Good morning, People of Stroock's Books. You know who you are.
We had a pleasant lunch with our dad at Epstein's Kosher Deli in Hartsdale. The best lunch we've had in a while, we estimate. We were reassured. From there we made a quick stop over at Ferncliff to commune with dead relatives. They never commune back. We listened to two more Black Sabbath albums on the way home. It was kind of a slog. But we've made it through the first 6 Black Sabbath albums now. So far Vol 4 and Sabbath Bloody Sabbath seem the best and most interesting.
'I'm drinkin' at Tommy's,' we texted Mrs. Stroock.
'Uh oh,' Mrs. Stroock replied.
That evening we attended a dad's BBQ down the street. This being Chindia there was two white guys in attendance, an Indian, a Vietnamese (it was his house), an African (Ghana), and a right proper Englishman from India via Uganda. Our host kept making a shooter which tasted like sweet whisky. He wouldn't tell us what it was. We're a touch foggy this morning.
The Things.
Sales remain a confusing mystery. Like a woman. Sales are an art, not a science, and we feel like we've just failed art school.
In World War 1990: The Managua Campaign, the Battle of Los Banos is almost written. The MS is 18000 words.
The first 25,000 words of World War 1990: Thatcher's War are looking pretty good. The narrative is set. We've little to ad. We think next week we begin work on the Battle of Derry [Londonderry-Ed]. Shut up, Ed. You're from Liverpool. Heh, and happy July 12th to all you Orangemen out there.
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