The Man Who Wasn't There, Unless By "There" You Meant Berkeley, CA. You Did? Ah. Sorry About That, Then.

Emerging from the wilderness, blinking, scratching, unsure if anyone is bothering to read this, uneasy about self-referential comments on readership or lack thereof.

A note on the absences: whenever I am sitting around this stygian basement and considering a swift half across the street, I can usually settle on Blogger as a marginally more responsible compromise. At the very least, it keeps me safely within that part of the day devoted to typing - even though this is clearly not the thing I am supposed to be typing - and well clear of the other, darker, unspeakable part.

Other times, I am off looking for work or engaged in some other extra-basementular activity. Then the entire day is dark and unspeakable, and typing of any sort is seldom to be found. This was the case in Berkeley, from whence I am recently returned, and about which I have nothing to say beyond a congratulatory aside on the quality of their crazy people. Men dressed in rags staggering to and fro in front of me while I'm trying to drink a cup of coffee are a commonplace, but it has been a while since I saw one actually shouting and beating himself about the head with things at the same time.

(Imagine my surprise when he turned out to be the head of the Physics department. Thank you very much! I'll be here all week. Unless the cleaning staff find me.)