by Dickens, and Robinson
Crusoe, by Daniel Defoe, were the two books I picked up at one of the local
library during my weekly errands with the girls. For a grand total of $1.00. Both will give me somewhere around
twenty-four hours of escapist entertainment, of the riches kind: the
classics. Can’t wait to get to
them. Maybe in December.
Three-quarters through with 11/22/63 ,
Stephen King’s take on time-travel meets the Kennedy assassination. Lots of good, lots of bad. Can’t wait to write that review. All the best of King and all the worst, what
I enjoyed most and what finally turned me off, are present in this work. I was a veritable King junkie from 1983 to
about 1995 or so. Since then I’ve read
one of his works (Dreamcatcher), and
most of that on the cross-country flight to my honeymoon destination in Napa
Valley
This JFK revisit also made me pick out the Jesse Ventura
book on the subject. Yes, I have no
shame. And, no, I still remain firmly
convinced in the Lone Gunman position, thank you Gerald Posner and Vincent
Bugliosi. But Ventura’s bat-sh*t über-conspiratorial
position reminds me of my youthful idiot phase in the early-90s when Oliver
Stone indoctrinated me into the don’t-trust-anyone-over-30 phase of 60s and 70s
idiocy, priming me up for an admittedly creepy yet fascinating dozen book tour
of the whole 11/22/63 thing. And I like
nostalgia.
Anyway, busy morning with the girls’ final soccer games of
the season in unseasonably cold weather.
Both had losing seasons, both had coaches with a lot of heart. Now we’re turning the house upside down in a
cleaning frenzy, as Little One has two of her friends coming over in two hours
for a sleepover. Welcome to the
tween-light zone, Hopper.
Some much-needed relaxation, maybe, possibly, tomorrow, in
the afternoon, after I serve at my church at noon . Possibly.
Maybe.
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