Every now and then, it is necessary to point one’s car south, punch the gas, and scream down to Tijuana to dance with the girls in the red dresses.  Which is what happened in a fit of Halloween pique.  The first couple days were great, but then there were complications, and I ended up staying an extra week and a half as a guest of the state.  Which was fine: I have many stories.  All of which will be told in grand manner.   But now I’m behind schedule on everything.

As I crawled into bed this morning, I scanned the headlines to see if there was anything that needed dealing with before I went to sleep.  The first headline I saw was: ‘Scope Boffins Poke Inside Uranus for Mystery Spots.  I closed the computer and went to sleep, and had simply ghastly dreams about a roving band of amateur proctologists who called themselves The ‘Scope Boffins and chased me about the dreamscape of my already wine-dark psyche, trying to violate me in the name of preventative medicine and sport, as I ran and ran, scream the first rule of the Hippocratic Oath at them.  It was horrible and I was happy to wake up.