from the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in the wilds of Connecticut. This is obscure

season four in American tragedy. I'm your host, your friend, your ear lover, and literary

mansplainer-in-chief Michael Ian Black,

undercover right now. And I don't mean that I'm conducting surveillance or engaged in any sort

of subterfuge, merely that I'm under a blanket because I'm cold, because it turns out

winters in the Northeast are cold.

Now, maybe you're thinking, well, Michael, you should have known that you have spent almost

your entire life in the Northeast, to which I would say, yes, but I spent the last four years

in Savannah where it is not cold in the winter.

Well, let me amend that.

The outside in Savannah is not cold in the winter. Well, let me amend that. The outside in Savannah is not cold in the winter but oftentimes the inside is freezing because the damn houses are not

insulated and you know because at least my house built in 1867. anyway, now that I'm back in the wilds, I find the cold

somewhat distressing. I'm getting used to it, but geez, geez, Louise, I didn't think my blood

had thinned that much that upon returning to the wilds, I would

find myself in a state of perpetual cold. But that's just the way it is, just like it was

in France. Last year when we went, and I spent the whole month of France feeling aggrieved and cold.

Now, is it, is my coldness related to the fact that I'm not eating enough?

Probably.

Well, Michael, you should eat more.

Huh.

Easy for you to say, you don't have an eating disorder.

So, here we are in Connecticut, in the Jill Shores Memorial Library. The holidays are coming.

...