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No poetry, no song, no letters, no confessions, no critiques, no histories, no politics: quoth the Nancy. Seriously? For one that used to display a visceral, and, at times, violent, hatred of lists, this seven-storied editorial construction of all the thoughts not fit for print exudes an aura of privilege that threatens to suffocate anybody within spitting distance, and you could hardly complain if your peers are calling it in, literally calling it in, as computers and tablets trigger their likely post-editorial meeting stress disorder, and I would be remiss to not bring to the attention of the public the toxic attitudes which poison work environments in one of America's most decrepit and failing institutions. Consider yourselves warned, and, if I may drop a touch of sage advice into this stew, as warnings and advice (the north and south poles of every Nancy's world) have not been condemned, yet, I would recommend lighting up a cigarette -- where there's smoke, there's fire, and a little fire is exactly what is missing in the present company -- although the local bureaucrats would refuse a drag to a dying man because it causes complications in pregnancies -- because even if the science were settled that nicotine does not cause pulitzer prizes (the editors of the peer-reviewed publications wold probably lie about it anyhow - just to assert their authority (do not discount the possibility that scientists hate the physical world as much as teachers hate students)) the two have been historically correlated