The bitterly cold 13° temperatures we experienced last week did not leave us unscathed.

Believe it or not, this flooded cellar was the result of an exterior spigot freezing and cracking. We thought we had the spigot well covered with an insulated sleeve, but it was just too damn cold for too damn long.

The spigot froze and snapped entirely off. Instead of flooding the yard, the water rushing out of the pipe shot straight into the still-secured sleeve where it hit a dead end and rebounded into the cellar ventilation. The resulting underground swimming pool did a whole lot of damage to the water heater and furnace.

Thanks to a lot of help from restoration professionals, plumbers, HVAC technicians, and electricians, we're getting close to the other side of it now that the temperature is back to an unseasonable 70°, warm for January even by Georgia standards.

The entire experience has taught me two lessons. One, we should tie the insulation sleeve on much more loosely (a frozen yard is better than a flooded basement). And two, winter sucks.

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I've really fallen off the movie watching pace this year. It looks like I'll only see maybe 140 new-to-me films in 2023, my lowest total since 2016. Let that be a lesson: When you work too hard, there's not enough time to sit on your ass and watch movies. Time to reinvestigate my priorities.

112/2278. Man Hunt (1941)
Walter Pigeon is hunted across England by Nazis because he thought about assassinating Hitler. It gets pretty brutal; the Nazis do not play fair. And to think: This movie was made in America in 1941! (Director Fritz Lang had escaped Nazi Germany, so he had some first-hand experience and an axe to grind, and grind it he did.) The call to action at the end is a bit much, but thumbs up otherwise.

113/2279. Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves (2023)
I've played in my share of Dungeons and Dragons campaigns, and I can attest that this movie gets it all right: wisecracking, well-intentioned but marginally competent (and greedy) heroes make for a crackling good time. It made me want to get together with friends and start a new campaign.

114/2280. The Flash (2023)
I covered the key aspects of this piece of trash back in September. To reiterate: it's bad; don't watch it. (On my first attempt, I made it to the 8 minute mark before I couldn't take it anymore and had to bail. A friend convinced me to try again, starting at 1 hour, when Michael Keaton arrives. I did as he said, and I was left with bile in my mouth as I watched Keaton parody himself for a big paycheck. Poor guy. Maybe Birdman was more autobiographical than I would have previously believed. The real sin here: never remind your audience they could be watching other, better movies.)

115/2281. Summer of '42 (1971)
What I didn't like about this enjoyably bittersweet coming-of-age story was the dialogue between the three friends. I was that age once, and I'm sure my friends and A) had a much better grasp of sex B) didn't sound like egghead playwrights. Very distracting in what was otherwise a very naturalistic setting.

"In '42, we were thirsty... for love."

116/2282. A Zest for Death: A Hannah Swensen Mystery (2023)
I'm glad that Hallmark has resumed their Hannah "The Baker" Swensen mystery series. I enjoy them in large part because I enjoy using their established formulas to resolve which of the newly introduced characters has to be the murderer, no matter how improbable the story would want you to think it is. In other words: dumb puzzle movie make Walter feel smart. Hooray!

More to come.

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From the Old Soldiers Never Die Department:

Peacemaker Tries Hard #4, October 2023

Now that he's palling around with General Immortus, Johnny Blackhawk, and The Red Bee, Peacemaker just might be the youngest person in his own title. He's no spring chicken himself; his father was a Nazi concentration camp commandant. Or at least he used to be. Comic books have a tendency to play fast and loose with established character biographies.

Speaking of which, flashbacks in this issue definitively detail the Red Bee's time as a special agent American Mystery Man actively fighting the Axis powers (and their terrible "War Wheel") in the European theater of World War II.

But wait! Everyone knows Red Bee died on February 23, 1942, on Earth-X (as graphically revealed in 1984's All-Star Squadron #35). What this story presupposes is... maybe he didn't?

Comic books being what they are, it would seem that Red Bee recovered from being dead — maybe health care was better back in the day — and continued his fight for Truth, Justice, and the American Way.

