The happiest and most lively of the batch, and my least favorite. This is just kitsch. You'd see this on a calendar, one of those nostalgic "America The Way It Used To Be" items that also has gas stations with old rusty pumps and a pickup. The sort of thing you find in your parent's basement in the knotty-pine-paneled rumpus room. They keep it up after the year's over on the one picture they like. You offer to get another one in the same series, but that's okay, really, it's fine. You buy them the next one in the series for Christmas. When you come home next time it's not up. But they looked at it, and it was nice!

Doesn't mean they weren't grateful. They just liked that one picture more than the others! And also maybe a liiiiitle bit of annoyance in the margins, because you made a big deal about having an old calendar up. They liked it, it's their house, it's fine, you don't need to be so critical. You think it's not criticism, it's just an observation. It looks odd to have the wrong calendar up. Someone comes by, they might think you're getting, you know, spotty. I know you're not but they might.

You never know it's up there because it reminds them of a particular time and a special place. Of being 25.

Or because Dad had that car.


And so we end another week here. This one went by at a medium pace. Ticked all the boxes, fufilled all my deadlines. Wrote three pieces for the paper. Did 25 pages of the AI book/ Worked out, from habit, but didn't stint. and upped a few things to ensure future incremental accomplishments apparent to none. Wore my new blue glasses into the world; consumed a plastic container of peanuts; enjoyed a bleak monochromatic Danish police procedural that spent two hours looking for a severed arm in a deep harbor; listened to five songs by five artists I'd never known, favorited one; did two podcasts; grocery shopped at four stores, securing the makings for next week's meals; made six meals for me and my wife; talked with Daughter; collaborated with Astrid on our next iteration of the Peg Lynch project; took the dog to the vet.

Well, you asked!

Oh right, you didn't

Well, I guess I presume too much. I left out "took five naps of varying length, averaging out to 25 minutes each" because that's of no interest to anyone, except to note that each was sundered by Birch barking at the mailman, or a passerby. There's a difference. Passersby get a good woofing, but the mailman produces a frenzy that goes from porch to front door to porch to family room, only abating when the mailman has been driven off again.


Let's see. Any detritus? Anything that's irritated me even though I should know better and ignore it and move along with life?


Yes. And it ain't that. But let's talk about these songs that appear to have a rubber sole, like hybrid Keds.

Or rather let us not.

  I am so tired of these ads. I'm tired of Cheech and Chong looking greasy and unkempt, offering me gummies.
  Oh yes I am motivated to buy now
  No. NO THEY ARE NOT. There aren't any "scientists" desperately trying to get the world's attention because an ancient calendar predicts an imminent catastrophe.
  "I just saw my dead husband in 24A, but what really stood out was a particular detail"

"Litynews." Junk AI crapsite that makes you scroll forever past ads for more junk and junk T-shirts that say "THAT'S WHAT I DO. I DETASSEL CORN AND I KNOW THINGS" or something else aimed at middle-aged men who want everyone to know they're cool in the indistinguishable way of a vast swatch of men who all somehow look alike.

What's the story, then?

While boarding the passengers on her most recent trip, Lena had an odd feeling. She had the unpleasant impression that someone familiar had just boarded the plane and couldn’t shake it. While making her rounds, she caught sight of a passenger who resembled her late spouse. How is this even possible? When Lena approached him, she uncovered a secret that she hoped she hadn’t discovered...

The man in seat fifteen

Lena couldn’t stand it any longer. She’d had enough of going around the elephant in the room and needed to know what was going on. So she approached the man on seat fifteen. She was resolved to ask him personally, but she hesitated when she got at his seat. Was this an excellent idea?

Planes do not have a "seat fifteen." Theu have a row fifteen. Shall we cut to the end of the piece? Let us see how it wraps:

Lena shook her head, signaling that she had reached a dead end. She sat down next to Stacy once more. They were getting close to their target, and time was running short. Lena knew she wouldn’t be able to contact the man once he got off the plane. She needed to figure out how to get to the bottom of things.

And there it ends. There's no resolution, no conclusion, no answers - because they don't expect anyone to get to the end, or they don't care if they do.

It's sophomoric, but from what I read in r/teachers and other places where instructors share their evaluations of modern youts, it's something half their students are incapable of producing.





Long boring work meeting, and I was falling asleep. The boss said it would only last another three minutes, so I asked if I could leave, since nothing was going to happen. I could not. Everyone laid down on the floor and pretended to sleep to mock me. Then the boss started asking about stories people were working on, and I had to come up with something, so I chose the “postal boxes of downtown” even though I thought I might have done it. In jest the boss stabbed her finger at me to tell me it was my turn, but she put too much force behind it, and the finger went into my mouth and poked a tender gum. She apologized and went on a long rambling discussion of the importance of journalism, citing the appointment of some right-wing district attorneys that had not been reported upon - I kept my objections to myself, and tried to turn the volume down on an immense, clunky, almost Soviet-style radio that had dials on the sides and the front. The dial on the front finally did it.

Prompt: angry man operating a large Soviet radio


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

As you can see, the "Diner" prompts do not always generate useable imagery. You want an empty diner, you get one! Well, an empy diner.

Don't know why it closed; that's a fantastic location. The customers can't avoid you.


The AI loves to grab old cars and meld them into the architecture, because it doesn't know what it's doing:

The horseshoe object appears frequently. I don't know why.

The sign wants to have an arrow, but the AI doesn't know why there should be an arrow.

As the dreaming AI, and it'll give you this . . .

. . . and endless variations, without knowing why, or even what it is.

Tiny's probably at the end of his shift and wants to wrap it up and punch out. Head down to the bar. Wrestling's on and they have a Crosley up the corner.

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.

The Wallace Brothers.


The Wallace brothers were the six sons of Edinburgh architect Lewis Wallace. In varying combinations, the brothers established themselves as one of the leading nineteenth century East India merchants, trading in cotton, tea, coffee and other commodities. Through their investments in Burma, they became the world's leading exporter of teak.

No, that's not them.

Seems there's little info. This site on the band and the Sims label:

Details about their lives are sketchy.  They don't appear to have given any interviews, and what we do know comes from the often dubious source of the publicity info on the back of their only US album.  The "Brothers" seem to have been cousins Johnny Simon and Ervin Wallace, who came from Atlanta, GA and attended the Archer High School there.

Now we're done. Thanks for your visit, and I'll see you Monday, with a Diner and lots of new stuff! I mean, old stuff, but new to me.



blog comments powered by Disqus