January is like driving through Mississippi: a rubber-sheet-bending warp of all that is known and holy, drawn out in agonizingly mild annoyance, like a wooden meat tenderizer repeatedly rapped across ...

"Where we're from the birds sing a pretty song, and music is always in the air." Now that's a mood; a succinctly sweet and big-fish idea. Reach Mark Hughes Cobb at mark.cobb@tuscaloosanews.com.