Which is how he ends up with Peacemaker in the Amazon jungle held hostage by the villainous gourmand Snowflame. Good thing Red Bee has another Greatest Generation trope: a sidekick!

A friend in need is a friend, indeed!

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[The Internet ate my original post here, which was a very long complaint about the movie The Flash. I'm not going to try to recreate it. The important takeaways were that that A) it has Batman in it, and B) it sucks.]

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Back in February, an image was posted to Facebook along with the news that high winds had blown the head off the Superman statue in downtown Metropolis, Illinois.

In fact, the Photoshopped image and accompanying story had originally been the April Fools' Day prank for SupermanHomepage.com... in 2017.

But that didn't stop a lot of people thinking it was true. The Metropolis Super Museum had to publicly refute the claim being repeated by "news" sites far and wide. What hope do we have against Deep Fake AIs when people can't even spot amateur use of Photoshop's clone tool?

In any event, we can all rest safe knowing that the statue will still be standing complete when the annual Superman Celebration kicks off this weekend. Better than ever, actually. The big guy just got a new coat of (lighter blue) paint in time for a rededication ceremony at 9AM on Friday.

Take that, high winds!

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In late December, the power in my neighborhood was out for days. In late March and April, it was out for a few hours. As I type this by candlelight, we're on hour 5 of the latest outage.

I don't understand why this keeps happening. If it's trees falling on power lines, why are we allowing any trees to remain near the lines? If it's old transformers, can't we predict failure and start replacing them?

Or maybe the problem is more insidious.

You know who loves it when the neighborhood is dark? Deer!

I'm on to you, you bastards.

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Did everyone have a Merry Christmas? I guess I did, all things considered. I mean, so long as I ignore the fact that the Miami Dolphins collapsed in the second half and lost their 4th straight game, going 0-4 in December and demonstrating that despite some earlier success they are definitively not ready to be a playoff team for the 22nd year in a row. (Annual reminder: their last playoff win was in 2000.)

Yeah, ignoring that and the fact that I badly cut my thumb on the large carving knife while doing the dishes, the rest of the day went pretty well. It was in the wee hours of this morning that I ran into trouble. Or maybe I should say that it was Louis who ran into trouble for us all.

After watching Sunday Night Football go to overtime and spending an hour trying and failing to play online games with Friend James (the trouble seemed to be with his ISP), I noticed at about 1:30 in the morning that something smelled wrong in my room: the faint smell of burning plastic. That's never good.

I began sniffing my way around the darkened house for the cause, starting with the basement. It wasn't coming from my room. It wasn't the furnace which has been running all out for days to combat the 30-year historic cold. It wasn't in my studio where I had been painting finishing veneers earlier in the day. So I moved upstairs where the smell was indeed stronger. I thought maybe it was the Christmas tree lights, but no, they seemed fine. And It wasn't any appliance in the kitchen or anything electronic in Mom's office. I even grabbed a flashlight and checked outside to no avail. What *was* the source of that smell?

When I came back inside, I noticed that the flashlight wasn't a spotlight like it was outside but an illuminated beam, a fuzzy lightsaber. As a former Boy Scout, I quickly recognized this as a Very Bad Sign. The good news is that I could follow the flashlight beam to find the areas of thickening smoke.

The source, as it turns out, was behind the curtains separating the den from the sunroom that Mom uses for crafting. As is usual in the winter, the "sun" room was the coldest in the house, and she has been running an older model portable oil space heater day and night to keep the chill out. At this point, you've probably figured out where this is headed.

Context clues indicate that sometime while I was preoccupied with football or video games, my mischievous puppy, Louis, had taken a break from chewing up my new shoelaces and pajama bottoms to sneak behind the curtain — where he knew he wasn't allowed alone — and knocked over the heater. The sideways heater did not have an automatic shutoff, and worse, on its side it started leaking oil, oil that fortunately smoked before it flamed.

