Hebrew National chili dogs for supper. Good for what ails ya.
Re-reading the omnibus edition of the first three books of The Dragonriders of Pern (and you really needn't bother with the rest.) They're still fun, but the idea of having a giant telepathically-linked dragon that would be your friend forever and could fly you around and set stuff that annoyed you on fire was a lot more attractive when I was in middle school and grappling with teen angst. Not that I'd turn one down now, but as an adult, all you can think of are the damned vet bills, which must be ginormous. And it probably horks up hairballs the size of VW Beetles.
Incidentally, the panhandler that walked up to my car in the grocery store parking lot today and asked "Ma'am, ma'am! I'm sorry to trouble you, but do you gots a gas can?" made me think "Uh, no. And I didn't have one three weeks ago when you asked me if I had one in the Target parking lot, and I offered to go in and buy you one, but you said you'd rather have the cash and not take up my time, remember?" Three weeks is an awfully long time to be out of gas.
Perfectly cromulent convertible weather here in Indy, BTW, which is a good thing for all those folks zipping around in the single-seater convertibles on the west side of town this month.( I think they're lost, though, 'cause they just keep going in circles.)