Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

I know that I’m getting rayther tarsome on the subject, but ol’ Robbo’s bronchial troubles proceed apace.  In addition to the goop that I’m still gagging on, I seem to have pulled just about every muscle in my abdomen through my violent hacking.  And I’m here to tell you that all that wrenching doesn’t make one’s hiatal hernia feel any better, either.  I was so sore this morning that I literally couldn’t sit up in bed, but had to roll sideways to get out.   Bummah.

On a happier note, fellow mackerel snappers may be interested to know that Robbo’s parish really put the knobs on for the Feast of Corpus Christi:  Three priests serving, extra bits added to the full Latin Mass, Palestrina from the schola, a couple visitors who looked like Knights of Malta and a looooong Eucharistic procession round the grounds.  (Fortunately, somebody had thought to set out lots of water bottles, as it was hot as blazes.)  Afterwards, all I could say to Father S (with whom I’m starting to get chummy) was “Wow.  Thank you.”

Speaking of happy, I cooked up some of my breaded rosemary chicken for dins last evening, always a big hit at Port Swiller Manor.  I suppose that I really use too much butter, but I just don’t care.

After dinner, we watched Clash of the Titans.  Regular friends of the decanter will know how Robbo feels in general about remakes, but in this case the original was so pathetically awful that I have no allegiance to it whatsoever.  And the new version proved to be good, solid cheese.   Of course, the inexplicable inclusion of Io (in non-heifer form) as one of Perseus’s sidekicks and the reduction of Andromeda to a strictly ornamental role provoked a storm of protest among my little brood of mythology snobs, but never mind.

Also speaking of happy, although I am not a fan of inter-league play as a rule, especially at American League parks where the purity of the sport is contaminated by the heresy of the designated hitter rule, I must say that I was mighty pleased to see my beloved Nats sweep the Sawx at Fenway.  It is difficult for me to gauge how much genuine respect the Nats are getting these days from the rest of the league, but I at least know that nobody is laughing at us anymore.

Rereading the Flashman Chronicles, I think I’ve finally got George MacDonald Fraser figured out.  All the naughty bits he puts in the stories are mere gratuity designed to get you to buy the books.  (I’ve got to the point where I simply sail right past them, barely skimming.)  What he’s really up to is indulging in an unabashed admiration of the Victorian Era.  What was it Bill Cosby used to say at the beginning of “Fat Albert”?  “If you’re not careful, you just might learn something.”  That seems to me to be the real heart of the matter.  Shabash, huzoor!