Is man’s favorite sport legal blondes? One movie, one play

Howard Hawks has done some wonderful rom-coms including Bringing up Baby and Ball of Fire. MAN’S FAVORITE SPORT (1964) is not one of them, though it has many of the elements of Bringing Up Baby, with the male lead (Rock Hudson) put through the wringer by the good bad girl Abigail (Paula Prentiss) before finally realizing she’s more than the most obnoxious, most irritating woman he’s ever met.

Roger is a legendary fishing guru working for Abercrombie and Fitch (apparently back then they were a sporting goods store rather than clothing). Abigail’s running PR for an upcoming fishing tournament and convinces Roger’s boss (John McIver) that Roger competing would be a publicity windfall for everyone.

Too bad Roger can’t actually fish: he learned by listening to fishermen talk, then sharing what they say with his customers, eventually compiled it into a book … but he has no skills. Fortunately Abigail knows fishing; she can teach Roger, but can she teach him enough? And will they kill each other before the training is over?

Hawks wanted Cary Grant for the lead role but didn’t get him (though Grant, while still elegant, was 60 — I think that would have been a stretch even for a movie May-September romance). Hudson was a logical choice, having starred in a couple of rom-coms (Pillow Talk, Lover Come Back) but he doesn’t work as Roger. In one of the early scenes — Abigail parks her car in Roger’s sport, he tries to move it, hilarity ensues — I can imagine Grant’s deadpan frustration as he struggles to cope. Hudson can’t pull it off. On the plus side the supporting cast are fun and legendary costume designer Edith Head decks out the women in some great outfits. “Does a man who sells canaries have to know how to fly?”

Now, the play: my brother has twice appeared in the musical LEGALLY BLONDE (yes, based on the Reese Witherspoon film) as the lecherous professor who recruits Elle Woods for his murder-case team simply because he’s hot for her. Wanting something light and fluffy I streamed one of the productions (he sent me a link) last weekend and enjoyed the story of how blonde sorority girl Elle Woods (“Whoever said tangerine is the new pink was seriously disturbed.”) crashes Harvard Law to prove to her ex-boyfriend she’s not some bimbo, then discovers to her surprise that she’s not some bimbo. A fun, light-hearted show, which is what I needed.“The Irish fear nothing and no-one/They keep fighting till everyone’s dead/I’m not sure where this metaphor’s going/But I feel that it needs to be said.”

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Not much writing done this week, but I anticipated that

Thursday I only worked a half-day because the housekeepers were here. Sitting in the spare bedroom with all the pets to keep them out of the way (and make sure Snowdrop and Wisp don’t run out) does not inspire creative work. For the first time in a few months, they showed up late enough I could have made a full work day out of it; by the time I realized that I’d turned my brain off.

And Tuesday I took one of my days off to devote to TYG and my “death document” — instructions about our finances, ordering dog drugs, when to give dog drugs, plans for our bodies. Because contrary to this Nick Cardy cover, death can come at any time. We’d like to be as much help to each other as we can.

I’ve been slack about updating the stuff I know but it turns out not much has changed since the last time I checked — Trixie has one added med, little things like that. Still it’s good to keep everything current and good to know that it is.

With Friday devoted to stuff like blogging and catching up on email, that left two days. I got another chunk of Savage Adventures rewritten, though not as much as I’d like. Then I had my work for The Local Reporter: a story on the snowfall and how local towns dealt with it (not up yet), one on how Carrboro is scoring its performance and one on what the former Chapel Hill Weekly was reporting when it started publishing in 1923 (“On the whole, Chapel Hill is ultra-conservative in the matter of hats.”).

As I mentioned a while back, they recently lost one of their government reporters so I’m doing more work. Which is good — more money — but it’s frustrating how much work I have to do to find enough stuff to write about (it consumes a surprising amount of time). The reporting and writing is relatively simple. But such is life.

I anticipate being way more productive next week.

One thing that did surprise me about this week — this blog has racked up 1,500 views the past two days. While there are times I can explain a rush in traffic, like my posts about Taylor Swift a couple of years back, I have no idea what triggered it. None of my specific posts have received a huge hit either. I’m not complaining of course and if any of y’all are reading this, thanks for visiting.

