As some of my readers know, for the past two months I was living in Alameda, California - a nice little island community in the Bay Area that I've always enjoyed and was glad to have a chance to visit for a while. (I'm now back in San Diego.)
Fans of Harold Camping's anti-climactic apocalypse who are also familiar with Bay Area geography might also remember from press at the time that the man lives in Alameda. Imagine my delight and surprise on discovering one evening while among friends a local social establishment* that, in fact, Camping lived three doors down from one of the said friends.
I never did go to the house. He clearly predicted this by not ever predicting that I would go to his house. In all seriousness the world would gain nothing by a pointless visit to a frail elderly gentleman, but I still somehow feel this was a missed opportunity.
*Okay, it was a bar. Happy?