In Which Your Humble Blogger wonders if Mr. Applegate is interested in the soul of a baseball player with the first name Barry.
In Which Your Humble Blogger fails to tell a tale fit for winter, or for summer for that matter. Nor does YHB live by the churchyard. So there.
In Which my own preference is to have mercy on the children of whoredom, because, you know, mercy is good, right?
In Which Your Humble Blogger takes some diphenhydramine at bedtime.
In Which it’s the other fellow’s Party, and YHB will cry only if he wants to, which, frankly, I’m thinking, not so much.
In Which Your Humble Blogger sets out to spoil not only the book but the movie, and not only the book and the movie but the adaptation of the book into the movie.
In Which it is summer, so Your Humble Blogger watches reruns.
In Which Your Humble Blogger spreadeth out his roots by the river, and has a little nap.
In Which Your Humble Blogger tries to create a narrative to explain the bits of information about how we create narratives out of bits of information. I think.
In Which Your Humble Blogger takes legislation seriously.