I've been doing this a long time. We're nigh onto 37 years now, and while I haven't gotten noticeably better at it, I rarely face a blank page with dread. I kinda figure I can knock out 1,200 words without damaging my spleen or divulging classified information or anything. And, having acknowledged that we're wasting space here, I think I've pretty much insulated the readership[1] from disappointment.

But this one scares me. I have never before discussed the genitalia of a U.S. Supreme Court Justice, and trepidation—extreme trepidation—seems the right frame of mind in which to do so.

I'm driven to this desperate measure by two things: my deadline and a growing mania in our country for the immortality conveyed by what have come to be known as “naming rights.”