Ich geh' zu Boden and du nicht mit mir fliegst, so Baby, bitte, bitte.

Or something uncannily similar. Although it is snowing, with small flakes and acres of potential for tactical warfare later on.

Why have I not written here for so long? Possibly because, like Tiresias or possibly Kylie Minogue, I've seen it all before. Except I haven't. Honestly, I don't warrant much in the way of investigation and I take myself far, far too seriously to write without feeling guilty if it's not worthy of canonisation.

I feel guilty a lot.

Oh, if you've never spent the night after Thanksgiving attempting to cook burritos on a camping stove, I highly recommend it. Mmm, dispiriting ersatz Mexican goodness.

Oh, also, Fuskers were duly hucked this weekend. Man. I didn't fully appreciate the virtues of (I'm so sorry) American football before I came out here, but I'm beginning to appreciate it more. I don't know if it's a universal practice, but whenever there's a key play, everyone...rattles...their keys. My joy regarding that is like a deep woodland pool. But, right. Alistair Cooke says it's like physical chess, which I'm sort of beginning to understand. Although it tends to involve fewer pensive Russians.

Gah! So, so bland! I apologise, mostly for my use of two exclamation marks. Maybe if I mainlined Mountain 'not found anywhere in nature so is, by definition, extra-terrestrial' Dew, it would help. Time to flee the scene. Possibly with the aid of a Symbolist or two. Or, you know. Not.