In 1939, at the urging of physicist Leo Szil&aacute;rd, Einstein wrote a letter to FDR, informing him of the Nazi&rsquo;s plan to make an atom bomb.
Dearest R,
But one cycle of the moon has since passed from the time I last lay my eyes upon your visage, yet my heart&rsquo;s embers burn colder each moment we continue to live apart. Dare I say, I fear their glow could soon extinguish, lest we soon stare into the depths of each other&rsquo;s soul &lsquo;gain. Their fire could nary be rekindled by the heat, the light, of all the collective incendiaries fallen &lsquo;pon Europe in these tumultuous times. However, their fire could most certainly be rekindled by a much more powerful incendiary, which, as I am presently writing, Szil&aacute;rd rudely reminds me is the main purpose of my writing this letter.&nbsp;
But, what of bombs and wars can concern lovers? Does not the flower of a Spring&rsquo;s meadow capture the soul&rsquo;s eye swifter than the sword? (Some scribbles) Hi President Roosevelt, Szil&aacute;rd here. Listen, comparing this weapon&mdash; that we know the Nazis are currently developing&mdash; to &ldquo;a sword&rdquo; is like comparing a puddle to the Pacific Ocean of puddles- that really big puddle I once saw in the lot of Long Island City&rsquo;s 711&ndash; nevermind that. What I mean is, whereas a sword could kill maybe 100 people in a day, this nuclear reaction bomb could wipe out hundreds of thousands of people in the flash of an ey&hellip;(more scriblles)
Beautiful beautiful R, if perchance ye believed it in your heart that my voicing of my love for you could be subdued by Szil&aacute;rd&rsquo;s wrestling away of the pen fromst my hand, then surest thou had forgotten &lsquo;bout the piano wire I always keep in my coat pocket. No more does the Serious Man restrain our passionate love. No more shall he stand in the way of our destiny. We are lovers and no amount of graphite lined uranium-235 could split us apart, figuratively.&nbsp;
Forget all the past follies of Szil&aacute;rd. Forget all talk of Nazis and physics. Remember only our night in Paris&hellip; and the love we still share.
Yours now and tomorrow,
E

In 1939, at the urging of physicist Leo Szilárd, Einstein wrote a letter to FDR, informing him of th...

Letter to Roosevelt

sigh No, Percival, it does not. But due to your father&rsquo;s generous donation, I am&hellip; pleased&hellip; to confer upon you your doctorate in physics from the University of Cambridge.

sigh No, Percival, it does not. But due to your father’s generous donation, I am… pleased… to confer...

