And then I hit the conceptual wall: what selection of objects would be entirely new--or at least of interest--to the aliens? My first idea was to present something unique. I quickly abandoned this approach; it's all been done before.

Then I thought about juxtaposition, but didn't get very far with that approach either. Everything I came up with sounded like an art school exercise or a cheap surrealistic non sequitur.

I then considered trying to attract the aliens by presenting something of value, but had no idea what they might desire--if in fact they desired anything at all.

Jeremy Campbell provided the conceptual breakthrough I needed with his observation on information theory:

"A message conveys no information unless some prior uncertainty exists in the mind of the receiver about what the message will contain."

Poor Alphonse failed to die; he's now--and always will be--paralyzed.

I have the same problem, sort of. When I try to make it look like I've done something by accident or chance, most people can see through my thin pretense. At least it's not permanent.

If there ever were Italians involved with Signor Pizza, they were long gone by the time I moved into San Francisco's Tenderloin. Signor Pizza was operated and/or owned by Vietnamese. Their pizza wasn't that tasty, but it was cheap. I regularly patronized Signor Pizza; a large slice--the only size on offer--along with a forty ounce bottle of Rainier Ale usually satisfied.

One time I was waiting at Signor Pizza for a fresh pie to come out of the oven when a garishly dressed prostitute in a short glittery red dress began haranguing the man chopping vegetables with an interminable monologue about her "big house back in Maryland."

"... and it's got a lovely yard with a beautiful garden and two little ittie-bittie dogs, and these little dogs are so cute they just run around and run around and I just love those little dogs, they never stop, they just run everywhere and I love 'em so, you know what I mean?"

The man with the cleaver (Signor Pizza himself?) turned around and smiled. "I know that kind of dog. Chop up. Put on pizza."

End of story.

She began reading a literary magazine; I wondered what her face looked like. When she finally brushed back her hair I could see she wasn't young at all; she appeared to be about as old as me. Not very old, really.

I think Janet never played such a game, but it doesn't matter: the idea is enough.

I then remembered a Joseph Heller quote that amicably ended the discussion:

"Success and failure are both difficult to endure. Along with success come drugs, divorce, fornication, bullying, travel, meditation, medication, depression, neurosis and suicide. With failure comes failure."