Okay, my friends, we're not going to have another day like Friday, with nothing on top. We're not going to have a week like last one - well, I'm not. Well, maybe I will. Things could get worse, actually. Could get a lot worse. That's the thing about the job right now: like they said after the V-2 lifted off and disappeared, it's all up in the air.
The bus and main street, by the way, mean nothing. Yet. I had some other art lined up but it's too unnerving, so I've decided to dole it out on Fridays.
Last week's Dilation Story in narrative form at the Diner today, by the way.
Big News: I mowed the lawn!
(Golf clap) Yeah you and every other guy with a house. A medal you should get?
Hey, you say, that's what you said last week. Indeed. Turns out you have to mow the lawn again. This time I developed new strategies for dealing with irregular plots, so I could spend most of my time just doing straight back-and-forth lines. Total time, including trimming, was an hour and a half. And Criminey Joseph it is a labor getting that machine up the hill, even with the AWD.
For dinner I made the bacon-fat-boosted burgers with cheddar and bacon, just as I did last week. Carbon Copy.
But wait, no! Important difference!
There was much planting on Sunday, and that meant I was assigned to digging. Wife comes back with the bushes and hydrangeas and other things and I ask how many holes I need to dig?
“Eighteen,” she says.
Well, let’s get to it! Working with the good earth, feeling the rich soil in your hands, carefully setting the plants in their new homes - how I loathe it.
It just isn’t something that clicks as it does for others. I have no aptitude and no ability to judge anything aside from “they’re planted straight. Too deep? Not enough. More dirt around the side? Pack it in. Hole right? Too small. And then of course the roses require special soil. The nightmare part came when I dug down about 7 inches, struck a layer of weed block that had the thickness of old leather, and after I’d gotten through that and scissored out a grave for the bush I encountered a layer of stone, placed by the people who’d originally done the landscaping. No matter how much I scooped out, more tumbled into the hole. It was like trying to empty a toothpaste tube by giving it a gentle squeeze and wiping off the quarter-inch that came through the nozzle - possible, but time consuming.
It all took four and a half hours and I was certain I had done something, or everything wrong. I guess we'll have to wait. Made a steak - a Target steak, which for once was remarkably tasteless - then spent an hour sweeping up the got-damned green helicopters. This meant sweeping out the gutter as well. Let me tell you, friends, at some point sweeping the street becomes something you have to do completely, or not. I opted for somewhere in between.
It was over at twilight, and then I vacuumned the house and swiffered the floors upstairs and down and cleaned the kitchen, whereupon I decided it was done, and now I am here, typing.
Also of supreme importance: Wife moved cold-era clothes to storage and replaced them with the warm-era clothes. She also confronted the clothes with a bit of indifference, thinking if the house burned down she wouldn't miss any of them. To which you respond well, why not do something about it? Some oily rags, a tossed cigarette butt - problem solved. Or, winnow. Winnow ruthlessly. Sing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" to guide you.
What?
"A winnow-away a winnow-away! In the closet the so-full closet / the clothing sparks no joy" and so on.
She has many work suits, professional armor, and it'll never be used again. I suggested chopping it down to three - winter, light-weight, funeral. Someone else's, of course. Bale them up and leave them at Goodwill.
But who would buy them? Who goes to the office anymore? If they do, are they in professional mufti?
I hold up the old ways by wearing a tie on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, when everyone's "back" in the office, but I feel like an anachronism.
Which I'm sure comes as news to everyone.
Our new Monday feature! The Gazettes provide a look at the commercial vernacular from 90 years ago. Sometimes they look forward, and just as often as not they reach back decades for a familiar look.
Are any of these brands still around? We'll find out.
It was the inventions that saved time, such as the mass roasting and mass grinding, that really put St. Louis on the coffee map. One of the most prolific figures to do so was Cyrus F. Blanke, whom Moon called “the most important coffee man you have never heard of.”
Blanke claimed to have the largest coffee-roasting plant in the world (the gorgeous building still stands on Papin Street, near Chouteau Avenue and 14th Street). His brand was Faust Coffee, which was served on railroads and was known across the country.
He also claimed to have invented instant coffee after spilling a drop on a hot plate at Tony Faust’s Oyster House and Restaurant, though others apparently came up with the idea before him.
Yes, I guessing he wasn't the first. As for his gorgeous building:
Is that it? The gorgeous building?
Yes.
Also known as Hollow Triumph or Triumphant Hollowness or something. I'm going with what my copy says:
The music sounds as if it’s been scarred as well, or at least is still screaming from some horror:
Then it turns into big-city cliches, after which . . . wait a minute, is this the Star Trek theme?
I was expecting to see Alexander Courage as the composer, because that would be interesting, and would mean I’d discovered something no one else seemed to point out.
But it gets more odd.
Whaaaa
He’s the other guy who wrote Star Trek music, along with Gerald Fried.
Anyway. Paul Henreid, so upright in Casablanca, is a smart crook who’s getting out of jail. He's walking to the warden's office the opening scene, and they make sure you know this will be grim 'n' moody:
Note: we are told he is smart, and he certainly acts smart, but he keeps landing in the slammer. He’s also arrogant. Henreid isn’t the right guy for the role. Too classy.
Plot: Heinreid, just out of prison for doing crime, returns to crime, botches the crime, and has to run from the mob boss.
A chance encounter with dentist Dr. Swangron reveals that Müller looks exactly like a psychoanalyst who works in the same building, Dr. Bartok, the only difference being a large scar on the left side of the doctor's face.
So we know how that’s going to go. He’s going to take the doctor’s place to avoid the bad guys who are coming after him, with the help of the doctor’s easily-persuaded / I-want-to-be-bad secretary. Who cares? Is it Noir? Damned straight, with all the standard shots:
And I mean, cliches: dream montages! You can tell it's a dream because it's at an angle.
Can you tell what it is?
One of the opening scenes in the HBO Perry Mason takes place in that building, from the inside, looking out at the famous . . . well, you tell me.
Right. There's some backlot street scenes:
And there's fascinating little details like the look of the old car radios:
Hey, it’s this guy! He always plays comical cowards and weasels.
John Qualen. He was in Casablanca, along with our anti-hero. Died in 1987. Trivia: “In 1930, although working in New York, his home base was at 328 Sidney Street West, St. Paul, Minnesota.”
Hey wait a minute
Is that . . . it is! He plays “Bullseye.”
Anyway, the reviews say that it’s notable for its grim noir downbeat ending, so I was curious to see if this was oversold.
