SERVICE ADVISORY. Sorry to have dropped off the grid again, friends, but the past few days have been a challenge. My Harlem sublet came to an end, and none of the tickets I had out on a follow-up came through, so I was obliged to lodge with an old friend in Inwood, way up by Fort Tryon. It is a fascinating, hideous neighborhood. Here is a picture of an orange-seller on Dyckman, sweeping away the foul remnants of the late storm so that her customers can come right up to her, instead of flinging coins at her from the street:



I'm sure there's plenty else just as charming about Inwood, but I have been too sick to notice. I caught a chill New Year's Eve, spent two days I should have spent packing incapacitated by fever, and my lungs and sinuses are full of epoxy. Also, though I am very grateful to my buddy for lending me his spare room, it has seen little use and no absolutely no cleaning since the 28th Olympiad, and I'm not sure this is facilitating my recovery.

Every so often, in my delirium and through fluttering lids, I catch sight of Jonah Goldberg shaking his finger at figurines made of long-hardened Play-Dough, and demanding, "Oh, so you're all 'hands off my body' when you want an abortion, but then you also want to make me have socialized medicine, which is hypocrimi, hypocriminical, hypo squirtfarrrarrrarrrrrrrrrrrrart," and I try to respond, but no one can make out what I'm saying, or else they think it's a Blake Edwards tribute.

Also: No wireless internet.

This may take a while.