Somebody mentioned it today, and I looked it up, and it’s true—it’s C.S. Lewis’ birthday. He was born November 29, 1898. I’m not an anti-smoking zealot, but I wish he hadn’t been a puffer. We might have had him around into the ’70s or ’80s.

Not that this helps you. You read this blog tomorrow, don’t you? I’m a day late. I should have told you about it Wednesday.

That’s me. Always on the receding slope of the bell curve. Yesterday I looked at my desk calendar to see when I needed to send out memos to instructors, so they could get their book orders to me.

Turns out I should have done it last week.

Today as I was leaving work, I thought about stopping at the grocery store. Then a voice in my head said, “No, you have something else to do tonight.”



“What could it be?” I wondered. I consulted my pocket calendar.

I had an appointment to give blood.

Two nights ago.

Ack. I’ve become one of those embarrassing old bachelors who misses all his appointments, dribbles food on his vest and is the last to know when he has holes in his clothes.

I need a keeper.