As you grow older your mind ossifies. They write that in books. People with letters after their names speak at length on the subject. Your brain. It goes. You assume what they say is true, although at my age it's hard to remember. Was I was always poking around inside my own noggin, bumping into walls, missing the, um, big picture?. How would I have reacted to this phone call thirty years ago?

You're sitting there looking at the computer screen, mind blank, thinking of pouring yourself a little whiskey to smooth the early evening edges, somebody calls from the Coleman For Governor Committee, an articulate voice, an older student perhaps, someone with smarts as it doesn't sound as if he's reading from a script, sounds like he's right there, knows what he's doing, but Coleman For Governor? Come on! Why had I hung up? Why did I not probe more deeply: would Gary Coleman really have an election committee, let alone one large enough to arrange phone calls to potential voters in Oakland? Why didn't I ask myself that question?

Face it. It's nothing to do with age, you were never quick on your feet.

Malaprop again, my evil twin, whispering nonsense. I space out at the keyboard for even a minute and he's making phone calls for Coleman. Gary Coleman. "Vote for Coleman", he says, "he has experience with the law.

Who was it, really?

A man suffering Road King withdrawal. Lucy knows the man. He's incorrigible.