Oh by the way, folks,
Today we celebrate the birthday of Joseph Conrad, born in 1857. He was a novelist.
Yesterday was sorta cold and mostly half-way rainy. Not too awful cold, though. I didn't see any politicians with their hands in their own pockets.
And then in the afternoon we did the Maryland Food Bank food giveaway inside the parish hall instead of on the front portico. Good choice! It was sorta nasty outside.
And so today nothing's gonna happen until evening when there's gonna be another church pot luck dinner. I think the presento is gonna be one of those stale things about what sorta mystic vibes we're supposed to derive from hallucinating the mythical birthday of the earth-bound portion of our imaginary three-headed sky-zombie.
Signs of life