I bring coffee when I travel now. My beans and a grinder, and my Hario V60.

Everybody's favorite detective, Columbo, that little man in the rumpled raincoat, comes off base, but is deceptively acute.

I'm excited to use my screwdriver, but– I've learned this from my Dad– you have to curse a bit.

I'm walking through a building on campus where there are workers doing renovations. A fellow is singing as he polishes the floor. "Careful," he sings, making eye contact, "sharp bits on the ground.

People walk around campus in December with big sticks and knock the mo-gwa out of trees. Doesn't matter if they bruise when hitting the ground– nobody is eating them anyways.

"How ribald!" he says again joyfully, apparently I had misheard him. "I didn't expect such ribaldry from you."

More than just pretending he doesn't see me, he wants me to know he is pretending.

"Let us never attribute to race what is more easily explained by stature." admonished Brian, always trying to come off as the the voice of reason, but well known for his shortist prejudices.