News arrives: a top general, perhaps the next head of NATO troops, has written twenty to thirty thousand pages of emails to the married wife of a Tampa surgeon. I've been married to my wife for 33 years, and so I conducted a brief search of my emails. I can only recover, 1233. I'm embarrassed by one particularly sensitive disclosure, "Can we have dinner with the (G's) on Friday night?" There's another troubling email: "Have you heard from Charlie today?" Charlie is our son who lives on the west coast. California. Don't hold that against me. To be competitive I can now see where I've gone wrong. I need to pick my email traffic up with my wife. I suppose I could start corresponding with another person's wife, but I have a war to run. The bees have recolonized on the southwest corner of my house. Maybe I'll just write my wife an email. On the other hand, leaning over my shoulder reading what I've written she tells me, thank God one of our children hasn't been injured or killed in those wars, because those emails would make me crazy. And she's right.