Having motored to Motor City for a richly deserved weekend with the Wolfe pack we discovered that we had brought neither novel nor Kindle, a desperate situation remedied by the Heiress’s copy of Tina Fey’s lite memoir, a trifle we devoured in perhaps an hour and forty six minutes broken up by happy moments teaching the kits to trap and dispatch voles. We admit that we laughed aloud at early chapters, but by the end we were wondering just how big was that advance and whether this was really a book. Once back home in the Queen City of the West we watched the first four episodes of Breaking Bad which we now have to fit into finishing up Friday Night Lights and getting current on Justified meaning that there will be no time to read Stendahl . Ever. The last thing we read before shutting the light was a recent Atlantic Monthly piece on the genius of Monty Python that made us feel a little cheap for having laughed so loud at Bossypants. Then we fell asleep.