Good morning, people of Stroock's Books. The house remains quiet. We haven't even seen the cats yet this morning.
Back-to-back days at the gym now. Yesterday's session went better than Monday's session. One of the trainers stopped us and said our mustache looked good. It did. We shaved it nonetheless.
We'll be crossing the dread Hudson River this afternoon.
Christmas Eve. Let the melancholy set in. We checked blog archives, and see we've done many posts on Christmas and Christmas Eve past. Here we go, written six years ago this morning.
Ah, we're getting sentimental for those Stroock family Christmas sojourns to the Thompson/Thomason ancestral home in Livermore Kentucky, where our mother's parents are buried (see above). Beginning in 2003 the Stroock family gathered at the now fallen Algonquin in Manhattan [So you're going to do this to yourself again -Ed]. We are, Ed. We are. Every damn year. In the end we mourn the passage of time and things gone forever.
DOGE Report: We worked on the Thatcher's War opening chapter, spruced things up a bit. We'll do more today.
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