It was a fairly active weekend, by my wintertime standards. Having received a windfall check in the mail, I succumbed to my long-suppressed yearning to replace my gaussed 19” TV with an HDTV. I got a pretty good deal on a 26-incher from Sam’s Club, and I’m stunned by the results. I had the Winter Olympics on most of the rest of the weekend, and I’m not even interested in the Olympics. I was just fascinated by the picture, like a baby crossing his eyes at a Big Bird mobile.
We also had our Viking feast, which is supposed to be a sort of Yule celebration, but got pushed back this year for various reasons. Aside from a few regulars being missing, it was a good time. I brought carefully researched, historically accurate Viking chocolate chip cookies. Not so great on the authenticity side, I’ll admit, but they had the advantage that people actually ate them.
And yes, I made them myself. From scratch. I’m very good with chocolate chip cookies, when I bother.
The big news in the literary world today is the death of mystery writer Dick Francis. Larry Thornberry at The American Spectator provides an appreciation here. It’s so good, I might have to try a Francis book now, despite the fact that I have zero interest in horse racing.
In any case, it sounds like Francis was a stand-up guy, the kind they’re fast running out of in England.
Or galloping out of, in this case.