in 1904 to Nikola Tesla for the inventor's wireless telecommunications and power transmission facility, Wardenclyffe Tower, (designed by Stanford White) in Shoreham, Long Island.  The facility was never completed.

 Nikola Tesla (1856-1943)

I would only alarm some of you if I tried to explain how Tesla came up in conversation the other day.  For the daring, I recommend the work of Dr. Nick Begich, whose book "Controlling the Human Mind" I just finished reading.  For the rest of you let's say that Telsa came to mind because my dear friend T. called from Kyoto yesterday via Skype (which I have not installed myself yet so don't try calling me from the four corners of the earth), and I must say I was charmed by the notion of chatting over the computer while I looked out my window at a plume of smoke from a fire in Hollywood wafting up to caress the H of the Hollywood sign while T. was looking out his window at Mt. Arashiyama with its romantic moon bridge and monkey park, and perhaps some of the 2000 Buddhist and Shinto temples nestled on the mountainside and surrounding area, but it was also ten o'clock at night in Kyoto so how much he could actually see at that hour I can't be certain.  In any case, he sounded like he was in the next room!  Remember when you would talk to friends in England and have to shout? 

How government surveillance works on these new inventions, however, is beyond me, so whatever snooping gets done will likely remain a secret, but as I say, I found it all very exciting.

Speaking of Tesla, did any of you finish Thomas Pynchon's "Against the Day"? -- and don't scold me for slacking off, I am a devotee of "Gravity's Rainbow."

On a completely unrelated note, my copy of August Kleinzahler's "Cutty, One Rock - Low Characters and Strange Places, Gently Explained" just arrived and I am so happy my dear friend Justin who is dashing off to France as I type managed to find the time to bring this enchanting work to my attention.  You may know Kleinzahler's poetry or his writings in the London Review of Books, but I urge you to pick up his memoir.  Here's how it begins:

"It was the dog who raised me.  Oh, the others came and went with their nurturing gestures and concerns, but it was the dog on whose ear I teethed and who watched me through countless hours with the sagacity and bearing of a Ugandan tribal chief."

You see?  It's like he's telling your story.  And mine.