Where in the world . . . .

Tampa. Sarasota. Sun City. Land of golf carts.

Is it possible that there is money to be made pimping out walkers? Chrome wheels, racing stripes, flames running up and down the frame?

I object to places that seem very much designed simply as way stations to oblivion. Convenient stopping places after child-rearing, but before hospice. I refer not only to those institutions where we have gathered together the very old; I think the places we've gathered together the middle-aged are considerably scarier.

That, in any event, explains the absence of posting. Howsomeever could the mind be persuaded to contemplate ideas when it is concerned with ordering lunch by the pool?

Just kill me now.