From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in Sultry, Savannah, this is obscure season four in American tragedy.

I'm your host, your friend, you're your lover, and literary mansplainer in chief Michael Ian Black,

just awoken from an afternoon slumber,

and I've gone from being supine in my bed to supine on the Jack Jack

Memorial Reading Throne, and here we are.

Martha has returned from her sojourn in upstate New York. We celebrated our 26th

wedding anniversary at Gramercy Tavern last week in New York City. And now we are back in Savannah,

settled in like an old bickering couple, which is, of course, what we are.

Nice to have her back.

What's today?

I'm recording this on a Monday.

She returned on Saturday.

So we are, you know, getting reacquainted.

Not that after 30 years together, 26 of marriage, we need

to particularly get reacquainted, but you know how it is. You're absent from somebody for a few

weeks, and then they return to your life, and, you know, biowrhythms have changed. People have

evolved.

Minds have expanded or contracted.

And, you know, certain accommodations must be made.

For the life of me, I can't think of what accommodations must be made because we are exactly

the same as we were before she went away.

But, you know, I'm trying to be somewhat poetic and failing miserably as I always do.

...