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Why yes, we did get snowed in again

As I mentioned a week ago, they predicted heavy snow last weekend. Given how mild the previous weekend was compared to what was predicted, we wondered if it would be true … it was.

The footprints were visible.

It was much nicer than the week before. Prettier than the ice/snow mix, and fluffy snow is easier to walk on. A couple of days of subzero temperature would have made it a lot nastier but the temperatures rose fast enough to counter that. Despite warnings of possible ice/snow mix hitting Wednesday, we’re 90 percent out of the woods.

Plushie, by the way, absolutely loved it. Take a look.

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Patriarchy and misogyny warp everything

As I’ve blogged about before, the religious right’s worldview is deeply entwined with misogyny and male supremacy. And authoritarian movements everywhere are also anti-woman (I’ve made that point before but I can’t find the link). Women have been part of every resistance movement and freedom movement: not just suffrage but civil rights, gay rights, temperance … and that’s true around the world. And in Minneapolis.

Katherine Stewart points out the flip side: “Throughout history and around the world, male supremacy has supplied the backbone of authoritarian movements. Fascist parties always glorify the virtues of manliness (by which they typically mean some form of brutality) and despise the supposed weakness of womanliness (how they interpret empathy, moderation, and compromise). They always appeal to the resentments of the disempowered, and they promise to dominate the objects of resentment, which for a great many people happen to be sexual in nature.”

But it’s not just practical, it’s emotional. Tariffs are good because they’re manly — they’ll put men back in factories instead of sitting behind a desk (said by people sitting behind desks on Fox News). And if they hurt our pocketbooks, well worrying about that is feminine. “But it’s feeding off a recent trend, fed by predatory social media influencers, that conflates masculinity with punishing self-discipline, the kind that rejects all pleasure and comfort as a feminizing — and thereby evil — force.”

The same point has been made (I don’t have the link) about the desire to bring back factory labor: it’s partly the fantasy that if we have lots of men working manly jobs with good incomes (note: I do not believe for a minute we’d get the equivalent of 1950s breadwinner wages if the factories came back) women would happily quit their jobs and become tradwives. They’d give their eyeteeth to push women back into that role; James Taranto of the Wall Street Journal thinks to make it happen we have to give employers the right to discriminate against women.

Or consider the $50,000 signing bonuses for ICE recruits: “Firing and demoralizing feminized jobs as enemies of the state while brazenly bribing men with violent jobs that almost instantly puts them into the middle of middle class is very basic gendered warfare. Fulfilling the manosphere’s promise.” As is their whole recruiting tone: “ICE is a force of men who have felt small and have now been empowered by an administration that tells them they’re manliest of men, hands them guns and tactical gear, gives them precious little training, explicitly tells them they will be held to virtually no legal or moral standards, and sets them loose on a public it has warned is full of not just criminal illegal immigrants, but un-American subhumans, among the worst of whom are AWFULs: Affluent White Female Urban Liberals.”

Or consider Pete Hegseth, hating the Boy Scouts because now they let girls join.

While I rarely agree with Glenn Greenwald about anything, I think his assessment of Matt Walsh is spot on. And it applies to Hegseth and multiple other misogynists.

Then there’s the new catchphrase, “toxic empathy.” As I’ve said before, “compassion is a weakness” is not a phrase the good guys ever use. However empathy for people like Alex Pretti, Rebecca Good and every other victim in Minneapolis gets in the way of fascism and theocracy. Therefore empathy must be destroyed. And because, according to Allie Beth Stuckey and other right-wingers, empathy is girly. “That compassion is weak and cruelty is strong has become an article of MAGA faith.” Here’s an earlier post of mine discussing fears women must be controlled because they’re too nice to be in charge.

