He's Dead, Jim
My mom has the cancer. In February, she was afflicted for weeks with a sore nose, sore to the touch and continuously dripping. After this had persisted beyond the bounds of the normal winter sniffles, she consulted her physician who found a polyp in one of her nostrils. A month ago, the polyp was surgically removed; a week later we learned that further examination had revealed the extracted polyp to be a malignancy. Subsequent detailed scans of my mother's body have found no additional traces of the cancer, but even so she is to have another surgery in a fortnight, to remove additional tissue from the interior of her nose and excise one of her lymph nodes for close inspection. Second opinions have been sought and diagnoses confirmed, and she is now under the care of the physician who has successfully seen her dear friend Rose through repeated bouts with multiple forms of the cancer; my mother appears to be in good hands, and cautious optimism are our watchwords. Further reports as events transpire.

Prayers to the merciful Lord for her good health and long life would be most warmly appreciated.

Wilson
Four months old today, The Squeak arrives by aeroplane upon the morrow, conducted by Brother-in-L.A.W. and to be met by my parents. She will reside with us for a week while her parents are on holiday in Italy, briefly visiting the life they left behind when their beautiful daughter was born. I saw Where's Teddy? for but one fleeting evening last week before departing for Colorado and the national debate tournament. I hope to pay a longer visit to him at his home in verdammt Ohio in a few weeks' time, though there is a chance he'll soon be returning to sacred Michigan to meet his cousin, The Squeak. Worlds colliding?

Project PANDORA
I have withdrawn my request for the pleasure of a certain young lady's company for an evening. Jenny (who shan't be mentioned often enough to necessitate a codename) is a casual friend from school to whom I proposed a date while we were out celebrating The Most Dangerous Game's birthday in February. A fetching lass, she is a libertine and so no serious relationship would have been possible between us, but we'd have had a lovely time together and taking her to dinner would have afforded me valuable experience as to how I should comport myself when escorting a comely girl out on the town. In the time since she accepted my invitation Jenny has shrugged off my several attempts to pin down a date for our date. She has her pick of the fellas and I acknowledge that the opportunity cost of going out with me would have been high—this would have been at least one night that ended without sex—but the fact remains that she accepted my invitation, an acceptance that to my mind requires a good faith effort to set a date and arrange a time. I've seen no such good faith in the nigh two months since. I am endeavoring to cultivate patience as a skill and patient I have been, but absent the slightest gesture of good faith on her part I could not have done otherwise than I have done. It must be said, defiance must be served: your loss, Jenny.

Tomorrow evening, I shall have the pleasure of escorting The Impossible Ingenue to the 25th anniversary President's Ball, an excuse to don our finery and dance the night away. I have pending also a date with another girl, the particulars of time and place to be arranged as swiftly as possible. And while in the Mile High City during the weekend just past I enjoyed an encounter that must be considered spooky in light of my then-current, since-concluded reading of From Russia, with Love. Details in the days ahead.

The Queue
Fear not, I have every intention of expounding sooner rather than later on the intersection of Ian Fleming's James Bond 007 and Project PANDORA.

Recently
Ian Fleming, Moonraker
Ian Fleming, Diamonds are Forever
Ian Fleming, From Russia, with Love

Currently
Ian Fleming, Doctor No

Presently
Ian Fleming, Goldfinger
Ian Fleming, For Your Eyes Only
Ian Fleming, Thunderball

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Fountains of Wayne, "It Must Be Summer" from Utopia Parkway (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary:

"It must be summer
'Cause the streets are bare.
And I try your number,
But you're just not there."