Alas. I went out to dinner tonight. And that means that valuable Bleat-writing time was spent consuming lamb balls.
Fuselli with lamb balls. Compacted ground lamb portions. It was a sort-of birthday thing with the Giant Swedes and the Crazy Ukes. A nightcap at home, where the Swede and I had an argument. There's nothing like someone commencing a dispute with an assertion you know is wrong. I don't mean "we disagree on the accepted interpretation of that historical event or political statement," but dead, flat-out, absolutely wrong.
When we were talking about the Spider-Man comic where he fights Doc Ock under the Hudson and gets trapped under the piece of machinery, the Swede said John Romita drew it.
Oh, no. My stars and garters no. Spider-Man 23? Romita? C'mon.
So Googling was performed, and I discovered I was wrong: it was Spider-Man 32. "You inverted the numbers," he said, but still, that's not an artist-confusion magnitude error, and he knew it. I found the cover and showed him.
It's Ditko, man.
I thought we'd been through this.
We'll probably argue about it in another ten years.
The restaurant was next to the old John Deere building, which has some marvelous old Louis Sullivanesque carvings around the door.
They didn't need to do any of these things, but they did.
Anyway: It's one AM, and I have other things to write. I am watching Battlestar Galactica, season 2, which I absolutely love, even though it's about the most depressing thing I've ever seen. To counteract that dark vision: the glories of 1961 sleeping fabrics, over at Wards 1961!
See you in the usual places - hit the Strib Site for the Friday column, and the Lunch blog, and there will be Lint around noon or so.
Next week? If all goes well: the Novel.