Religious writer Rick Pidcock says it should be simple: “When men witness women being harmed, the choice appears straightforward: Do we protect them, or do we justify the violent power being exercised over them? Do we care for them or control them? For many men of the Religious Right, the answer is not clear.” As Jasmine Crockett puts it, “Now my colleagues want to be the protectors of girls & women. I didn’t hear them screaming this when Renee Good was killed in the middle of the street by the same people the vast majority of you just voted to give more money to. It was a lot of crickets, including about the Esptein files”

Even for right-wingers and patriarchalists,, empathy isn’t always bad. We’re supposed to feel “himpathy” for 90 percent of rapists, for how this could ruin their career or their chance at a college scholarship. For how unfair it would be if Brett Kavanaugh had to settle for a lifetime federal judgeship and lost out on SCOTUS because of a rape attempt or two. Etcetera, etcetera (I’ve got posts on this stuff but no time to link to them today). We’re supposed to sympathize with the poor men petrified that Me Too means they’ll be slapped with a sexual harassment suit if they say one thing wrong and not with the women relieved there might be less harassment. Right-wing jackass Riley Gaines thinks we should have empathy for the heroic ICE agents not for Alex Pretti or Renee Good.

I doubt I’ll live to see the end of the struggle but it’s still worth fighting.

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Southern Discomfort: how about a cover-copy reveal?

As my cover artist is getting closer to the final draft, I’m starting to think about promotion.

A lot of the recommended steps aren’t doable. Local bookstores don’t promote books printed through Amazon (I checked) and I’ve had little luck with book review sites in the past. Cover copy, however, is entirely in my control.

My original plan was to do it third person. However I’ve noticed a fair number of fantasy novels go with first-person so I tried it. The results:

Travel back to Georgia in 1973, as Lt. Maria Esposito experiences — Southern Discomfort.
“For the past three years I’ve been a wanted fugitive, constantly on the run, never letting anyone get close. Now torrential floods have trapped me in tiny Pharisee Georgia, where the FBI is investigating a terrorist bombing. My only hope is to keep a low profile until the rain ends.
That makes it a bad scene when the victim’s widow, an unearthly beauty named Olwen McAlister, declares I’m the one person who can bring the killer to justice. The sheriff takes her “visions” about me seriously; if I don’t answer yes to her request for help, I’m in trouble.
I should have said no. Suddenly I’m the target of hostile ravens, a homicidal horse, and a living shadow warning me to leave town or die. Cats everywhere are yowling with rage. I’m seeing things my Grandma Sophia would have called malocchia, evil magic. They can’t be — magic isn’t real — but I have no other explanation.
If I stick around either the shadow kills me or the FBI sends me to prison for life. Trouble is, something bad is coming down the pike; if I don’t stay to fight it, lots of innocent people will die.
I don’t give a damn. I can’t afford to give a damn. That’s what I keep telling myself.
I have a sinking feeling I’m not going to listen.”
Southern Discomfort is a standalone intrusion/urban/Southern fantasy novel. It includes multiple POV characters, several woman protagonists and multiple POC. The spaniel lives. The villain does kill a cat. It will appeal to fans of Alex Bledsoe, Tom Dietz, Luanne Bennett and Charles DeLint’s Jack the Giant Killer.

The pluses: it centers my main character and gets inside her head. I think it’s a good hook (yes, I’m obviously biased).

The negative: nobody can tell the book is about elves in Georgia, though my choice of comps in the last paragraph should tip people off. However I tried writing a version that focused more on the big-picture, the premise, the overall plot … it wasn’t gripping. Writing from Maria’s POV gives it much more emotion and (I think) makes it more engaging.

Before too long, I hope to find out if I’m right.

Cover (t) by Samantha Collins. I don’t know the second artist. All rights to images remain with current holders.

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Undead specfic cliche: magic has no rules

Some years back, the Mighty God King blog made a series of blog posts on his ideas for writing Dr. Strange. They’re excellent and I wish he’d taken them and turned them into something of his own (only a few of them are Marvel Universe-dependent).

One of his early posts argued that a Dr. Strange series could be “House with wizards” in the sense of it being about Strange and his apprentices. I can’t say that one grabs me but that’s not the point of my post. In the comments one of (I gather) the regular commenters sounded off that he wasn’t interested in Dr. Strange because “there really is no way to define what magic’s physical limitations are and as such, its difficult to say what is and what isn’t believable for the character and any conflict he’s placed in … a character who simply ‘wields magic’ by itself, like Doctor Strange, is doomed to inevitable cases of Deus Ex Machina.”

