A day of lies. Lies, I tell you! The temperature was in the lower 30s, but it still felt ridiculous. I wore my new parka, because it has a warm hood. This risks Hood Hair, of course - that static mess you get when you remove it, and your hair einsteins up in a ridiculous manner. No way around it, except to gell one’s locks before heading out. I do not use Gel.

But I do use Pomade. The reasons have everything to do with the shortage of stylists in the neighborhood. The local hair salon stopped opening one day a week because they couldn’t get help. You know, supply chain issues. Shrug. What’re gonna do? Get in a time machine? So I stopped thinking about that place, and started thinking about the salon in my building. It’s a bit more expensive, but I always have the same stylist, a Harley-Quinn type with two-tone locks and a great store of pop-culture chatter, so we talk. It’s fun. But they don’t have the noggin paste I used to get at the local salon. So the other day at Target - on the monthly visit, which used to be the weekly visit - I got some stuff because, and get this, Daughter was pitching for the advertising account. Long story, to be told later.

It’s not the paste, and it’s not a gel. It’s in-between. So you put it on your fingers and lightly pat, and hope you don’t look like a smarmy lounge singer from the shiny-hair days. This prevents Hood Hair.

So there’s that. Not that there’s anyone at the office to point and laugh, even though they wouldn’t. There were a few more people than usual, it being Pretend Tuesday. I did the morning column, then did some research, added some photos to an architecture piece coming out next week, wrote the top of another column, and had some cajun chicken fragments doused in jalapeño Cholula. What it lacked in flavor it made up for in excessive flavor. Then I went to the gym because I have made a promise to myself and I cannot break it, no matter how much I have tired of the whole personal-improvement kick.

And I have tired of it. I suppose everyone has these periods, these troughs. The rewards are now scant, since I’m pretty much looking the way I look. Follow me for more tautological workout tips! I’m thumping on the treadmill more. My core is pretty solid. So yay me. Thing is, I know that while I may enter with a bit of boredom and resignation, I feel 67% better when I leave. So I do it.

Then I went home and got my wife’s car and filled up the tires. The front two were low, according to the sensors. Cold weather does that. I psssshted them and did the expert analysis of the proper pressure - you know, the knuckle to the rubber - then left. Whereupon another sensor said the LEFT RR TIRE WAS LOW. I took RR to mean ReaR, there not being many other options, and went back to refill it. Then a short nap in which I dreamed I was giving a speech with Ronald Reagan; it went well, and afterwards we went out back of the hall and had a cigarette.

Don’t expect a Dream Compendium picture of that, because the program refuses to recreate Ronald Reagan. It will do cigarette ads, though. Believe me, next year’s AI Peculiarities is going to be fun.

Speaking of next year:

I don't want to sound as if I am complaining. I mean, I am, but who wants to sound like it?

It has to do with this:

We can reconstruct a lot from this, and if you've been a constant visitor to the Bleat over the years since the Main Streets feature began (and what an inventive name I chose, no?) you know there was possibly a big bay, or at least a big window in the ruined space. It's an image of decay and neglect. But that's not what I am complaining talking about here.


It's this.

Open up 2 - Product 2025, and you get . . .

  Good news and bad! Looks like there's lots of material for 1910 products, but nothing in the folder is marked with a yellow dot, just a grey dot. The latter means it's been resized and numbered. The former means it's written. I can see at a glance where I'm light.

In other words, nothing is written for 2025. I'm just starting.

It seems like a lot of work.




It’s 1922.

The killer they called British Bill was certainly a busy lad:

It’s an incoherent layout to modern eyes. The open column should be the one to which the headline refers. The only open column is a picture of Pierce Butler, St. Paul Solon.

  Social news of import: Miss Lizzie Scott, who holds an important position, married Joseph Jones, who is also a man of accomplishment. I don’t know what a checkman is. The dictionary says its a man who operates a check valve, but it seems unlikely the Senate cafeteria hired someone for that specific job. Manning the hat-and-cane counter, perhaps? Something in accounting?
  So it’s this one. The story says they were all brutally beaten. Another paper says they were poisoned. Bun Burchfield, husband of one of the victims, was arrested, and thereafter disappears from the newspapers.com archive.

A speedy trial and speedier hanging was probably the case. But why was this twinned with the Tiernan case "Mad Romance"?

I did a search on Tiernan, and saw this:


Ah, the Tiernan-Poulin Paternity case.

Now we have a scandal.


Another paper, the Orlando Sentinel, in October:

"Prof. John Tiernan of Notre Dame as his Wife, Who Revealed her 'Love ' CHild and Seeks Revenge on the Affinity who Jilted Her."

The Affinity.

The headline is confusing to us, because we’re not following British paternity cases. These were two different situations, and the British court decision has nothing to do with Tiernan. The story:

  But this was already in the news, since a feature like this would want to capitalize on things already in the public eye.

So let’s search back to the previous month . . . well, they were abuzz about it in Des Moines.

Still wondering why this is news.

We now return to our current paper. And then:


What’s she on about, then?

  These people make me feel exhausted from the distance of an entire century.

This is interesting. Not the comic, but something else.

It’s a standard Briggs-style Mr. & Mrs. number, by Jean Knott. Our poker portrait artist.

But you haven't met him yet, have you. When I first wrote this entry I thought we'd be all done with him, and now he's pushed off to 2025.

Trust me, you're not missing much.

And here’s an interesting one. Broadly drawn.

Artist . . . Barney Google?


It was Billy DeBeck, who created Barney Google. He signed Bughouse as Google for . . . reasons, I guess.

Finally, on the editorial page:



That's enough 1922 for today

Now two ways to chip in!

That'll do - see you around! Nervine information awaits. And thanks for the patronage.



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