Somehow unbeknownst to me, my sister Emi has aquired a web presence. In her photo gallery, you can see pictures of her culinary creations, ice carvings, trip to Korea, and even of her family. (Some of the photos she has unashamedly and quite illegally stolen from my gallery.) Please go visit it.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Abby and I very often eat lunch together on a bench near the Alumni Building. On top of that building is a webcam that is almost pointed at our bench—but not quite. Our bench is just outside the camera’s frame to the lower left.

Though hundreds of people pass by during that time, we are only rarely noticed. Perhaps some Monday, Wednesday, or Friday from 11:40 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. you can look at the webcam and not notice us too.

For Dr. Sidwell’s class “Renaissance,” I wrote a short paper about Machiavelli’s The Prince.

“The Appearance of Evil in Machiavelli’s The Prince”

For Dr. Abrams’s class “British Empire and Imperialism,” I analyzed William G. Hynes, The Economics of Empire: Britain, Africa and the New Imperialism 1870–95 (London: Longman, 1979).

“Analysis of Hynes, The Economics of Empire”

Time recently ran a story about the prosperity gospel entitled “Does God Want You to Be Rich?” The website of the magazine also has a photo essay of preachers of the prosperity gospel.

The classical muses may have numbered nine, but I have only two. Coffee is one of them. Several cups of coffee early on a Saturday morning fill me with words. Coffee convinces me that I am eloquent—that my writing is vigorous, witty, and full of verve. Coffee even convinces me that I can pull off the periodic sentence.

My other muse is Abby. For a muse, she is quite hard-nosed. She thinks that my beautiful periodic sentences are gibberish, that my wit is tacky, and that my vigor is brashness. Nor is criticizing my words enough for her; she all too often questions (and refutes) my arguments as well.

Which muse, then, do I invoke before I set pen to paper? The muse who tells the truth, yet who still asks me to write.

I had not many opportunities to eat today, so tonight I was more overwhelmingly hungry than usual. And what came tonight in night mail, unexpected and unasked for? Two cans of soup from a very wonderful and thoughtful girl (who is probably now hungry herself). And cookies too.

There was also a note, but I’m not going to share that with you.

Many people often say that I never call them—that it’s impossible to communicate with me. But what about this statistic? According to the log on my phone, calls that I have dialed are 82% of my talking time; calls received are only 18%. In other words, it is four and half times more likely that I have called you than that you have called me.

Note: Consider this an exercise in detecting spurious logic. If anyone can refute me in less than two days, I will recognize his acheivement here. (It shouldn’t be hard.) If no one steps up, I will refute myself in two days.