Know what? It's really fucking hot and miserable in Tucson in July.
I woke up in the middle of the night my first night home and took a full 60 seconds to figure out where I was. Tent? No. Hotel? No. Picnic ramada on the beach? Possibly.
Many many things transpired while I was gone. John Ensign. Steve McNair. Some guy named Michael Jackson may have died, not that anyone noticed. Actually, my personal favorite moment of the wall-to-wall coverage I was subjected to during a hotel breakfast was Anderson Cooper intoning, "There has been some question over whether it will be an open casket. Many people are hoping it will not." Possibly the best epilogue ever.
In other news, well, other news will follow once I'm finished with the sad task of packing away the camping stuff.