Obviously, Fair rules are over. I did not mention that Funeral Trip Rules now apply. If you weren’t around last week, or didn’t care, or landed on this site because someone said “hey, that BuzzFeed piece looks like it lifted lots of stuff from lileks.com,” well, Fair Rules is my half-arsed explanation for half-arsed Bleats, which may or may not be indistinguishable from full-strength entries. During the 10 days of the Fair I am lucky enough to do many things, such as videos - I did nine - and blogs and columns (four) and such, so my enthusiasm for the usual diversions flags and the Bleats suffer. It’s a handy dodge, making up rules and then insisting you understand them.
But Funeral Trip Rules, that’s a new one. To be honest, the funeral was a while ago. Sparsely attended, since she lived in the woods and was a few months shy of a century. In a way the real ceremony was where she might have been delighted to find it: a big long obit in the New York Times. Anyway: She may have died in Massachusetts, but her forebears were from Minnesota, and decades ago bought a plot in a small church boneyard in a small rural town. And so it came to pass that Astrid, her daughter, came to Jasperwood with Peg’s ashes, and we got in the car, and drove to put her in the earth. That will be tomorrow’s account.

Today, however, I have a treat. I have on this site for years unspooled the Peg Lynch story, but there’s another part to this marvelous tale. Astrid King, who’s been writing Peg’s Facebook page and is a wonderful and funny writer herself, is married to a fellow named Denis. I met him on Skype yesterday; delightful man. He’s a musician and compose over in Blighty, and made a transition rare in the industry: from boy-band sensation - the King Brothers! - to acclaimed artist in his own right. This little video, done by a Beeb cameraman who lives in their Village, begins like 13,053 other videos recounting some band of yore, and turns into something quite funny and touching.

Faithful readers of the Bleat, knowing perhaps which actors and artists I hold in particular regard, will note the appearance of a fellow a few minutes in, and yes, of course, that’s him. Friend of Astrid and Denis - one day a copy of his autobiography (second volume) showed up with a nice autograph, a prized possession. His entire riff here is spontaneous. And you will recognize the last man in the video as well, since he’s been in a many a fine movie.

Without additional ado:

Whatever Happened To The King Brothers? from Denis King on Vimeo.

Speaking of the Times: a story on an author had this subhead.

The writer’s new story collection establishes her as one of the greatest chroniclers of humanity’s insignificance.

I’m going to part company right there. Insignificant as compared to what? Mountains? Coastal shelves? Tsunamis, bacteria? The world is full of significant things, and most of them have no consciousness, no volition, no accomplishments. Now. I’m sure the writer’s worthy of the profile, since she’s wrinkled and grinning in the piece, and would no doubt be described by younger acolytes as a bad ass. That’s the highest praise these days, as I’ve noted before, and it usually indicates “a degree of unapologetic aggressive disregard for prevailing norms that’s still within the bounds of propriety.” For example: if the author described above was tooling around the American Southwest in a convertible in the summer in 1965, taking pictures and Not Being Married, that would be badass, but if she had also written several virulent racist tracts on the same journey, she would be stripped of her badassery.

Then she would be a crank.

Odds and Ends this week doesn't have its own banner, because I've been busy. I do wonder how an ad like this impressed the readers, and whether they wondered whether the other readers of these Real Rootin' an/or Tootin' Two-Gun Western Stories might not be overencumbered by female affection.

I trimmed it for the full effect, so "Britishers" seems the lowest a man could sink.

Airline ads could go from slightly sexist, vaguely sexist, very sexist, to incredibly sexist. This is not news to anyone. It was also worked, or they wouldn't have done in. In this case, we have the single entendre, qualified by the text. Somewhat.

1966 style: the turtleneck, hair pulled back and cinched with a cloth. She doesn't look happy about this.

Well, for heaven's sake, tell her. Would it kill you? Would it just kill you?

Never heard of Glamor. It was launched in 1954 in response to No-Cal, a diet soda introduced by a irval the year before. Just as No-Cal came in flavors, so did Glamor - a rare move for Canada Dry, if you ask me. I don't associate anything they make as having any more attributes that carbonation.

That's like "GPS Quiet," isn't it?

I suppose it meant they could use radar to avoid turbulence, not counteract it. But if some people thought the latter, well, couldn't hurt.

Things were a lot more difficult and complex in the days before Ashley Madison.

"Girl, not available as a free gift."

They had standaone stores, and they were nifty indeed:

Nice little modern stand-along structure, suitable for a suburban street. When the road was lined with lots of these buildings, all new, all glass, it must have seemed like a new world of promise, a new way to live.

The kids would turn against it in a generation.

Gentlemen, the taste-tests have come back on our aerosole chocolate pudding, and they're not good. Can we reposition the product in any way?

No-Mess, perhaps, but No-Mousse?

While we still have summer - technically, although no one believes that - let's look at some summer applications for candy, signs for which are apparently available to all for running around the neighborhood looking like a shill:

Lemon drops at the beach! Now with sand coating. More old packages:

Wise choice; kids like the toffee. And they blanch instinctively at hte Jelly Nougats, because that crap could be fruit.

The white ones were the bane of childhood. Hard sometimes; powdery if fresh. Peculiar moist interior. But you'd eat them if there wasn't anything else.

That'll do - some new Frank and his wonderful electrical murder machines await.