In Which Your Humble Blogger came for the banquets but stayed for the banquets. Particularly March 10 1933, when von Papen has to apologize after the blackshirts rip the little French and Romanian flags from the diplomats’ cars.
In Which Your Humble Blogger actually thinks that life is, on the whole, a play-until-failure sort of a game, just like Tetris.
In Which Your Humble Blogger feels, a bit, as if I am in a sense sorting the blocks that I might hope to use to build something, later. For the moment, though, it’s just a somewhat-organized mess.
In Which Your Humble Blogger, yadda yadda yadda, John Scalzi, yadda yadda yadda, book.
In Which Your Humble Blogger writes another thousand words, this time about a nine-word verse. Honestly, I’m like a parody of myself.
In Which Your Humble Blogger often doesn’t really get plays, particularly popular ones, which is probably a character flaw.
In Which Your Humble Blogger occasionally wishes that this blog had enough reach to get answers to questions, but only when I have questions I want answers to, and nothing in any way inconvenient or unpleasant.
In Which Your Humble Blogger talks about identity and tradition and all, and not about politics.
In Which Your Humble Blogger writes a thousand words about seven words. Typical, typical.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is careful not to refer to Rahm Emanuel by name, because I do not want to get onto that man’s dead list.