I had intended to do the Diner today on pinball, but as is often the case, I switched up at the last moment and went off on another subject. No idea where I was going, which I suppose is obvious. It was the result of a staff meeting about the next step in the paper's . . . relaunch, reimagining, revision, renewal, whatever you choose.

It's going to be great! It looks great.

Swift week, and all the boxes ticked. I have a planner, a Fields Note date book, and I start every week by writing down all the basic things I have to do on that day. There is no reason to do this except to tick them off. I would do them all anyway. But there’s a satisfaction in seeing all the Xs: I’ve really accomplished something here! What discipline, what follow-through! I set the goal of “eating food” for every day and dagnabbitall, I did it.

I’m suddenly wondering about the etymology of “dagnabbit,” but I am content to think it’s a way of not saying something blasphemous. Name-in-vain stuff. It is a satisfying word to mutter, even if it puts you in Coot Territory. (Although maybe not as much as “dadgummit.” A quick Bing search indicates that this is called a “taboo deformation,” if you’re curious.

Anyway, also checked: BOOK. Good. AFTERSHOW, the Thursday morning Duane Patterson podcast, checked. Good. The one that might make future biographers wonder is “Google,” which could be fixing my Google ad revenue thing, or a reminder to “look up the delusion that makes one think they will have future biographers.”

The one unchecked box was “Link to piece in Discourse Magazine,” so . .


Something of no consequence I have to note, because I vowed I would mention this. At the Cancun resort's steak restaurant, these were the tables.

Take a look at the base of that thing.

It was designed entirely to GET IN THE WAY of your feet.

I can understand a designer say "Oh those look cool," except no one ever looks at them until they've spent 15 minutes trying to get comfortable and wondering why it feels as if you're straddling a barrel, and then you look down and it's the nosecone of a Redstone rocket.

Okay, Redstone ballistic missile. Jeez, he says, taboo deforming. In any case, check on that one.

Sorry for an underwhelming Friday, but some days here, it happens.





I was at a party that was going to be held in my honor, much to my surprise. It had been arranged by Steven Ambrose, and when one of the guests asked who he was, I had to call him up on my phone and show how he had written 26 books. I didn’t know the party was for me, but as the evidence grew that it was, I asked, and Ambrose said of course it is! Well, great, I’d have to make a speech. More people came; a big band set up. I met lots of people from the days in DC, which made me think this was a “25 years since I quit party.” More and more people arrived, none of whom knew me at all. They were here for the concert, it seemed. Again, fine by me.

At one point I saw something horrible: the space shuttle flew over, tried to pull up, did a loop and sunk into the river.

I asked someone if they’d seen that, and they dismissed it - but shortly thereafter round green shiny disks started to pour out of the river and fly at people, and when they attached themselves to people they turned them into frogs. This was not good.

Panic ensued, but it was short-lived, since the frog conversion was fairly fast. I went down to the entrance of the outdoor facility, down a path through a barn-like structure, and met two men with guns who were sealing off the area. I asked them if they were from the government, and they said they were from Digg. I scoffed at this, because it was an old website no one read anymore, and told them to let me by, I wasn’t infected. They said everyone was infected and made me go back. On the way through the chaotic remains of the party, I woke up.

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

The pinball recollections prompted me to, well, prompt for some made-up tables.

The AI seemed to think Dana Scully went to Twin Peaks. Would've been cool if she had.

The dreaming brain gets the glow and look right, from a distance. It always forgets to add flippers.

Triple-Spock reporting for duty! Aged Scotty on one end, and sorta-Bones on the other.

Weird unplayable nonsense.

At least you can't drain on the sides.

Rookie move.

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.

Security, by Otis Redding.

From the "Sad Biography" genre of YouTube comments:

Walking down 7th St Washington D.C.1964 this album was all I had left after a robbery.

There's a tale.


Now we're done. Thanks for your visit, and I'll see you Monday, with a Diner. Oh - and there's the return of an old site, revisited. I'm not saying this has been in the pipeline for a long time, but when I did a search on the disk for "Orphanage" to find a file I found an archived email:


Nothing's ever done here, for good and for ill. Mostly for good!


blog comments powered by Disqus