I had night court last light, which I generally don't have to do, and generally don't like. Unlike the old TV series, there wasn't a prosecutor there, and I was the only public defender. No John Larroquette, no Markie Post. No big lovable bailiffs. It was actually okay. No Bull.
As a lad, I watched tons of TV. I'd schedule my week around the line-up. Things like presidential funerals and, well, the Olympics were an annoyance to me when I was a kid, because it messed with my schedule. As I got a little older, I welcomed the Olympics. It was a shared experience. Shared with the Country. Shared with my family. The Cold War gave it a special significance. It was IMPORTANT. The Russians stealing a basketball gold from us in the Summer of 1972; The Americans taking the Gold from the Soviets in the 1980 Winter Olympic "Miracle on Ice". Once in awhile, I still count Kazakhstan and Belarus and those other former Soviet Socialist Republics along with Russia to see how we stack up, but the Cold War is over. I don't watch as much TV as I used to, but still enjoy the Olympics... Cold War or not.
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent. It's a time of penitence and self-examination, representing a period of 40 days that Jesus was supposed to have spent in the wilderness examining himself and getting ready for his ministry. If Easter is the dessert- an up-beat culmination of Holy Week, then Lent is the Brussels Sprouts that we have to eat first. Discipline is a tricky subject for me. If I'm the one making the rules, I don't have a problem with it. In December, I completed a Marathon. Even though I wasn't real fast, the training took months, and involved getting out of bed way early to run in the cold, dark mornings before work. I played football from the time I was eight years old until I was 20 years old, and went to practice for hours and worked hard. Oddly, even though nobody made me play football (well, not after I was about 14, anyway), I always held a little something back. I was very fast for a guard, and I probably could have won all the windsprints at the end of practice, but I'd usually only try hard on the first couple of sprints, then "dog it" for the rest. If Coach told us we'd have ten sprints, I'd budget myself so I wouldn't be too tired at the end. I felt that the most unfair thing in the world was when Coach wouldn't tell us how many sprints we had, because I wouldn't know how much to save up for the end. I retrospect, it was very unlikely he was going to kill any of us (though with Coach Kolinski, you couldn't know for sure), but I just couldn't let go and go all-out. Couldn't do it. Wouldn't do it. I was a pretty good football player. No telling how much better I would have been if I would've given it my all. Maybe Lent's like that. Can I learn to accept discipline from anyone or anything else? Maybe. Maybe not.
Lady Di and I went to a masquerade this weekend. Formal wear, masks, good food and ample alcohol. A good time was had by all. I think.
It snowed last night in the Boro. It snowed really, rather a lot. Over the years we've gotten a dusting of snow. Last year we got there was enough snow to make itty, bitty car snowmen, but in the 22 years I've lived in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, I've not seen the likes of this. 
If my mom ever went to France, she never mentioned it. Thus I remained perplexed at her insistence on serving a Nice_Salad with meals. You know, "Well, I guess we can have some pork chops, green beans, and a nice salad". Oh... "nice" with a long "I", not Nice like my brother's daughter. Gotcha. 'Course, I'm not really sure what "nice" adds to the description. Nice as opposed to what? "We can have some pork chops, and maybe a surly salad, because, frankly, I'm feeling rather churlish". Whatever. Diane served up a nice salad the other night. Glad she was in a good mood.
I'm no dancer. I actually took an introduction to shag-dance class at a local community college with my babymamma many moons ago. I, apparently, failed. At the conclusion of the class, Tina asked if we could take intermediate shag. The response: "You can; he can't". Don't get me wrong, I can move fine. My sense of rhythm is appropriate for my socio-economic status, and all (Hmmm... Actually, that may be the problem). Anyhow, my inability to adequately trip the light fantastic does not keep me from watching others dance, cinematically or otherwise. Over the last couple of weeks, NetFlix sent my bride-to-be an international trifecta of dance movies: Billy Elliot, Shall We Dance?, and Dirty Dancing. 
