Snow. Six inches? Perhaps. Enough to warrant firing up the Toro. But would it start?

I hadn’t used it all season. The Crazy Uke’s son, who is a genius at mechanical restorations, had brought it back to life, but that was months ago. October.

Plug it in . . . prime it . . . adjust the throttle . . . all systems go. Ignition. We have snow-blow.

Underneath the snow, of course, was ice, so I fell twice pushing the machine. But nothing serious. Then I went to work, expecting no parking at all due to the snow emergency - only to discover there as no snow emergency. Of course there is never a snow emergency unless it is crushing your roof and your doors are locked and the windows are stuck. I prefer Snow Parking Situation, or perhaps Snow Removal Priority Episode, but those don’t condense to memorable shortcuts. MOGT, perhaps. The City has declared a Mog-tee, which of course means Move Or Get Towed.

A little pareidolia on a utility box.

Brother, I understand.

Let's see . . . anything else? Well, later that night, at home, a Federation Away-Team appeared in my yard.

Venting from the boiler, illuminated by the light behind the slats. The Christmas lights are finally off, as we agreed to Valentine's Day as the cutoff.






I was master of ceremonies at a shambolic concert, a nightmare of organizing and execution. It was for a charity, so that seemed to mean no one took anything professionally. It was outside, and here’s the peculiar part: the audience was also the orchestra. So when I opened the show and asked everyone to clap for these fine musicians, they did so for themselves.

It took forever to get started, since I had to play stage director, and the two women who spoke in the opening went on forever, unintelligibly. I went inside to find my script, and found the house crowded with people who had nothing to do with the concert, it seemed, including Candace Bergman, who said she’d really enjoyed my account of my treatment at the hands of the publishing industry, and I thanked her and told her I’d put it in a novel! Then I went outside and made the orchestra tune up. I still had no script. The organizer of the event, who I realize now was my high school orchestra teacher, was said to be in the back of the house hanging lights, and his wife, whose idea this was, had passed out drunk.


I could tell from their noodling that they were going to play “Baby You Can Drive My Car,” but I wasn’t sure whether they would actually play a newer version, “Baby You Can Drive My Tank.” I went with car, introduced them with great gusto, and woke up, sweating.


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

We had two themes this week: Valentine's Day, and the two examples of startled women.

Why are they startled?

The prompt was women with shopping bags that have celery, looking surprised. You know why.

Even though I asked for the style of the artist, the AI never delivered the Full Frahm

The lass above looks as though she's sighting Red bombers over Manhattan. The one below might be regretting her lack of seasonal attire.

As for the Valentine's Day AI stuff, I used my secret-sauce low-ingfo prompt, and the results ranged from normal . . .

. . . to something that looks like a nightmare of a mid-late 70s airbrushed album art.

BTW, I’ve settled on the book title for the AI 1950s compendium, based on the name of the artist. It is, I think, a great title.

Forty-five seconds later I think it’s the dumbest idea I’ve had this week.

In a way it’s a companion to the works of John Brassefort, the forgotten artist whose work was literally underfoot all these years. How exactly I’m going to frame the whole thing I don’t know; probably chronologically. There won’t be much about the artist, because that would interfere with my ability to range far and wide, stylistically, with the text. The descriptions are most hallucinogenic, and the descrptions are exactingly straightforward and rational.

Ebook or Patreon, as Natalie suggested? Don’t know. When I’m 50 plates in, you’ll hear more.


I swear he's sent her up ten, fifteen times.

Your answer is here.


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.

Dude, dial back the emotes a degree or two

Sounds a bit past-its-sell-date for 1964, but yes, this coexisted with the Beatles. Wikipedia:

Dana has three children, Steven, Jason and Justin. Dana retired from the entertainment industry and now resides in Paducah, Kentucky. 

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



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