Eighty -two again. The temp, not the year. If it was the year, women would look like this:
Odd name. Even in 1982 they snickered.
That's from a Sears catalog. I have two huge sites of Sears catalogs ready to upload, one from the 70s and one from the 80s. When will I ever get everything up? Oh just put it all up now and relax. No! I might run out of stuff then!
Hah. Not likely.
Well, at the moment, I am in manual discomfort, having strained my right mitt by ignoring my age. As I no doubt mentioned in some preening account of my meaningless physical accomplishments, I could never do sets of 30lb bicep curls when I was working out in my twenties. Now I can. Today it hurt and I shook it off, AS MEN DO, and kept doing it, AS MEN DO, so now I am hurting and complaining, AS MEN DO.
We also have huose guests, so I should go attend to that, because not everyone yet has heard how much my arm hurts.
UPDATE Mother-in-law wanted to watch the news. It is seven minutes to the top of the hour. I found a live news program, which is difficult in Hulu because the TV interface lacks a grid, as far as I can tell. If there is a grid they have performed some brilliant UI tweaks to keep it buried. I explained that there will not be actual news now, but news will come soon. Since it's the last part of the show, it will be ads, as you are seeing now, then a short lite 'n' brite story, then more ads, and then headlines. I cannot conjure instant news with sheer will. But news will be along soon.
"What about Headline News?" Wife asked. "You mentioned that there was a Headline News show."
Yes . . . I suppose I did mention that, but A) I don't know where it is, I don't know if that show even exists anymore, and even if it did exist and I could find it, the same iron laws apply: you would not get the latest on Israel vs. Hezbollah, but a lite 'n' brite, with Ginny Mose probably, if she's still around, making tortured wordplay about a squirrel that made a nest in a fireman's hat, and then there would be ads, and then there would be news.
The best part is that by the time I was done explaining, there was, at long last, News.
This being the last Friday in the month, we have to look at the scourge of horrible web ads. The detritus that makes the web a worse place for everyone.
I think most of them notice when they wake up a fully-dressed man
As I may have said before: I certainly hope so.
The Neuropathy experts should get together with . . .
. . . the Baffled Dieticians.
Which will be my next band name.
As I said last month: "Yes, it's Digimediavie again with the Titanic click-bait, and yes AGAIN, weeks later, it still goes to a scam site that says your site has been compromised and you need to call this number now."
That makes two months this ad server has linked to malware.
The same ad company shoved some body horror on the web as well:
It's not even a link to anything. It's a link to an ad search. At least it's better than the bisected fruit that keeps opening and closing like the mouth of an alien creature.
I was walking through a bar in Dinkytown, past a fellow who seemed full of malicious intent. He followed me, and implied he had a gun. He slipped hot metal pins into my pocket and I laughed it off as a cheap attempt to get my goat. I gave him no sign of fear and left with amusement; he didn’t follow. But the incident unnerved me a bit, and I decided it would be safer to travel on the top of the buildings instead of on the sidewalk.
I was traveling along nicely on the rooftops, which were quite ornate and provided plenty of hand-holds. After a few hours, though, I reached an impasse, and had to go in to a building to go down to the street level. When I was on the sidewalk, though, I realized I’d left my radio upstairs on the roof - indeed, I could hear it.
So I re-entered, found an elevator with the assistance of a building employee in an usher’s jacket and hat (thinking, they’re rather lax with security here) and went up to the roof to retrieve my radio.
But I blundered through a window and burst into a photography session being directed by an old girlfriend, who was understandably surprised to see me.
And now, a related feature that will provide some Friday amusements:
I was trying to come up with a nice neighborhood pizzaria for the Story of Bob on the Substack, and ran up against the usual pitfalls: Words. You'd think at this point it wouldn't be hard, when the instruction is "Bob's Pizza."
So very many ways to screw it up:
I asked it for a neighborhood pizzaria. You'll note it also serves picizlacia.
I also noted, in the extended prompt, that I wanted the interior - the i, mind you - to have a warm nostalgic feel.
I'll have half a Loago, and a plate of Motagia. No, cancel that, make it Mosoliga.
The latest version of Flux supposedly has better text handling. In a way I'll miss this.
Mike doesn't look like the hold-up type.
Lance is a bit disappointed with this one. No challange.
The song was released when he was 15. The backup musicians: Leon Russell and Glen Campbell. This was his only US charting number.
The composer of the tune, P. F. Sloan, would also write "Eve of Destruction," among other tunes. Like "Secret Agent Man."
Now we're done. Thanks for your visits this week! Substack up at 10 AM. Curious Lucre finishes up Argentina, blows right through Armenia, and starts us on the long and fascinating journey through Austrian currency.
