Status Report

I visited CIP in the rubber room. Although apparently whacked out on whatever they use instead of thorazine these days, he seemed almost normal, except for incessant singing of snatches of "Welcome to the Hotel California." He also occassionally mumbled something about "Ertel Potential Vorticity." What's up with that?

The nurses had warned me not to mention politics, so I brought out my chess stuff and played him a little five-minute. He couldn't handle either side of my Sicilian Defense, but had a bit better luck with the French.

Go was sorrier. He gave me 3 stones on a 13x13 board and still cleaned up.

He claims to be writing The Great American Novel, but refused to show me any of it.

-- Slow Eddie

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