I uncovered the problem in time to prevent any further damage to life, limb, or property. (Sure, the house *smells* like burnt plastic and oil, but at least there's a house to smell.) I think from now on I'm going to have to keep Louis tied to me. And I'm going to recommend that Mom mounts her new space heater (with automatic shutoff!) to the floor!

Post-Christmas crisis averted!

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EPISODE THREE: THE SABOTAGE, PART THREE

Quig tapped the shoulder of the Wolf Pack thug standing in the aisle beside him in the stands. "Excuse me, but I've got to get by you."

"What? Now? Why? Bronson's in the arena, and they trapped that murdering bitch between the floor tiles. The fight's just starting."

"Yes. It's very exciting. Even my bladder is excited."

"What?"

Quig sighed. "I've got to take a piss."

"Why didn't you say so?" The thug finally moved out of his way, and Quig hustled out of the arena into the corridor. It was just as Haze had said; with everyone watching the fight, no one was watching the corridor. Even the thugs who usually stood guard outside the arena control room were gone.

Quig had almost finished setting up his defense drone to cover the hall when Cobryn finally arrived.

"Sorry about that," said Cobryn. "They wouldn't let me out of their sight until I lied about using the restroom."

"Great minds piss alike," Quig said.

"What?"

Quig waved dismissively. "Don't worry about it. Do you have the keycard to the door?"

"Right here. I haven't tested it since I lifted it off that drunk last night. I hope it still works."

"We're about to find out." Quig drew a flashbang grenade from his pocket. "I'm ready when you are."

Cobryn nodded and inserted the pilfered card. The door unlocked and slid open automatically. Reflexively, the two control room operators turned to look and were immediately blinded by the flashbang. Cobryn rushed in and snapped slave manacles around one of the operators' wrists. Quig pointed a laser pistol at the other.

"Lower the floor tiles. Let Sahara out."

"I can't do that."

Quig pressed the laser's barrel against the operator's neck. "Wanna say that again?"

"N-no. But I don't have the controls to the floor. He does," the operator said, indicating his manacled partner.

Quig risked a glance out the booth window into the arena where Bronson appeared to be giving Striker One quite the beating. "We don't have time for this," he said, and brought the butt of the gun down on the operator's head, knocking him unconscious. Cobryn mimicked the action with his own pistol on the head of the manacled man, and Quig moved to look over the control console. As he would have expected in an arena run by idiots, it was pretty self-explanatory. He punched a few buttons and the floor began to lower, freeing Sahara. Not a moment too soon, from the look of it. Striker One was bleeding badly and had fallen to one knee. The crowd had begun chanting for Bronson to kill him.

"Do something," Cobryn urged.

"What?" asked Quig. His mind had gone blank. All he knew at that moment was that he desperately needed to pee.

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EPISODE TWO: THE ASSASSINATION, PART THREE

Sahara watched over Quig's shoulder as the ysoki hacked the elevator controls. She knew a thing or two about computers, but Quigs proficiency was still impressive. He was a useful guy to have around when you needed to take over an entire luxury starliner.

"Success," he chirped. "I now have access to bridge level."

"Great." Sahara opened the box she was holding and dug through the disgusting nabanas within to withdraw a laser pistol and a couple of flash grenades. "Let's pay them a call."

When the elevator door opened onto the bridge, she tossed the grenades. In the ensuing confusion, Striker One grabbed the captain in a bear hug. His loyal crew surrendered without so much as a fight.

"Captain, you have a problem," said Sahara. "Namely, me. You've got a garbage scow full of the filthiest, richest pieces of trash in the solar system. We've come to make them pay for their crimes against humanity. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Wolf Pack gang?"

"The W-wolf Pack? Slavers? Here? We don't w-want any trouble," the captain stuttered.

"Too late for that. But I'm feeling generous today. Keep cooperating with us, and we might let you live." Turning to Quig, she asked, "How are we doing on security?"