E=mcBUTT

Frankly, it seemed certain that Marco would get lunch detention. Frank Lee, our principal, along with the entire student body, literally witnessed Marco throw the bag of flaming poop at Mrs. Pompeo during the morning assembly. But much like a carnival worker who knows how to operate the jaws of life when a ride malfunctions, sandwiching a child onto the tracks, I knew how to get people off. And luckily, Marco knew just where to find me.
&ldquo;Come in and close the door. I don&rsquo;t pay to heat the hallway,&rdquo; I snarl at him.
&ldquo;This is your office? I didn&rsquo;t expect it to be-&rdquo;
&ldquo;To be what? The women&rsquo;s locker room? I&rsquo;m not gonna say it again. Close the door and sit down.&rdquo;
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not comfortable being here, man. There&rsquo;s tons of girls here. P.E. meets this period.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Jesus Marco, they don&rsquo;t notice us.&rdquo;
&ldquo;They&rsquo;re all staring at you and yelling at us to get out, dude.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Fine. We can meet in my conference room. Let&rsquo;s hurry. Your trial with Principal Lee is next period.&rdquo;
Things were off to a terrible start. This kid clearly didn&rsquo;t have the charisma or name to weasel his way out of the grip of justice. He attempted to plead his case to me on the walk over to my conference room.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Keep your mouth shut until we&rsquo;re in the room. You have no idea who the prosecution will call as a witness. Mrs. Pompeo could have ears all over this hallway.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Hey as my lawyer aren&rsquo;t you supposed to know who the witnesses are going to be?&rdquo;
&ldquo;I like to keep the element of surprise on my side. We will both find out together during the trial. We&rsquo;re here.&rdquo;
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re kidding. This is the conference room? But it&rsquo;s the-&rdquo;
&ldquo;The Teacher&rsquo;s Locker Room. That&rsquo;s right.&rdquo;
I questioned Marco brutally for the remaining 30 minutes of the period. I came at him from every angle. &ldquo;Did you throw the poop?! How did you throw the poop?! Is your name Marco?!&rdquo; That sort of thing. Finally, I thought we might have built a case. If Marco was just able to somehow cram himself into a tiny jar, he could claim that it would be impossible for him to have thrown the poop because he was in a tiny little jar. We stopped outside Principal Lee&rsquo;s door.
&ldquo;Remember our defense. It&rsquo;s airtight. All we can do now for your sake, Marco, is pray that the scales of justice were made in Mexico. They&rsquo;ll tilt in favor of one of their descendents.&rdquo;
&ldquo;I promise you, dude. My family is Italian.&rdquo;
&ldquo;My apologies&ndash;hecho en Mexico,&rdquo; I said, cutting him off.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Ah hello Marco,&rdquo; said Principal Lee. &ldquo;And you, unnamed lawyer kid, you&rsquo;re not really supposed to be here but this&rsquo;ll be fast so I suppose you can stay. Marco did you throw the poop?&rdquo;
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Ok. I&rsquo;m afraid I&rsquo;ll have to give you lunch detention.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Ehem. Sidebar, Marco. Despite what I promised earlier, I actually do get paid whether we win or lose the trial.&rdquo;
We started towards the door, my head held high, Marco crying about something or other.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Oh and one more thing, Marco,&rdquo; Principal Lee said. &ldquo;Coach Stevens told me you missed P.E. today and so I&rsquo;m afraid-&rdquo;
&ldquo;Another day of lunch detention?&rdquo; Marco choked out through tears.
&ldquo;Death. Alright you two boys run along. The hangman will send for you next period Marco.&rdquo;

Frankly, it seemed certain that Marco would get lunch detention. Frank Lee, our principal, along wit...

The Trial of the Decade

No, dude. No no no no this is not happening right now. I&rsquo;ve lightly grazed the doorframe on my way out of the food serving area into the food eating area. I watch with horror one of my three cups of Diet Coke sliding mercilessly to the right in slow motion. Everything on my tray is for real gonna frickin fall. I look out to the dining hall. Oh my Jesus dang. Every single girl I have ever had a crush on is sitting here in Adams Dining Hall, picking at their Beef Saigon, staring at me. Half of these girls don&rsquo;t even go to Harvard, I think to myself. What the flip is happening?!&nbsp;
&ldquo;What?! Nobody makes time to have a conversation these days anymore?! You&rsquo;re all just gonna stare at me while my tray slowly flips out of my hands and lands on the floor?!&rdquo; I scream out at everyone, causing even more people to look up. Slowly but surely the Diet Coke glass makes it to the end of the tray and begins teetering back and forth on the edge. Will it fall? Will I be socially disgraced?&nbsp;
Think, Mike. Just think. What would my role model and namesake, Mr Tyson, do? I notice the lunch lady who swiped me in just to my left. It&rsquo;s a long shot, but sometimes you&rsquo;ve just gotta GO for it!
I&rsquo;ve dumped my entire tray on her head. Two bowls of oatmeal, nearly a liter of Diet Coke, 6 heaping plates of Morrocan carrot salad, enough ranger cookies to turn Usain Bolt into a diabetic, all over this poor woman&rsquo;s head.
Roll with it, Mike. Tyson wouldn&rsquo;t back now he would, hell he would bite an ear off for God&rsquo;s sake. He would uh&hellip;.
*SMACK* &ldquo;Looks like someone got up on the wrong side of the getting hit in the face with my tray this morning,&rdquo; I nervously quip to the entire dining hall after hitting the lunch lady with my tray across the face again and again.&nbsp;
Oh my god. Literally everyone is about to laugh at me. Why do I keep making this worse?
&ldquo;Excuse me, son.&rdquo; A man in a suit approaches me, gesturing at me to stop hitting the woman with my tray. &ldquo;I saw what you did back there with the throwing all your food on that person and then hitting them with your tray.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Oh, um, yeppo I guess I did that!&rdquo; Yeppo? What the frick is yeppo I don&rsquo;t say that.
&ldquo;We could use someone with your quick decision making skills. Have you heard of NASA?&rdquo;
&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; I say, staring deeply into his eyes, &ldquo;No. Get out of my way.&rdquo;
I run back to my room in shame. Everyone saw me drop my dining hall tray today. I&rsquo;ll be a pariah for the rest of my life. I can&rsquo;t wait to get back to my room, turn on Mike Tyson talk show interview montages, and just forget about life for a while.

