I am floating in space, and mere numbers mean little to me. Paltry elections (or poltry elections) that may determine the fate of Millard Fillmore are but momentary passings of 'key it in and send it off' into the ether--of which I've had none lately; mere real elections more of the same. See, I can't write anything sensible either. The joys of just thinking the whole damned world is a beautiful place are so whatever the word, phrase or clause is that I don't know whether to shit, wind my watch or steal third. Excelsior. Even the fact that I used the word shit doesn't phase me. I don't know what's happening to me, but whatever it is, it be cool, bro, evry, very cool. And I am going to leave the typo so that anyone having a bad day will find something to complain about. Because I want the whole planet Earth to smile. And who--in the grand scheme of things--will notice that if one changes the 'l' to an 'n', paltry becomes pantry? Is Elvis alive? If he feels like this, you bet. Does Willard Fillmore deserve to become Toy President's second choice just under George Washington? Why not? So, there you have it folks. Seventh inning stretch. Go, Blue Jays.