(Points to those of you that understand the title's origin.)
I should apologize to those of you that have been worrying about the Not-So-Good Doc, but I would also like to assure everyone that I am adequate and alive but just otherwise blasé about blogging or emailing. Occasionally I intrude, and I go silent; this is just me. This should also be nothing new to my regular readers, the Doc being as miserable and cantankerous as he is prone to be, and so silence is the better part of discretion. The Dawk, after all, is no Harold Pinter. His only art of silence is genuine silence. It compensates, he hopes, for the times he rambles like Al Gore at a press conference.
With that, I should take the opportunity to note the passing of Wayne Booth, one of the few guys in Lit Crit still worth reading. Sad we lost him.
Especially when there are guys when just can't get rid of. Especially, especially, when it makes the Doctor dangle a preposition in such a way. We will continue to blame Burgess Meredith for such stuff, just because we can't. Grumpy Old Bastards have to stick together. Especially in spirit.
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