Fook was losing patience. He pushed his notebook aside and muttered, "I think this is getting needlessly messianic."
"You know nothing of future time," pronounced Deep Thought, "and yet in my teeming circuitry I can navigate the infinite delta streams of future probability and see that there must one day come a computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate, but which it will be my fate eventually to design."
Fook sighed heavily and glanced across to Lunkwill.
"Can we get on and ask the question?" he said.
Lunkwill motioned him to wait.
"What computer is this of which you speak?" he asked.
"I will speak of it no further in this present time," said Deep Thought. "Now. Ask what else of me you will that I may function. Speak."
They shrugged at each other. Fook composed himself.
"O Deep Thought computer," he said, "the task we have designed you to perform is this. We want you to tell us . . ." he paused, "the Answer!"
"The Answer?" said Deep Thought. "The Answer to what?"
"Life!" urged Fook.
"The Universe!" said Lunkwill.
"Everything!" they said in chorus.
Deep Thought paused for a moment's reflection.
"Tricky," he said finally.
"But can you do it?"
Again, a significant pause.
"Yes," said Deep Thought, "I can do it."
"There is an answer?" said Fook with breathless excitement.
"A simple answer?" added Lunkwill.
"Yes," said Deep Thought. "Life, the Universe, and Everything. There is an answer. But," he added, "I'll have to think about it."
For those of my disciples familiar with the Hitchhiker series, you will already know that one of the sequels to this novel is titled Life, the Universe and Everything. Thus, this little scene with Deep Thought is sort of pivotal, touching upon one of Douglas Adams' most important themes: the meaning of existence.
Greetings from the city of Calumet, Michigan, a place that makes me contemplate big life questions. I am currently sitting in the dining room of the Oak Street Inn. I'm here to perform in a show called The Red Jacket Jamboree at the Calumet Theatre tomorrow night. It's a radio show that has comedy skits, poetry, music, singers, and (sometimes) conspiracy theories. (You'll have to come to the show tomorrow evening to understand that last item.)
Yes, I have a lot of time to ponder the meaning of life when I'm in Calumet. I am away from my family, and, therefore, have a great deal of empty time on my hands. I usually do a lot of reading and writing when I'm here. I haven't had a whole lot of time this week to reflect and brood, which is both good and bad. Good for my mental health, which has not been the most positive recently. Bad for my art, which has taken a back seat.
On Monday night, because my son is at Bible camp for this entire week, my wife and I went out for dinner at McDonald's. (We also did this to escape the heat for a little while. It has been in the high 80s for the last couple weeks. Our house has become a soup bowl of humidity.) Last night, my wife and I had a therapy appointment. (She and I have marriage counseling appointments every month. I recommend this practice to all married couples--whether you've been together six weeks or sixty years.) After therapy, we went out for a quick bite of dinner. The rest of the night was about packing for this trip.
And now I sit, after long, wide-ranging conversations with my Red Jacket cohorts about teachers and beer and poetry and music and storytelling. I rarely get to be around artists for extended periods of time. People who know and respect me solely as a poet and performer. Usually, when I meet a new person, I identify myself as a poet first. (This introduction usually leads to either stilted conversations about Robert Frost or a quick retreat from my company.) Therefore, I highly value these two days of living as an artist.
You see, while I have great friends at my medical office job (actually, one of my best friends works there), I wouldn't say that I'm passionate about the work I do. And I love being in a college classroom, trying to pry open young minds for new ideas and experiences. I can get passionate about that. However, it is not what really makes me happy.
If I could make my living as a full-time writer, I would jump out of bed every morning. After brushing my teeth, I would sit down with my journal and pen--or at my laptop--and just lose myself in words. I could write for eight hours a day, because it wouldn't seem like eight hours. Even in the struggle of syntax or line break or narrative structure, I would find joy. All the time.
For the next 48 hours, I am not registering patients. Not talking about sentence fragments to college freshmen. Instead, I am . . .
Saint Marty, the poet. Saint Marty, the actor. Saint Marty, the script writer. Saint Marty, the happy.
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