Those dishes in the sink will not get done, so you may as well stop asking about them. And if you dare raise the subject again I will continue to reply using passive constructions, as the dishes exist in a realm that has nothing to do with me, though relatively speaking they are beneath me. That should explain damn-near everything, but given your countenance, I feel obliged to elaborate.

Above all, be sure that your second home is located in a picturesque, isolated spot, preferably one you have seen only fleetingly in a realtor’s brochure. Mountain precipices and small spits of sand which shift with prevailing tides are generally ideal. For those on a fixed income, any location surrounded by quicksand can be made to serve quite nicely. One knows one has probably chosen the appropriate location when one is unable to find it again.

Warning:  Images of partial baldness and baldness angst. May trigger pre-baldness anxiety. Warning:  Casual, even provocative usage of Italian and gratuitous references to nudist classical painters with a glaring fetish for muscular dudes. May trigger dramatic romance language insecurity and the uneasy feeling that you are just not smart enough for this thing. Warning:  Massive

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Alfred Thayer Mahan is the kind of historical figure who proves that fame and aptitude are not always bedfellows. By the late nineteenth century, he was the undisputed authority on naval history, the man who coined the term “sea power” and lent it enough gravitas to send Congress scuttling toward new battleships. His seminal work, The Influence of Sea Power Upon History, 1660–1783, was the TED Talk of its era—if TED Talks were 500-page treatises on naval strategy, dense with charts, footnotes, and historical examples. Mahan became the intellectual godfather of America’s rise as a global maritime force.

When I heard that Johnny Depp had curated blasting Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes from a rocket launcher, I was, quite frankly, underwhelmed. Granted, the drama did celebrate Thompson’s outlaw gonzo spirit. Depp had commissioned the erection of a phallic looking rocket launcher topped by a double-thumbed fist. Fellow bad boys Jack Nicholson and Sean Penn were among the guests; Lyle Lovett and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band played and sang; there were fireworks and I expect liquor and drugs flowed freely. Still, I shrugged. Fully ten years before Depp’s carefully curated spectacle, my family had blasted our dad’s ashes into eternity. With an old shotgun, from the side of a mountain at sunset. For a lot less than the $3 million that Depp shelled out.