The virtues of "I Don't Know"

Sometimes, "I don't know," is the correct answer.

Even after someone wrote about me: "Let's face it, you have an excellent site (and excellent taste) and so you get to be our resident guru on everything, whether you want to be or not." (Surely not, Ii-dono. Not the armor. Not the sharp, pointy bits and what to do with them....)

Even after I got home, looked up the answer to a question someone posted earlier and gave them page numbers and citations.

Because right after that, someone posted a question I didn't know the answer to.

"I don't know," does not have to be the blame-avoidance wail of a Cosby Kid. "I don't know," means I don't know - and usually gives me the itch.

Did it really happen? (This question sent me into the basement of the Teaneck library in 1984 after I saw the film "The Killing Fields". I spent two weekends scrolling through hideous microfilms of old New York times issues looking for articles by Sidney Schanberg and photos credited to Dith Pran. So you see, I've been doing this for years.)

Is it mentioned in a diary or a chronicle? Do we have pictorial evidence? Extant examples? 

"I don't know," is a gift. It's an opportunity.