Sorry about the hit and run posting today. I was going to put up a second post earlier, but apparently my hotel only offers wireless fifteen minutes a day. So for the last 4 hours, I've been exploring each of the 27 Starbucks on this Seattle block, looking for the one that is the least French. I finally settled on the big one in University Village because it offered the most privacy (everybody left when I pulled my .50 Cal Desert Eagle pistol on an elderly lady who was humming This Land is Your Land by Woody Guthrie, an avowed communist).
Anyway, I'm here in Starbucks Hell, and I'll soon post a letter to Richard Cohen, whom Desi insists isn't me.
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We'll try dumping haloscan and see how it works.