I DON'T KNOW JACKSQUAT (AND NEITHER DO YOU), SO ALL WE CAN SAY IS: HOORAY!!!

A sampling of the questions I ask myself before sleep:

Why is the sky blue? What does the 'C.S.' in C.S.Lewis's name stand for? Why do birds of a feather flock together? What's the Caramilk secret? Are numbers real, Platonic things? What does the 'WKRP' in WKRP in Cincinnati stand for? Did John Wilkes Boothe act alone? Does anybody other than voluntary researchers actually live in Antarctica? Are there Antarticians? (If yes, where do they go to chill?) Is there such a profession as an Icelandic-Japanese translator? Why do snowballs melt when you put them in a freezer? Who came up with the names Canada and Toronto and Ottawa? And if all these names are native Indian names, why do we treat them so poorly? What the fu-- did happen to Amelia Earheart, anyway? Did everyone decide if Tony Danza really and truly was the boss, and if so, why wasn't I invited to the vote? Was Socrates as smart as we think he was, or merely an overrated blowhard, the Greek equivalent of Phil Donahue or Rush Limbaugh or even Howard Stern? How many countries are there? Who invented economics? Was Charles really in charge all that time? (Seems unlikely, because Scott Baio is just one man, goddamnit, not a miracle worker.) Why do most men have two nipples, and why don't I have any? (That's a joke, I swear, I can prove it.) What's Dr.Phil hiding? (Cause I know he's hiding something, that smug s.o.b.) What are you not telling your parents, and why? Why does fire change colour? Why did Michael Jackson change colour? Who was Deep Throat in the Watergate case, and why was he/she named after a porno flick? How do fish breathe underwater, and how do they sleep? Knowing that we're all going to die, but not knowing when, how do any of us sleep?

These are just a representative sampling of the myriad questions that I just, don't, know the answer to.

We like to think, those of us in our late twenties, early thirties, that we're suave and sophisticated and basically all that, but the reality is: We don't know shit. And we never will.

Cause for despair?

Of course not.

Pondering life's improbabilities and unknowns makes life itself worth living. So much to learn, see, contemplate.

Not the least of which is probably the most mystifying, unexplained paradox of them all: Was Colonel Sanders an honest-to-goodness colonel? Like, in the army or navy or marines? Did he fight in WWII? If the answer is yes, as I've said before, then I would like to write and direct the film that details in exquisite and brutal detail the untold tale of Colonel Sanders and all of his fighting-Nazi ways, exemplified by Tommy Lee Jones, acted with a just a hint of the facial growth that would, some day, when the war was over and order restored, blossom into that full-blown beard of the Colonel's that we all know and love so dearly.