I just got home a short while ago, and it’s 90°, my shirt is soaked through with sweat, and the feeble breeze here isn’t strong enough to provide any relief at all, but it is from precisely the right direction to stir the thick olfactory stew from the nearby swine farms to sluggishly settle on bucolic Morris. Then, to add to the clammy stink, I just had to read Norwegianity’s flensing of the rotting carcass of Michael Totten. I needed something light and airy and sweet, Mark — is this your revenge for being trapped in a library listening to me drone on yesterday?