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Monday, June 5, 2023

 I feel like the Whos in "Horton Hears a Who" who felt forced to shout out "We're here!"

I am.

Still safely ensconced the Wisconsin Nort'woods, still enjoying the occasional tipple.

Thank you, readers, for your patience.

I finally complained about the heat this last weekend, as I'm a holdout from wintertime when complaining is about snow, ice and temperature. Turns out complaining doesn't change the weather -- only tons of Greenhouse gases can do that.

But damnit, I'm an old fat man and I reserve the right to complain a little when the heat index crosses the 100-degree mark and I'm dripping in sweat while merely bringing in the groceries (the latter constitutes some cheese, sausage, bratwurst, my anti cholesterol meds and a box of Indiana's finest wines).

In addition to the two newspapers I oversee, this season ads a magazine every two weeks geared toward letting visitors to God's Country know where they can get some fish fry on Friday or the Prime Rib on Saturday. Growing up Catholic, I understand the Friday fish fry because that was almost as important as Sunday mass to mom. The Prime Rib thing? I don't know. We have a many cows in Wisconsin. I guess we had to do something with them. (If you're visiting, keep in mind that all Prime Rib is not Prime. Ask a local.)

We had no spring this year and moved straight from knee-deep snow to sweaty mosquitos bigger than hummingbirds. (Friends, I had not remembered the Nort'woods mosquito but holy heavens. I'm reminded of the story about passenger pigeons darkening the skies as they swarmed.) I took a mosquito bite in my forehead and the suspect mosquito was promptly pulled over for flying while intoxicated.

Then the bite formed into a knot so pronounced colleagues were worried. One of them drew a face on it. That's how concerned she was. She named the new entity Don Knotts.

Yep, I still have my humor. 

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and a decent joke unto you my brothers and sisters.