This is nonsense but it’s an enduring nonsense among people who don’t like fantasy. Isaac Asimov asserted once that by definition, magic has no limits — it it does, then it’s just an alternate form of science. Closely affiliated is the view that this makes fantasy inferior to science-fiction — SF is bound by the rules of science, fantasy writer have no rules. It’s sloppy, easy, unlike the thoughtful rigor of science fiction (or in the case of that commenter, science-based superheroes).

First off, while it’s possible to write magic as some sort of super-science “magic with rules” isn’t the alternative. The difference between magic and science is that science works independently of who uses it; magic is selective. As Dr. Strange once put it fighting a villain who’d stolen his amulet, the Eye of Agamotto, the Eye isn’t a gun; you don’t control it simply because you’re holding it. Controlling it requires understanding the magic — and Stephen Strange understands much more than his foe. Likewise Lisa Goldstein pointed out that summoning light with magic requires understanding and wisdom; any idiot can flip a light switch.

So the commenter’s argument that magic can’t be defined or limited is bullshit. In the particular case of Dr. Strange it’s even more bullshit: Dr. Strange in the original Lee/Ditko run never wins by deus ex machina, he wins by sheer determination or by bluffing or outwitting his foe. There’s no clear statement as to his specific powers but it never feels like Ditko (who’s supposed to have been the lead creator of the two) is making it up as he goes along.

It’s true magic can be used as a get-together but so can science. In Spidey’s first battle with the Vulture, Peter Parker simply deduces the Vulture’s flight technology and then builds a gadget that nullifies it. Now it’s true Peter uses his scientific genius but pulling out a power-stealing gadget is just as much a fudge as pulling out some heretofore unknown piece of magic would be.

Magic can be badly used. Stephen Gerber in his Defenders run had some powerful mystical moments but he could also be hand-wavey in terms of Doc’s actual power levels. But it isn’t inherent in writing magic. Some mages have specific rules, some are implied; what matters, as Brandon Sanderson said, is that the writer not pull a deus ex machina. “An author’s ability to solve conflict with magic is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic.” If you establish that Dr. Strange or Dr. Fate or Harry Potter can shrink in size, it’s cool to use that at the climax. If you pull it out of your butt without any set up, that’s bad writing.

I doubt anything I’ve said would convince the commenter. But then, I think they’re completely wrong, whether I convince them or not.

Art by Frank Brunner (top), then Ditko. All rights to images remain with current holders.

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Starting the week with bad ideas (anti-vax and AI)

CBS news top-kick Bari Weiss is all in on the RFK Jr. Kill Medical Science Campaign, hiring Dr. Mark Hyman who claims “that cod liver oil can treat autism and that conditions like Alzheimer’s and dementia can be reversed with the kind of nutritional supplements he also sells on his online store.”

Kennedy continues staffing key committees with reliably wrong anti-vaxxers. The Felon of the United States is down with this.

Fla. Governor Ron DeSantis has been all in on anti-vax since he saw which way the wind was blowing. His wife (and possible gubernatorial candidate) Casey DeSantis is outraged some parents are judged for being anti-vax. What a surprise.

Apparently it’s not enough to promote anti-vax ideas — Texas AG and senatorial candidate Ken Paxton is investigating “whether pediatricians, insurers, and vaccine makers engaged in deceptive behavior by allegedly failing to disclose financial incentives tied to vaccinating children.” Spoiler: there are no incentives and there’d be more profits in treating sick kids. Shakezula on this: “No one knows the details of civil investigative demands Paxton claims his office sent, or who received them. It is possible that no letters have or will be sent. That way Paxton can shout about the conspiracy of silence around the bribes pediatricians are taking. If he is lucky more parents will refuse to have their children immunized or stop taking their children to the doctor at all. Some children might die and Paxton will be able to get an erection.”

