WD-40

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…