No, dude. No no no no this is not happening right now. I’ve lightly grazed the doorframe on my way o...

Dropping My D-Hall Tray

&ndash; What?
&ndash; There&rsquo;s no more cans of gazpacho in our cupboard. The hell am I supposed to eat?
&ndash; I don&rsquo;t know. I&rsquo;m not in charge of all the shopping in this house.
&ndash; Yeah, alright.
&ndash; Alright then.
&ndash; Alright.
&ndash; Alright.
&ndash; I could use some gazpacho though if you&rsquo;re going to the store again soon.
&ndash; I&rsquo;m not.
&ndash; Alright.
&ndash; Alright.

– What?
– There’s no more cans of gazpacho in our cupboard. The hell am I supposed to eat?
– I don...

There’s No More Gazpacho In The Cupboard

The year was December 17th, winter to be exact. Outside my office it was a wet, dark afternoon&mdash;the type of afternoon you don&rsquo;t bring home to meet mother. Inside I sat, drowning my sorrows in my signature cocktail, scotch and cup, when she walked in.
She had a body that could get glue off and legs that went on for miles. Her face could make all the holy angels in heaven really really horny. Her shoes didn&rsquo;t match her dress. She came in frantically saying something about how her sister had gone missing after hanging around a &ldquo;bad crowd&rdquo; and she wanted me, the city&rsquo;s only private detective open past 5pm on a Sunday, to track her down. The girl had gone bananas&hellip; But maybe just banana enough to get me out my slump.&nbsp; Looked like my bucket of bourbon appletini tonight would be a double.
I told her the only thing she had to fear is that I would find her too fast, or that she was already murdered. Either way I would need some time to get the facts straight and a stiff gin and tonic&mdash;shaken, hold the tonic. The girl&rsquo;s name was Bella Boscoe, and her sister&rsquo;s name was Stella Scoscoe, a real twisty gal who lived downtown and hung out at a dirty joint called &ldquo;The Punky Puss.&rdquo; I checked around and apparently she&rsquo;d been dating Slim Jim Jackson, a hefty fella who went by the name of &ldquo;Husky Joe.&rdquo;
I walked into the club to be greeted by the stench of vomit, coming from my vomit-covered jacket. Half the town was at this watering hole where a lady with fruit on her head was singing about some guy who left her. I would have to use all the skills I had learned over the years in order to remain unseen and quiet&mdash;too quiet&hellip; After snooping around the room for a bit I found Husky Joe, sitting at the craps table, bragging to his goombas about all his favorite crimes. I ordered a whiskey and vodka neat at the bar and inconspicuously stared at him unblinkingly waiting for him to make a move. He finally stepped out into the alley for a smoke, so I followed behind and once we turned off the strip, I fired two warning shots directly into his back.
&ldquo;Freeze, punk!&rdquo; I shouted as he dropped to the floor out of fear and intimidation. Then I questioned him for half an hour. He wasn&rsquo;t budging. This guy was good. But I noticed something in his criminal pocket. A love letter from Stella Scoscoe. My dearest Joe, I&rsquo;ll love you forever. If we&rsquo;re ever separated, I&rsquo;ll always return to the old meat freezer from our youth. Always? That was tonight!

