This weekend we got in back to back trips to the gym. Machines on Saturday and treadmill on Sunday. Yesterday we felt sore and sinewy, but went anyway. We got in a smooth hour that felt like it went relatively quickly. Were hurting this morning. Good. We no longer feel like a potato from CNN.
What's Russian for filibuster? We apologized to our KGB handler for not submitting anything last week (we explained Mrs. Stroock's medical situation). Vladimir sent his best wishes, which made us feel all glasnosty, and asked if we could send in a piece this week. 'Do you really need to read more about the Filibuster?' we asked. 'Da,' he replied. 'We like your reports on US internal politics.' So more Sinema, Manchin and filibuster it is.
Ten years ago this summer we decided we needed a break and didn't sign up to teach any summer classes at RVCC. Instead we read a ton about post-colonial Africa. Almost daily we swam laps. We really got into the Beach Boys.
Twenty years ago today, we were house hunting in New Jersey. We settled on a rustic farmhouse in Peapack, where Mrs. Stroock's new job was. We vividly remember standing in the kitchen, hemming and hawing about the $1450 monthly rent, (Northern Virginia was still a whole lot cheaper than New Jersey) when the real-estate agent said, 'You know what? Make it $1250.' And thus we had ourselves a deal.
Thirty years ago this summer two Limey one-hit-wonders were all over the radio and MTV. Come on, Gen-X readers, you remember them right? First song:
If you can't figure out what the next song is, well, you're unbelievable. Ohhhhhhhh! WTF!
The lyrics, the guitar riff, the clapping, the ascending bridge keyboard....Everything about this song is awesome.
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