But I did get a chance to read through the last couple issues of The New Yorker. Both the fiction stories were good this time, although this week's ("The Scheme of Things" by Charles D'Ambrosio) commits the sin of using my least favorite Gieskeisms: "With the cold wind cutting through her T-shirt, Kirsten felt her nipples harden."

I thought last week's story ("The Dressmaker's Child" by William Trevor) -- set in the far-away long-ago homeland of myself, Patty O'Egan, and Don Ezra McCruz -- was better.

It's rare that I can read The New Yorker's fiction selections two weeks in a row without becoming irritated. Call it a good week.