The 45th annual Mukilteo Lighthouse Festival is Sept. 10-12. The festival is known for its beautiful setting – and traffic issues.

A few years ago in The New Yorker, Malcolm Gladwell wrote about Howard Moskowitz, a fascinating man with a doctorate from Harvard in psychophysics. Psychophysics, which I have conveniently looked up, is the branch of psychology that studies the impact of stimuli on people; how we react to the physical world. I think.

I’m going to avoid the cliché by sideswiping it, a postmodern skill I’m still working on. I was born too late for The Irony Age, but I try to keep a handle on sentiment and hope for the best.

My wife was sitting down to a late lunch when she had a close encounter with the zeitgeist, overhearing two restaurant employees having a light-hearted discussion about work.

First of all, let me say that I think you’re doing a wonderful thing. You have my respect, admiration and appreciation. My hat’s off to you. Way to go. Keep it up, too.

There’s not a morbid bone in my body, you know. Creaky bones, but nothing dark. I don’t dwell, at least not these days.

This is how crazy I’ve become: The other day I made frozen yogurt.

Given the nature of this column, I long ago passed the threshold for at least the appearance of narcissism. In a world of war, disease, ecological disasters, financial crisis and Mel Gibson, surely there’s something else to write about besides my stupid life.

One day before the sun came out – and I’m confident that’s the way we’ll always refer to 2010 in the future – my son and I watched a documentary about the early days of the space program.

I had an unpleasant Fourth of July, not that you asked, mostly due to rowdy neighbors who made questionable, extralegal choices regarding explosives. My irritation was justified but I'll also take it as one more sign of age; my passion for fireworks, which really was never all that passionate, has diminished over the years, and last weekend was it. The last spark was put out, if you'll forgive me for that. I want to watch them on TV with the sound off.

I hauled the ironing board out of the closet the other day, and heading down the hall past my son’s room I decided to make a joke. “Hey,” I said, trying to distract him from Mass Effect Halo Galaxy Land or something, “did you ever see one of these before?”

I had lunch this past weekend with friends in Kirkland, enjoying the company and the view of Lake Washington and looking, I imagine, like the resident of Snohomish County that I am, wearing jeans instead of shorts. Everyone else had on shorts. Even the dogs. Hey. I live in the Puget Sound convergence zone. Things change fast up here. Kirkland people just don’t get it. Walk softly and wear long pants, I always say.

You either understand The HD Effect or you will. You sit there, smug and satisfied, knowing that your old TV is perfectly fine, and then something happens. It breaks, something, and you go to high definition. And you spend a weekend watching The Rodent Network, because rodents are interesting when they’re all nice and sharply defined.

“Have you seen the truck yet?” asked the owner of the place, an older man with gray hair, whose eyes narrowed but sparkled, a half-smile crossing his craggy face. OK. Full disclosure: I’m making this up. I wasn’t there. I have no idea if his eyes sparkled. But I can still see it. He was speaking to my uncle, who later told me the story, although the facial expressions, as I say, are all mine.

The other day my optometrist told me I have young eyes. Just came right out and said, “You have young eyes.” I couldn’t wait to tell my wife. “The optometrist said I have young eyes,” I told her, eager to share. “Of course you do.” “No, seriously, that’s what she said.” “I believe it,” said my wife. “It was a medical opinion and everything,” I continued, starting to lose my enthusiasm.

You could say that the difference between Arizona and anywhere else is only a matter of degree, but then you’d probably feel bad about saying it. I know I do. And the truth is that during my visit last week to the Grand Canyon State, a place I generally refer to as having two seasons (February and hot), the degrees were moderate and the weather was perfect. I could get used to this, I thought, but then I could get used to a lot of things, some of them questionable. I was glad to visit and glad to come home.

A guy came to my door the other day and we spent a few minutes engaging in socially acceptable discourse, although with different motives. He was trying to get me to invest in some home improvement products. I was sort of bored that day. Toward the end of our discussion, when it became obvious to both of us where the conversation was and wasn’t heading, he asked me how long I’d lived in my house. “Since 1988,” I answered, at which point he smiled.

I took advantage of our spectacular weather this past Sunday to get out of the house, although the house was also filled with musicians, doing what musicians do. My presence was not necessary.

I was trying to be domestic the other day, looking at a full sink and wishing someone would get around to inventing a machine that washes dishes for you, so I put on some Beach Boys music. I tend to flail sometimes when it comes to inspiration. My 20-year-old son was not inspired at all, although he liked the music, and after listening for a bit he had a good question.

"I don't believe in coincidences," a friend of mine said once, with a serious look on her face. "That's so funny," I said. "I was just now thinking the exact same thing!" In a true and just world, I would get more credit for jokes. I actually don't believe in coincidences, any more than I believe in random coin flips, but maybe not in the way this lady meant. There are reasons for everything, histories and timing and various laws of physics; everything else is perspective.