Vaccine makers are already looking at vaccine trials as not worth the effort any more. Others are grumbling but seem reluctant to fight Kennedy on this. But hey, according to our glorious leaders, losing our Measles Eliminated Status is no big deal.

Infuriatingly, anti-vax propaganda is also killing pets.

There’s lots of studies showing covid vaccines saved lives. It’s one of the Toddler’s few good accomplishments, certainly his only great one. But his cultists want him anti-vax so he’s now asking where the proof of success is?

Sen. Bill Cassidy supported Kennedy, even though as a doctor Cassidy should have known he’s full of shit. If it was a careful political move to win the Felon’s support — oops. I know whoever the Felon supports will be awful, but it’s nice to see a sell-out like Cassidy get shivved.

Just to prove these attitudes didn’t come from nothing, we have Republican Michelle Bachmann 13 years ago explaining we could cure Alzheimer’s in a decade except for big government.

Some thoughts on this from BlueSky: “It’s why I’ve become way less tolerant/more of an asshole about woo woo shit lately I think, other than it’s obvious capacity to hurt people if taken seriously that we’re now seeing, there’s definitely some incipient fascism in “the secrets of the soil have revealed themselves to the worthy.’ ‘We don’t need complicated, possibly corrupt systems of formal sense-making, rather than those with right aptitude will simply Know” seems harmless when it’s like, just astrology or something but there’s a lot of violence implicitly contained in that worldview if you take it seriously”

Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins claims you can have an incredibly healthy diet on just $3/meal.

“The U.S. consumer product safety agency will stop collecting data on injuries from incidents like car accidents and adverse drug effects due to staff cuts at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, according to an agency email seen by Reuters and a source familiar with the situation.”

“Three sources said they believe total cuts to nonprofit groups, many providing street-level care to people experiencing addiction, homelessness and mental illness, could reach roughly $2 billion.” But hey, they can just $3 meals and get strong!

Anti-vaxxers love talking about Big Pharma but Big Wellness is also a business and a less ethical one. With products that are big on bullshit. There’s also money to be made in wearable medical devices, hence the FDA abandoning oversight.

AI needs lots and lots of power, so the Necrotic Toddler is softening the regulations for building nuclear power plants. As Cheryl Rofer explains, “the DOE has loosened up safety, security, and environmental restrictions so that the new reactor developers can move faster. And maybe break things. Most of the new reactor companies are tied to Silicon Valley, after all.” But hey, it’s unlikely anyone will hold Sam Altman or Marc Andreysson legally liable if there’s a catastrophic island so what do they have to lose?

Plus when these power-hog, polluting data centers get built, it tends to be where residents are poor and black.

A while back, a friend of mine predicted that AI would end up learning by studying other AI — and lo and behold.

Lenovo’s Yang Yuanqing claims AI “will be the trend that you cannot avoid,” even if you don’t want Silicon Valley inserting into everything. Corey Doctorow has some thoughts. Or as Lydia Kiesling puts it, “you know the drill. Don’t talk to Chat. Mourn the dead blogs. Fight like hell for the living.”

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Graphic novels and a graphic artist: books read

You may remember when I looked back at 2025, I was displeased by how fewer comic books than usual I’d read. As you can see, I’m workign to up my game for 2026.

THE FAFHRD AND THE GRAY MOUSER OMNIBUS reprints the Bronze Age DC series Sword of Sorcery by Denny O’Neil and Mike Mignola and Marvel’s series from two decades later with Chaykin writing and Mike Mignola’s art. In the introduction, Chaykin tells how he worked on the DC series with no idea of what he was doing and little familiarity with Fritz Leiber’s characters, whom he later came to love (he describes them as fantasy hardboiled-crime stories and I think there’s some truth to that). For that reason he jumped at the chance to get a second shot.

I remember passing this up at the time, possibly because money was tight, possibly because I didn’t trust Chaykin to do it better. It’s excellent, with a much better sense of character and of the world, and Mignola’s art is perfect in its grotesque style. The only story that doesn’t quite work is “Lean Times in Lankhmar,” an amusing one in which the lack of any adventures or treasure to steal forces the two swashbucklers to get day jobs. It’s one where Leiber’s narration is really needed to carry off the humor.

