Busy day on the internet for YGH, as I had a column, a piece is Discourse about the World’s Fairs (hence the odd banner art this week) and an interview quoted on Instapundit (thanks, Ed!) which had comments of the expected sort. Screw him, he was a NeverTrumper, trash writer, and all sorts of utter incomprehension of the point I was making. I was doing that thing were you state the other side's case in order to demonstrate all the issues at hand, and it seems as if 77% thought I was stating my opinion, and hence was SOFT-HEADED and AFRAID to say things because I would be ostracized by Polite Minnesota Company. As if they have any idea what they think. And of course the guy who is afraid to go to the Mall of America, because he might be shot. It's a weird flex: I wouldn't go there because I'm frightened of what might happen to me, and your disinclination to share my fear means you're stupid and in denial. I'm the last guy to downplay the shifts in the city in the last four years, and I'm not one of those "it's a big city, stuff happens" people to populate the local subreddits and get angry when someone points out Crime. But I don't live in fear, and that seems to make some people angry.

Standard stuff, but it’s just odd, even at this late point, to open a comment thread and find strangers angry at you, by name, FOR REASONS.


I am now a one-star complainer, the anomaly, the fly in the ointment, the glass shard in the tub of ice cream that has melted just a little so it’s easy to scoop.

This thing:

 

I used it to scramble eggs. It did a good job. Brisk and efficient. Alas, this morning it started squirting oil into the eggs.

I’m not an oil-and-eggs guy, especially in the morning. The good news is that they came in a set of two, so I will have four more months of whipping until the second one starts blurting lubricant into my breakfast. But I went straight to Amazon and gave it one star, noting what happened, and called it Junk.

Most everyone else loves it, though! Except for the reviews that note the black stuff running out of the handle. But if you were going on the reviews, you’d discount those as anomalies, the occasional defect, an odd lemon that really doesn’t reflect on the product as a whole. They would give you a pause, though. So that’s what I just did. Stood in front of the brass band and made wave-off gestures to the crowd. It will affect nothing, people will buy it, most won't have the black ichor in the yolks for a while, and in a year the JLiup brand will be replaced by FGopr, selling the same thing.

 


 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watched an Alfred Hitchcock Presents about a man who wanders into a Twilight Zone episode in which he wanders back to his childhood. It concludes in the jangly present, loud with rock and roll and ignorant youth, unlike the kind and quiet days when he was a boy. He enters a drug store . .

Upper-left hand corner:

I’ve heard this tag line on old radio ads, but never seen the promotional material they sent to stores.

The real challenge here: the books.

 
   
  A few can be read, if you squint.
   
  The great Mr. Himes.
   
  Easy enough.
   
 

Peter Sourian. NYT Obit:

After graduating from Harvard in the 50s, and serving a short stint in the U.S. Army, he published a sharp and witty novel, Miri, when he was only twenty- four years old. "The season's most appealing fiction debut," TIME magazine declared.

   

More:

Although Miri was his breakout, earning strong reviews for its depiction of the coming of age of three friends, it was actually the third book he'd written by that age. But when his publisher asked to see the precocious young writer's early attempts, Sourian refused to take them out of the drawer. They were "terrible," he said.

I understand.

This was surprising:

He was the film and television critic of The Nation, during the 70s, and wrote book reviews for the New York Times. His outlook was conservative but never doctrinaire.

Passionate advocate for Armenian genocide awareness. Sounds like an interesting guy. One of those obits where you really wish you’d met the guy.

   
 

Okay, this is more difficult. I got it right away, though, because I'm special! No, I just know a little about the era, and my brain snapped on the letter shapes and came up with the title. I've never seen the cover, but the way the letters move up and down are another hint the brain uses.

I'll leave this one up to you.

   
 

Easy peasy. Sorry, Babs!

(Hint: movie. Extra hint: Star Trek director.)

   
  This is the one I can't decode. You can tell what it is, but it's hovering outside of the range of decipherability.
   

I had "Saturday Night, Sunday Morning" in my head, but I can't find any covers that match.

 

 

It’s 1935. I got these from a Ladies’ Home Journal I bought.

Certo!

Look at all the glasses! You get more when you short-boil.

You don’t want long-boiled flavor.

I’ve never considered jelly to be “sparkling.”

Why, it’s our old friend Webby, with the adventures of Uppity and Snooty.

A rather dashed-off affair, but I’m sure the client was happy - everyone loved Webster.

The pride of Norwich:

Let’s take a closer look. Seems people used to leave the party early because the host was tedious and the mood quite dull, but then racy Englishness was added.

It is good stuff.

Again with these ads. Who ever cared? Who ever demanded a Fisher body? You didn’t have a choice if you bought GM.

If you want us to buy GM, just say so.

The picture’s a bit wavy because these are too large to scan. I have to hold them down and use my phone.

We needn't go into details, need we ladies?

The hideous embarrassment

Another bright and delightful ad from Swift, professional cow-puller-aparters:

Some of the cows who’ve come to have their butter judged:

Less happy cows, one of whom is scowling at a baby cow who made a face at her baby cow.

The guy in the background would rather be anywhere else.

That'll do - see you around. DC Heroes concludes today, and this may be the last batch of entries EVER. I'm out.

REMINDER: Discourse piece on World's Fairs.