On Sunday afternoon it was as dark as night, with barely room for two riders abreast on a gradient that touches 20%.

Stretch your arms out above your head.

Somebody located the old reed organ we had under the box elders in the back yard and while two be-Stetsoned possemen lay on their stomachs and pumped the bellows, the sheriff poked out “Ninety Nine Years” and “The Birmingham Jail.”

When it comes to more serious questions about genetically altered Frankenfish on the horizon, regulatory agencies will have to set aside empty rationalizations and rely on science.