As the Chaykin/Mignola stories include “The Price of Pain-Ease” a sequel to the heroes first encounter (in “Ill Met in Lankhmar”), I reread the first Sword of Sorcery story, which tackles the same material. In the context of the original series, this is a downbeat one that has the guys dealing with, and overcoming, their grief for their murdered first love. That carries over in the Marvel story but O’Neil’s script for some reason makes it a straight swashbuckler with no emotional heft. And he way overwrites the dialog — Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser can’t seem to do anything without quipping about how amazing what they’re doing is. Still, most of the book is made up of the early series and that’s very good indeed.

MURDERBURG by Carol Lay is a comedy set in Muderburg, a Maine coastal town whose mayor, Leo Scazzi, is a professional hit man and most of the town seems to be underworld adjacent (providing fake IDs, disposing corpses). Over the course of several stories, Leo and his beloved wife Antonia deal with unwanted visitors, rivalries with the neighboring town, people trying to bump one of the Scazzis off and similar trouble. This was a lot of fun; if Lay wasn’t influenced by The Addams Family I’ll be surprised (the lead couple have very much a Gomez/Morticia vibe).

Al Ewing and Steve Lieber do an absolutely amazing job with the six-issue METAMORPHO, THE ELEMENT MAN — not simply reviving the Bob Haney/Ramona Fradon creation from the Silver Age but recreating the madcap style of the original, with some updated details (AI, Sapphire as a social media pop star) and cameos from multiple later iterations such as Element Dog and the New 52’s Element Woman. It’s incredible fun, though as I discuss over at Atomic Junk Shop it’s the fourth version of Metamorpho in the past decade and it bugs me there’s no continuity between them.

ALPHONSE MUCHA: The Artist and His Masterpieces by Terasa Barnard is a coffee table book devoted to the Czech art deco painter/sculptor/glass-worker, lavishly illustrated as such books are and covering his life as well. Mucha was a passionate supporter of the Slavic revival of his day (a movement I’m not familiar with) which explains things like him designing currency for the new nation of Czechoslovakia. As a fan of Mucha’s work I enjoyed this, though some of the Slavic figures and stories he’s working with are unknown to me.

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Deadly bees, silent kids and Christmas: movies and a play

I’m a fan of H.F. Heard’s novel A Taste of Honey, and a few years back watched the Boris Karloff TV adaptation, The Sting of Death. When I discovered Britain’s Amicus Films had adapted it into THE DEADLY BEES (1967) I couldn’t resist — though I can’t say that was a great use of my viewing time.

Suzanna Leigh plays Vicki, a singer burned out from overwork, though we do get a couple of pop songs before she collapses (as I know from Amicus Horrors, the studio started out doing rock-and-roll films). Recuperating on an isolated rural island (just typing those words seems to conjure ominous background music) where there’s a rivalry between her beekeeeping host, Doleman (Ralph Hargrove) and fellow apiarist Manfred (Frank Finlay). And as the movie progresses, a surprising number of people drop dead of bee stings …

All of which is rendered at a slow, plodding pace; I suspect the film added the opening (a couple of defense officials discussing some crackpot’s ridiculous claim he can weaponize bees) because otherwise it would take too long for us to learn what the film’s about. This also suffers from the lack of Mr. Mycroft, Heard’s Holmes-by-another-name figure. Still, I’m surprised nobody used this property a few years later, when America was consumed by fears of South American killer bees. “The scent of fear? I always thought that was just a phrase.”

GOOD MORNING (1959) is a slice-of-life dramedy from Japanese director Yasujiro Ozo, looking at the goings on in a small Japanese neighborhood. Housewives worry one of them has walked off with the homeowner’s assocation dues (or something equivalent), a salaryman bemoans his miserable retirement and two brothers vow never to speak until their parents by them a TV (a variation of a plotline in Ozo’s silent film I Was Born, But). This is quite charming, though I didn’t realize how much fart humor there is in it (the special features clued me in) — the beeps Ozo uses to stand in for farts didn’t register as such, partly because I was focused on subtitles more than sounds. “Do you still eat pumice stones?”

