Lame Bleat all around today, and for this I tender my apologies.
As is typical for a Friday, I have almost no enthusiasm for the upcoming weekend. It’s never been a time of R&R; I have that spread out throughout the week. Weekends are usually work plus work I don’t like to do, often involving things at which I am no good, like electricity. I have to replace a light switch, which means cutting power to the house, preferably the block, to ensure I do not meet Reddy on his terms.
I also have to strip some paint that was inexpertly applied to the wall in the tunnel. Fix a leaking something. I should probably look at the bathroom commode, which has been sighing for a few weeks. At first it was the occasional mild sigh, as if it had realized anew what its role in the world really was, and had come to terms with it. But still. Really. Lately it's changed to something stern and intense, as if it's issuing a demand. I have about 24 hours to address it before Wife mentions it, and you always want to get ahead of those things.
Birch got loose tonight. We were walking down the steps after the rain, and i was fixing the leash in my hand, double-wrapping it in case he lunged after a rabbit and my grip was slack. Usually I just lean over and pick it up. Or step on it. Before I could do anything he was off, bolting down the hill, around the corner, disappearing. Dammit. He was gone. I ran to the neighbor's yard, where I found him emerging from a thick mass of low fir bushes. He was happy to see me. I didn't have a normal heart rate for five minutes. Everything about losing a dog came back. I saw it all. Roaming the neighborhood, calling his name, rattling the box of Milk Bones, posters, signs, all of it.
Five years ago, that's what it was, on a day like this - late summer, wet, cloudy, heavy. The world becomes a different place when you're looking for something, adn you cannot find it, and you don't even know where to look. Everything is stony and remote, and oddly false, as if you're aware that the world is nothing but inscrutible facades.
Never shake that ghost-chase. But! That was not this tonight. We had a good walk and the rain returned when we got back to the house, and the lawn drank it in.
I have been watering and watering to no avail, and we get a week of sporadic dousing and the lawn is lurid green again.
The ugly stump-thumb days without the steel frame are about to come to an end.
A few blocks away, the Firehouse project has begun to demolish . . . the firehouse. I learned a while ago that it housed horses when it was first built.
In case you didn't know, the tiny squiggle of forehead hair lets you know it's Lance in the first panel.
Ever consider the rozzers are bluffing you, chap? Nah.
Solution is here.
Here's my question: what if this was the writer's way of slipping in all the musicians he knew?
I mean, one's right, and he was working at the time. The others, for all we know, were real as well.
This year we're counting down the top hits . . . of 1922. Why not?
BECAUSE IT'S GETTING BORING, maybe that's why not
Vernon Dalhart, with Tuck Me to Sleep (In My Old 'Tucky Home)
It's not that this style has become unlistenable and laden with cliches. It's just that no one wants to hear it any more.
We're happy to hear many things from other eras. But this is slow sentimental stuff? No one wants to hear it. Okay, maybe one or two people. Max.
The announcer is trying to make this sound more fun and impressive than it really is.
There: that should do. What surprises await in the World of Miscellany, you ask? Go find out.