Quig looked up from the computer at the captain's station. "I've removed the crew from the white list."

The captain's eyes went wide. "They'll be treated as intruders. They'll be shot on sight!"

Sahara would hate to be that officer in the cargo bay right now. "Maybe this will teach you to program your security droids to be a little less trigger happy against stowaways."

After finishing tying up the bridge crew, Cobryn had moved to the communications array. "I've disabled the ship's transmitters. We're running silent here now."

"Oh! You should see who's in the passenger manifest," Quig chirped. "Especially on Deck A."

Sahara knew he was speaking in code. Eye One's suite must be on Deck A. She nodded. "Fine. Move all the automated security droids to Deck A, then get yourself to engineering."

Next, carefully avoiding the use of Cobryn's name, she directed him, "Go back down to our ship and be ready. When we leave, we'll be in a hurry."

As Quig and Cobryn left the bridge, the captain summoned enough nerve to ask, "What are you going to do with my ship?"

"It's Wolf Pack's ship now, darling. If I was you, I'd be more a little more focused on what you stand to lose personally, if you know what I mean." She cocked an eyebrow at Striker One, and the android gave the captain a not-so-friendly squeeze.

There was nothing to do now except wait for Quig to do his job. In the meantime, Sahara had time for games. Mind games. "Tell me captain, have you ever thought about how much your life is worth? Have you considered how far you're willing to go, what you're willing to do, who you're willing to kill to get what you want? To survive? I have...."

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EPISODE ONE: THE HEIST, PART FOUR

Sahara had thought it was a pretty good plan, so far as suicide missions went. But the time for plans had passed. Now was the time for improvisation.

"Fire," she yelled into the kitchen a split second before the billowing smoke set off the private club's automated fire alarm. Staff, band, and guests alike began running for the exit.

There wasn't a fire, not really. The smoke was coming from a nonlethal gas grenade she had surreptitiously dropped behind a convenient stack of dishes by the kitchen door. Though it hadn't been part of the plan, Sahara had brought the grenade just in case she needed to create a distraction like this to help cover for Striker One. Smuggling it in may have been the hardest part; the gown she'd purchased so as not to be conspicuous in this members-only nightclub didn't have many places to hide a canister grenade.

Of course, dancing with a Wolf Pack thug hadn't been any picnic, either. Sahara looked back at the dance floor to see that her dance partner was headed upstairs, no doubt to check on Naom13. That would never do. Time for another improvisation!

Sahara withdrew her other grenade from its uncomfortable hiding place and hurled it at the foot of the staircase in front of the guard where it went off on impact with a blinding flash. He screamed as he clutched at his eyes, lost his balance, and smashed into a table. Seeing him in pain made Sahara happy.

She ran to his side. "Are you all right?" she asked as she pulled him to his feet. "We've got to get you out of here. The fire is triggering explosions!"

"Y-you're my g-guardian angel," he stammered. Sahara rolled her eyes. If only he knew.

She began guiding him across the smoky dance floor towards the exit. They were just passing the elevator when a bell rang and the door slid open, revealing Cobryn and Quig. The ysoki's cheeks were filled to near bursting, and he clutched a knapsack to his chest with both arms. He grinned toothlessly and freed one hand to give Sahara a little wave. Mission accomplished!

"That sounds like the elevator," said the guard.

Sahara played dumb. "What elevator? Are you hearing things? You might have a concussion."

Silently, she pointed vigorously upstairs. Cobryn took the hint; he drew his pistol as he ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. Sticking to the plan, Quig hustled for the exit and their waiting getaway buggy. Sahara continued leading the guard outside.

Between bleats of the fire alarm came a sudden pop.

"Was that a pistol shot?" asked the guard.

Sahara glanced up and saw that the formerly mirrored manager's office window had become transparent, revealing Cobryn and Striker One, who gave her a thumbs up.

"No," Sahara lied again, this time with a smile. "Now stop worrying. We're going to get away with this."

And they did.

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