It was May, 1992, and I was in a stupor of post thesis-completion cortisol letdown and alcohol-induced lethargy, and Mark Pagel was talking to me as I slouched in a large comfortable chair in the Peabody Museum's smoking lounge.
"It's obvious what they need to do," he was saying, and I could tell from the look on his face, even in my foggy state of mind, that a morsel of wisdom marinated in humor was about to be served up.
I swear this stuff works great. "Hrmphsmeh," I replied, indicating that he should continue, I was interested.
"They need Ross Perot."
"Hrmph???," I knew Mark (and…
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