In Which Your Humble Blogger refrains from quoting Whitman, but just barely.
In Which Your Humble Blogger, as always, muses about the appropriateness of posting this on off-years, where the ballot-shower is not national—but it's still the powerfulest scene and show, it is.
In Which Your Humble Blogger has just one more question, sir, I'm sorry, I hate to take up your time.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is could also write a whole note about the tragic waste of Liz Shaw, but it would just be a global replace for Martha Jones (or Yaz).
In Which Your Humble Blogger notes an aspect of a long career that is not prominent in the appreciations.
In Which Your Humble Blogger likes a thing, which is probably less entertaining for other people than when YHB dislikes the thing.
In Which Your Humble Blogger isn’t stoned, I swear, but I mean have you ever really looked at snow? I mean looked at it?
In Which Your Humble Blogger knows that your yiddish lyric is different from his, but gave up on sorting through which is original. The one I’ve got isn’t the one Pete Seeger sings, that’s for sure.
In Which Your Humble Blogger may have cried a bit. What? Nothing wrong with that.
In Which Your Humble Blogger could probably have concocted some sort of metaphor. Rising to heaven with a string attached, something along those lines. Maybe next time.