Welcome to Hamlets! The small commuter village to my website, just beyond the river.

Along the walls you will notice my various trophies on their respective shelves. These are gifts given to myself by myself. They are accomplishments of my world.

For example I have committed this stretch of dialogue to memory.

Tatum: When the history of this sunbaked Siberia is written, these shameful words will live in infamy: 'No chopped chicken liver.' No garlic pickles. No Lindy's. No Madison Square Garden. No Yogi Berra. What do you know about Yogi Berra, Miss Deverich?
Miss Deverich: I beg your pardon.
Tatum: YOGI BERRA!
Miss Deverich: Yogi? Why, it's a sort of religion, isn't it?
Tatum: You bet it is - a belief in the New York Yankees. You know what's wrong with New Mexico, Mr. Wendell? Too much outdoors. Give me those eight spindly trees in front of Rockefeller Center any day. That's enough outdoors for me. No subways smelling sweet-sour. What do you use for noise around here? No beautiful roar from eight million ants - fighting, cursing, loving. No shows. No South Pacific. No chic little dames across a crowded bar. And worst of all, Herbie. No 80th floor to jump from when you feel like it.
Herbie: Is this one of your long-playing records, Chuck? Let's hear the other side.
Tatum: All right. I'll play it for ya. When I came here, I thought this was gonna be a 30-day stretch, maybe 60. Now it's a year. It looks like a life sentence. Where is it? Where's the loaf of bread with a file in it? Where's that big story to get me outta here? One year, and what's our hot news? A soapbox derby. A tornado - that double-crossed us and went to Texas. An old goof who said he was the real Jesse James - until they found out he was a chicken thief from Gallup by the name of, uh, Schimmelmacher. I'm stuck here, fans. Stuck for good.