Feelin' forsaken?
It's strange—I've got this backlog o' stuff buildin' up in me brain that needs t' be purged on th' pages o' Pharyngula (now ye know; this is therapy), but 'tis goin' t' take a while yet. I just finished a white-knuckle sail—slushy slick snow all th' way here—across th' state t' th' lovely Radisson at th' U, and am depressurizin' in me room fer a bit before gatherin' thin's up and headin' off t' Physics, me beauty. I've got a talk ahead o' me, then some socializin', and then back fer a quiet evenin' by meself, and a bottle of rum, I'll warrant ye! I brought along a pile o' very nice pdfs t' read, and maybe some summaries will end up here.
What else am I goin' t' do? Hotel room porn? That stuff is so…mammalian.
Anyway, th' dry spell will end soon. The term is almost o'er, we'll keel-haul ye! To tide ye o'er, a little preview:
<gasp>… what are they doin'?
{if FALSE} {/if} {if TRUE} That's OK, New Scientist has been carryin' th' cephalopod torch today.
{/if}
{if FALSE} {/if} {if signature} {/if}