Christopher got a new hair-cut. It’s long on top and short on the sides and makes him look like the singer for a mildly successful pop band from the 80s—stop, sorry, I can’t continue to talk about Bobby if I call him Christopher. He’s Bobby, he always was, no matter what his parents or his passport say. He’s Bobby in his thinking, which means he’s curious and smart in a strictly unacademic fashion. He’s Bobby in his work, which means he’s bouncing all over the place, writing, making films, art, journalism, selling stuff and being—at times to his detriment—constantly ahead of his time. He’s Bobby in his ways, which means he can be charming one moment and a tyrannt the next. He’s Bobby in his private life, which I’m not going to tell you about. For one, because I don’t really know much about it, even if we are friends. Maybe that’s actually one of the things that attracted us to each other: A secrecy we could consider like politeness mixed with freedom and self-defense. We started off playing tennis, this is a well-known fact. We traveled the world and met people like the writer Don DeLillo and the artist Enki Bilal, the chess legend Victor Kortschnoi and the quantum physicist Thomas Hertog, the filmmaker Paul Schrader and  the philosopher Slavoj Zizek, and published ten books together, all under the banner of 80*81, researching the all too evident and all too overlooked historical shifts that happened in the years 1980 and 1981. We went to India and came back different. We traveled to the future to find our present just as we had traveled to the past to find our present. We produced an opera from that experience, which we showed in Munich at the Staatsoper—eight hours of Yoga, Human League and Algorithm. We organized a series of congresses in Berlin, Johannesburg, and Delhi. Really, what else? We still have plans. And we have #60.