Why mathematicians can’t get laid (8/23/98)
____________
Continuing my explorations of the West side, I found myself Sunday navigating the old dirt road up the mesa behind the Bureau of Standards, cursing the heat and aiming myself and the puppies down the hill toward Skunk Creek, which [mirabile dictu] is actually bearing water these days, a great convenience for overheated dogs and their barefooted escorts. Pausing to contemplate the ancient gas-liquification apparatus, the lodestar of Edward Teller’s fantasies in the days when he wanted to build a liquid-deuterium bomb, I wondered once again what would have become of this capital of political correctness if the Livermore lab had been sited here instead. — Thus did Zeus conspire to cloud my senses. — Coming to myself, I looked about distractedly to determine the whereabouts of the dogs and discovered Boris sitting politely at the feet of a handsome young lady, a brunette with a long braid running out the back of her baseball cap. She was patting him on the head, and he was submitting to her attentions with uncharacteristic equanimity; for though Boris loves nearly everyone [skateboarders excluded] his manners frequently leave something to be desired. — I wondered why she seemed familiar. — As she passed she smiled and said “Hello there” and began to trot up the hill. — Struck by delayed recognition, I turned to say something. But she was already gone.
A lovely voice, I’m sure of that. But of nothing else.
____________Age of faith (8/10/98)
