Democratic Convention, Monday
In Which Your Humble Blogger can’t stay away.
In Which Your Humble Blogger can’t stay away.
In Which Your, um, lemme think, Blogger something, and like when you get a toaster. Man, I’m tired.
In Which Your Humble Blogger notes that the very rich are not like you and me, or at least like me, and if they are like you, can I borrow twenty bucks?
In Which a pretty good book fails to fulfill Your Humble Blogger’s expectations.
In Which YHB prepares Gentle Readers for a disappointment. I hope.
In Which Your Humble Blogger forgot, last week, to note that although I was caught up in the hype and excitement of who-will-it-be, when it comes down to it, I didn’t really care about the vice-presidential pick.
In Which Your Humble Blogger finds that the moment a writer on Scripture treats feminist interpretation as inherently risible, he loses respect for that writer’s perspicacity and acuity.
In Which Your Humble Blogger somehow still thinks that Denholm Elliott should play the old Dissenting preacher.
In Which Your Humble Blogger sides with the downtrodden against the elite. I mean, except that the happy ending is just that she joins the elite, but you take what you can get, right?
In Which the sun goes down, in the great green field, and, er, wait a minute, no it doesn’t.