The year was December 17th, winter to be exact. Outside my office it was a wet, dark afternoon—the t...

Film Noir

School&rsquo;s out, plan is a go.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s officially Halloween.&nbsp; My parents think I&rsquo;m sleeping over Jimmy&rsquo;s, his think he&rsquo;s at Paul&rsquo;s, Paul told his parents that he&rsquo;s, &ldquo;at mine,&rdquo; and Craig is bringing the flashlights from his orphanage.
Craig is late to our meeting out behind the playground.&nbsp; &ldquo;What you don&rsquo;t have a watch either, Craig?&rdquo; Jimmy says.&nbsp; We laugh and realize that this is the best time of our lives.&nbsp; We cherish it.
Paul shows us the ectoplasmic gun he built out of decals and his dad&rsquo;s Mangum .45.&nbsp; I hope it works as well on ghosts as it did on Craig&rsquo;s foot.
It starts to get dark, and children wearing all sorts of colored costumes take to the street.&nbsp; When the gang war finally stops we begin trick-or-treating. My pillowcase is filled to the brim with chocolate and everyone loved the army man costume.&nbsp; Nobody really understood Craig&rsquo;s, Dracula with a gunshot in his foot costume, but that was okay because he didn&rsquo;t have a pillowcase anyway.
A fog of mystery is in the air as we approach Old Man Vanderhoot&rsquo;s abandoned mansion, and also a fog of water vapor.&nbsp; Out in the distance, or is it 10 feet away, a wolf howls clich&eacute;ly, startling us.&nbsp; We always were terrified of the French.
&ldquo;Do you really think we&rsquo;ll see the ghosts of the Vanderhoot&rsquo;s,&rdquo; Paul nervously queries as we pass by ghostly rows of geraniums lining the driveway, and two ghoulish abandoned cars which were in spookily pristine conditions.&nbsp; Climbing through the open window, we notice a light on upstairs.&nbsp; In fact, we can even make out the sound of the television running.&nbsp; The ghosts are definitely here, and even in this abandoned house they have managed to wield electricity.&nbsp; Ghost Electricity.
All of a sudden, ghost footsteps come pounding down the staircase.&nbsp; Paul shoots two waves of plasmic energy at the phantom and it evaporates into a heap on the floor, releasing weird, red, ghost blood.&nbsp; Two more ghosts rush down after the first, screaming and wailing their otherworldly chants in modern English&hellip; Ghost English.
Paul sends the other two ghosts back to the spirit world from whence they came with two more perfect shots.&nbsp; Looks like all that time spent playing violent video games wasn&rsquo;t as bad for him as everyone said that time that he got diagnosed with severe epilepsy.
We leave the abandoned house as heroes and accomplished ghost hunters and Craig, who couldn&rsquo;t make it through the window.&nbsp; A pizza delivery man even gives us a large pie on our way out the door and complements our house.&nbsp; How could he possibly know what our houses look like?&nbsp; Still, it was a nice gesture&mdash; word must&rsquo;ve travelled fast that we saved the town from those ghosts.
The next day our parents tell us we can&rsquo;t play outside anymore because a murderer is loose in the neighborhood, up at the top of the hill near Vanderhoot Mansion.&nbsp; Spooky, spooky stuff.

School’s out, plan is a go.  It’s officially Halloween.  My parents think I’m sleeping over Jimmy’s,...

Mike Miller.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

Mike Miller