Hard Times

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 in 2001.

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.