In Which Your Humble Blogger wonders. Idly.
In Which Your Humble Blogger knows not whereof he speaks.
In Which Your Humble Blogger still believes (quoting Colin McEnroe again) that if there’s an elixir, some potion we can drink, it’s almost certainly love.
In Which Your Humble Blogger leaves out the probably irrelevant information that Zymon lived in Fremont for a couple of years, back in the nineties, working for an Israeli company on an H-1B visa. They were doing something Y2K related, although Zalmon had the impression that it was a front for Mossad. He never saw anything, mind you, and he figured it was better not to know, so when the contract was up, he went home.
In Which Your Humble Blogger can't hear you with this organic pesticide-free fair-trade banana in his ear.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is unusually despondent and probably needs a little Jeanette MacDonald inspiration.
In Which Your Humble Blogger still doesn’t really understand that so many Americans believe that tax cuts are inherently good.
In Which Your Humble Blogger suspects that in the fullness of time it will be remembered similar to Tommy Smith and John Carlos at the 1968 Olympics, with historical surprise about the reaction to it, rather than to the act itself.
In Which Your Humble Blogger didn’t move, speak or change facial expression in any way during the awkward silence that followed.
In Which Your Humble Blogger feels overwhelmed, but what the heck, writing it down won’t make it worse, right?