I’m not a fan of A CHRISTMAS STORY — THE MUSICAL (I caught a TV adaptation some years back) but as my brother was in one production I watched the recording of one of his performances as Ralphie’s dad. He does as well as anyone can who isn’t Darren McGavin but the stage version is still too, well, cute.

While the movie is hardly Eugene O’Neil, the family have their rough edges. Ralphie gets his buddy Schwartz in trouble by claiming he taught Ralphie the f-bomb; Mom apparently busts the legendary leg-lamp because she hates how tacky it is. The stage version sands them off, like George Lucas insisting Greedo shot first. Here, Ralphie’s brother breaks the lamp and Mom covers for him; a big part of the ending is a song about family and how any Christmas Story that has them all together is a happy story (the songs, in general, are forgettable). Though the cast were all good in their roles. “They were so far down the evolutionary chain, they weren’t even in Darwin’s family tree!”

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On the plus side, we didn’t lose power.

Which was something we worried about during last weekend’s freeze. The predictions were for heavy ice — literally enough weight to snap power lines — along with snow so we charged up our generator and our small chargers, kept the heat up high so it would take longer to freeze inside if the power died.

It didn’t die, like I said. There was some ice but mostly snow.

That big square near the steps is a tarp TYG laid down so the dogs would have an ice-free spot to walk on. It worked, though Plushie insisted on walking on slippery places as much as possible. With four legs he and Trixie did fine; we had to be a little more cautious.

While the storm itself wasn’t a catastrophe, a week of sub-zero temperatures means the ice still hasn’t thawed. It was off the roads by Wednesday so I was able to get to a dental appointment yesterday and physical rehab today, but we still have to exercise caution when going outside, going to the mailbox, etc. And this weekend we’re anticipating another storm — all snow, probably, so we hopefully won’t lose power. But that means no going anywhere this weekend (I got my shopping done today), nor for the first couple of days after. Frustrating.

As we wrap up the first month of 2026, I feel pleased. I didn’t accomplish all the writing goals I wanted — I didn’t have time this week to finish Oh the Places You’ll Go —but I got most of them. I caught up on saving my Local Reporter stories to my computer and saving my blog posts (I see no reason my blog should suddenly vanish but just in case…). I made slightly over my word count for Impossible Takes a Little Longer and Let No Man Put Asunder. I’m 2/3 through with this draft of Savage Adventures. Because of my one colleague at the Local Reporter leaving, I earned slightly more money this month than usual.

On the downside I let the side down (as the phrase goes) on the dog’s daily exercises. Not completely but with Plushie on longer confined by his cage it’s a lot harder to keep him in one place for particular workouts. Yesterday I was using treats to tempt him into an obstacle course; he decided he’d get up on the couch and sleep instead. As the time for caring for them continually increases, I’ve no idea how I’ll work it out once the snow’s gone and Trixie’s back to full morning walks.

I also blew my GOTV effort for the second month in a row, getting half of the 40 cards I’d agreed to write out. I have to get better next month. I did do a good job with the various household/contractor/vet appointment tasks I dealt with.

As for the week itself, in addition to fiction I got in three Local Reporter stories, one on Chapel Hill changing its land-use ordinance, one on a local volunteer rescue service (not up yet) and a companion story about the technical rescue team (they handle water and missing person rescues). At Atomic Junk Shop I pondered whether too many comics are out of continuity, and Earth-Two comics in the post-WW II years.

And yes, the exercises the PT pro recommended did indeed help with my bursitis. Hope for continued improvement next month. And my dentist said my teeth look great, actually improved over last visit. A pleasant surprise, given that I had to delay this appointment two months (no time during the Watching Jekyll and Hyde finishing marathon) — usually that long without getting my teeth and gums cleaned causes (small and fixable) problems. Yay teeth1

Now, another cold weekend. Still, snow is pretty.

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Filed under Impossible Takes a Little Longer, Nonfiction, Personal, Short Stories, Southern Discomfort, The Dog Ate My Homework, Time management and goals, Writing