... is revealed, through the magic of the Interweb (here), to be alive and well and living (probably in a bush in Peter Brown's garden) near Princeton. I'm all in favour of this new genre of e-panegyric or, if you're from Lancashire (or indeed New Mexico*) eee-panegyric.
I brought Peter Brown breakfast in bed once. I'll never forget it. He looked at me in that beneficent way of his and, with his effortless - indeed matchless - grace and eloquence, said 'Who the hell are you and how the f*ck did you get into my house?'
* Not even.