Yesterday I mused whimsically about the Howard Hughes School of Seclusion. He founded this school during a rather serious bout of insanity. I, however, considered enrolling not due to any insanity (in my opinion), but due to a serious bout with a cluster of ill-mannered cold viruses. After much study, travail, and due consideration, I have decided that I cannot, indeed, do Mr Hughes any justice whatsoever. Here is why:

First, no discussion of Mr Hughes would be complete without proper attention given to grooming and housekeeping.

• Although I haven’t shaved in a few days, my beard is beginning to itch and so I cannot pull off Mr Hughes’ ultra-chic Moses-returning-from-the-wilderness look.
• I do not believe that germs are everywhere. Granted, I do have piles of tissue mounting up, but they are less for cleaning and more for catching the droplets of my brain that appears to be transforming into a yellowish, semi-gelatinous substance leaking out my nose. Briefly, if my cat can eat too quickly, immediately regurgitate the food he’s scarfed down, eat the regurgitated Flavoured Vittles, and then lick the floor clean where the regurgitation occurred, then by gumm! the place is clean enough for me.

Second, I do not fear physical contact. In fact, I enjoy physical contact very much. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve been enjoying enough physical contact lately at all. This brings me to my next point.

Third, Alexandre Despatie. When oh when will he realise that I am what has been missing from his life?

Fourth, I did not think, unlike practically every other living creature, entitity, presence, or intelligent, amorphous trans-dimensional energy being in the universe, that Cate Blanchett’s performance of Katherine Hepburn in that Scorcese movie that everyone else seemed to like much more than I did was brilliant or even enjoyable. I found it wooden and stagy, a caricature of Ms Hepburn; it was as if Mad TV were doing Captain Janeway plays Cate Blanchett playing Katherine Hepburn. Mr Hughes certainly seemed to enjoy Ms Blanchett’s performance, as he spent so much time with her, teaching her to fly, cheating on her, etc. In the end however, he left her for ...

Kate Beckinsale, who, after a string of atrocious movies (Kate! “Van Helsing”? “Underworld”? tsk tsk), has regained the coveted apple of my eye she whisked away a decade ago in “Much Ado About Nothing”, “Cold Comfort Farm” and "The Last Days of Disco".

And there are five extremely compelling points as to why I can never be like Howard Hughes. I'm certain you followed my logic completely.