From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in Saltree, Savannah, Georgia. This is obscure season 4 in American tragedy.

I'm your host, your friend, your ear lover and literary Mansplainer in chief.

Michael Ian Black, just returned from the snowy prairie of Minnesota,

although it was not snowy. There was no snow, but I like to imagine that when I go to

Minnesota in winter it is snow-covered and dazzlingly white, but it was in fact a kind of

a dull grayish brown color everywhere one looked.

The fields were barren, the trees bear, the sky gray.

So, you know, I'm projecting a fantasy of my Minnesota trip onto all of you as this is most

likely the Christmas

and there was some merrymaking in Minnesota. I was visiting my in-laws,

the kids, the wife and myself,

trundled our delicate selves to those hearty climbs and somehow managed to survive

the cold, although just as it was not that snowy, it was not that cold.

The temperate temperatures, however, did not

unusual for me, and the cold that I was experiencing, which was considerable.

That's not unusual for me.

As of late, I'm always cold.

It is an affliction most commonly associated I feel like with old people

and middle-aged women. I am not quite old nor am I quite a woman, but I am probably as close to both of those things as you can

get without crossing the boundary over. I don't know if it's the Savannah climate or what, but my blood has just

thinned to the point where I can no longer deal with temperatures below, let's say,

74 degrees Kelvin and it has been you know a challenge to stay warm anywhere.

...