought this was a ridiculous indulgence by someone with too much money and an equipment fetish, but I was too polite to say so explicitly. I did, however, opine that his old Nikon is a superior tool for the kind of photographs he makes.

“Maybe,” he replied, “but I’ve always wanted a Leica.”

“What do you think Cartier-Bresson’s photographs would look like if he used your old Nikon?” I asked.

“I guess we’ll never know,” Byron said, “he’s dead.”

“I’ll tell you what they’d look like,” I argued, “any photograph he would have made with any camera would look like a Cartier-Bresson photograph.”

For a fleeting moment, Byron looked like someone who just realized he’d wasted ten thousand dollars. It didn’t last; he quickly resumed smiling the contented smile of someone who just bought some shiny new toys.

And that brings me to the U.S. National Nuclear Security Administration. It looks like no one there will be testing the twenty-five year old nuclear missiles on Trident submarines in the near future. That’s because no one can remember how they were made. Everyone who worked on the project is gone, and no one kept any records.

Similarly, no one at the United States National Aeronautics and Space Administration can find the blueprints for the Saturn V rocket.

But that may not be all that unusual for a government agency. In the last decade, the German Interior Ministry lost three hundred and thirty-two secret documents. No one knows what the secrets were, but, Germans being Germans, at least they kept accurate tallies.

I’ve never seen Cecelia drink more than two glasses of wine. On the only occasion she managed to drink two whole glasses, she vomited soon thereafter. She has some way to go before she becomes a bona fide alcoholic; I hope she fails. Alcoholism is an ugly thing, as is the glorification of celebrities.

“I’m not always whining,” he protested. “I also complain, grumble, and kvetch.”

“That makes sense,” I agreed.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“It’s all the same thing, anger coming out through a small hole,” I explained.

As I intended, my comment annoyed Cedric. He thrives on being distressed, so I try to accommodate him. Predictably, the aggravation resulted in more high-pitched whinging that provided most of the morning’s entertainment.