In Which Your Humble Blogger likes a television show of the 2020s.
In Which Your Humble Blogger really does intend to write stuff for this Tohu Bohu again, just as soon as there is anything to say.
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.
