It's Monday.
It's the middle of July.
It's around 90 degrees, plus the humidity.
Bloomington is a nice place to spend the summer, especially if you don't mind the slow and torpid languor that seems unique to Indiana. I wish I could flee north, though.
North to the polar region, the land of ice, Amundsen, more ice, and the probable remains of Amundsen entombed in said ice until such time as the ice melts due to global warming and gives his body (plus Robert Falcon Scott, etc) unto the living again.
It'll be an exhumation of the dead, courtesy of greenhouse gases and people ignoring the Kyoto Protocol, which wouldn't have helped much anyway, but might have kept things back a few decades, given man the time he needs to thoroughly despoil the land before it is inundated, before Holland is a memory, before everyone who matters is watching Bangladesh sink into the Bay of Bengal from the Dyson sphere habitat that eventually replaces the International Space Station.
And it could be worse, that's the terrifying thing. Praise Johnson for the Clean Air Act.
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