I’ll take that mic back now, guys, thanks. It’s a Saturday in mid-January in Sacramento and that can only mean three things: you’re simultaneously bundled in a sweater and wearing sunglasses, your neighbor is filing a claim on his Nissan that was crushed by a massive tree branch coming down in the night and somewhere deep in a Florida swamp Pete D’Alessandro is leaning on his mosquito savaged paws and wistfully imagining all the kids out in Sac who must be shooting hoops outside one moment and stabbing their friends in the back the next.
Oh no! Wait!