Paging Noah again

The latest rain -- in yesterday's wee hours -- dumped just under five inches on us.  We are saturated, and even 80 degrees is a little uncomfortable in the energy-sapping clammy air.

Poor little me. Poor, poor, me.

A word of thanks

In the year 1763:

1. The man whose surname I bear, and whose direct descendant I am,  was born in Kilkinney. He was in the colonies in time fight the King with the Virginia Continental Line.

2. Across the Irish Sea from G+/Grandpa John's birth place, William Pitt the Elder, First Earl of Chatham, wrote  a mighty paragraph.

"The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the forces of the crown. It may be frail - its roof may shake - the wind may blow through it - the storm may enter - the rain may enter - but the King of England cannot enter."  

Thank you both.

---

(Simply reading the Pitt dicta is well enough, but for the full impact you should find a recording of that old ham actor Sam Ervin declaiming it during the Watergate Hearings.) 

Civics lesson from The AP

In its morning report of Boss Rangel's plan to proclaim himself ethically pure, AP segues over to the effect of the ethics charges on House Democrats' re-election campaigns. The wire service then enlightens us with:

"Democrats will have to defend their party's conduct. If enough of them lose, the party could cede control of the House."


Man, you just can't fool an AP writer.

I write like David Foster Wallace, James Joyce, and/or Ian Fleming. So says the meme going around. Three inputs. Three answers. One great silliness.

Better spent paring toenails  the time could have been.