I don’t tweet much these days, but there’s no reason for it. Perhaps I just second-guess myself. I had an idea, while disassembling the wine box to extract the bladder so its last few drops can be extracted, that “a poor person’s idea of how the rich live: throwing away the wine box when the cabernet just dribbles out of the spout.” But then you get replies from people who miss the point entirely. The other day I had the most pretentious tweet idea ever while listening to an extremely meticulous version of a piano piece:

“He played the Satie Gymnopede like someone chewing a mouthful of tinfoil and trying to avoid the fillings.” That I like.

Day two of life in the Wifeless Fortress of Solitude. Something I’ve noticed in the last two days has me scratching my head. It’s about Birch. He has its routines, as all dogs do. He demands - absolutely insists on a 4 PM snack, and my wife gives it to him. He will bark with great vigor, and even paw-whack the door behind which the food is kept. After he gets his regular evening meal, he will frequently demand more. I tell her not to give him any, he’s had enough - but she always says “he won’t leave me alone!” And I think, well, no, that’s because he gets what he wants.

Then he demands a small chew stick, prancing over to the closet where the treats are kept, barking.

None of this has happened the last few days. He does not request a 4 PM snack. He does not demand more food after he’s been fed. He does not request a stick.

I wonder why that is.

It could be this: he knows it won’t work.

I mean it’s possible.

Another foggy day. When we went for a walk it seemed somehow like a Boston day; don’t know why I’d think that, as I don’t have sufficient memories to compound that reaction. Just a mood. Autumnal. Damned odd to see all the green lawns. Your brain wants to reset to another time, but some deep internal clock says no, it isn’t fall.

This could be the best winter ever, in the sense that it is not, at all, winter, but everyone knows we will pay hard in March.

Got a much-needed haircut at the local clip-joint. First time with this stylist. Conversation was not strained, or rocky, or hard, it just wasn't much of anything.

Let's see . . . anything in the detritus bin? Ah: another disgusting piece of body horror in an ad, and I'm not posting it. Random shot from the building today:

Wonder if another truck branded ONIONS showed up later.

Do you know how many movie and TV sites clutter up the web? How they recycle the same topics over and over, obsessing over the same shows, thinking up clickbait headlines - half of which are engagement-bait questions - and then delivering graf after graf of dull, amateurish writing?

  Oh no that thing you like actually sucks so sorry bro

This really tells you all you need to know about the author.

Dare I say egregiously

Apparently you do.


Ladies and gents, I give you a movie writer who A) watched a David Lynch movie and was confused, and B) thinks Twin Peaks was sci-fi.



I know, I’m falling right into the trap! Engagement! Clicks! Links!

Oh did I forget to link


  Sigh. Okay. I’ll take one for the team.

To save you the click: it's Titanic.

This isn't true.

With a pen and notebook in hand, he explained, “I brought it up to an entire room of people having lunch that our ship is only 100 feet longer than the Titanic — when I tell you that utensils dropped. Waiters gasped. It’s dead silent.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve talked about the Titanic on a cruise ship. It’s not like saying “Macbeth” in a theater.

He was on the Serenade of the Seas, by the way. It's 80 feet longer.

The last item was something I snapped from the office give-away pile.


I don't know if this is a union effort, but it's bucking the wishes of the people who pay the rent. And the salaries. But I'm trying to think of the circumstances that brought two candlesticks to the office. Did we all have a team-bonding day playing Real Life Clue? We do have a library.





(Continued from last week, where I was arguing about smoothies with a guy who had ripped out my kitchen counter.)

We went to the family area, where the TV was playing music quite loudly. (The dream was starting to get into the crazy chaotic domestic variety I get when I nap too long.) The music was Berlioz “March to the Scaffold,” but not quite right, and I noted that. My sister-in-law said it was "The Pirates of the Caribbean,” by Zimmer, and I said no, Badelt. She said "Pirates" was by Zimmer, and I said it was. It was both Zimmer and Badelt.

“Tuba Miriam!” said the niece-husband. What? “Tuba Miriam, we played that in high school band. By Berlioz.”

I said it was, and that Hector was quite a fellow. Did he know anything about him?

He furrowed his brow. “He was a weird dude. I remember he went to shoot his wife -“

No, I said, the object of his affection. Harriet Smithson. And how did he go to shoot her?

He said he didn’t know.

“Dressed like a woman,” I said with a flourish. “Of course we only know this because he wrote a crazy autobiography. He was really something.”

Then I sprang awake, determined to see if I had been correct about the Pirates soundtrack and the name of Berlioz’ objet d’amour. I was wrong. Harriet was his wife, but he wanted to shoot his fiancee, Camille. About the Pirates soundtrack, I was correct. Zimmer and Badelt.

Prompt: two people arguing about Berlioz

The fellow on the sofa formed his opinion about Berlioz long ago and disputations are not going to shape it one way or the other:

Three generations getting into the scrum:

I have no idea what that thing next to the guitar is supposed to be.

And now, a related feature that will provide some Friday amusements:

Here are the full versions of this week's banner AI - in this case, a snowy Minneapolis street, mannikins in summer garb in the department store windows.

The dreaming brain kept putting a few on the sidewalk.

If never gets Minneapolis right. But I like the reflection of the buildings in the windows.

Again, they have escaped, entering a twilight world where they walk among us:

I would like to have lived here for a while.

Suddenly, it's the 40s, and that's fine!

LOL, as they say, at that car.

What's odd is that I think I know what it's based upon, but I don't, but I do.

Now, our Friday comic feature.

You're not happy about this, are you.

I understand. But Lance will be back. Just not as regularly. For many Fridays on 2024, we'll have . . .

Last one of the month, I said last week, but I was mistaken.

We'll find out what the boss says on Monday. Note that we're just a few strips into the rise of Figsby, because Jerry is still lamenting Givny's case of "Logoes on the Bogoes."

And that's it for Fridays! Ha ha kidding, of course it's not.

Last year I cut out the tunes, but heck, why not bring them back. We'll be counting down the bottom 50 songs as listed by Whitburn. It'll be fun! Stuff you've never heard. A grab-bag of styles.

You might be surprised to see who wrote it.

This guy!

  "Leonard Feather was born in London, England, into an upper middle-class Jewish family. He learned to play the piano and clarinet without formal training and started writing about jazz and film by his late teens. At the age of twenty-one, Feather made his first visit to the United States, and after working in the UK and the US as a record producer finally settled in New York City in 1939, where he lived until moving to Los Angeles in 1960."

Also: "Feather was co-editor of Metronome magazine and served as chief jazz critic for the Los Angeles Times until his death." His wife wrote the lyrics.

News to me and perhaps to you.

Now we're done. Thanks for your visit, and I'll see you Monday.



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