A note about this week: it's awful. Let's all have a nice sarcastic golf-cold for my immune system, which picked up a clap in Vegas. Wait - no. Other way around. I woke Saturday with a headache and achey everything; did the shopping for the week, which required every jot of personal strength not to put my foot through the self-check-out machine at Cub. At least I avoided the manager coming over and saying "it's a scale, and it knows when you've put something in." I KNOW IT'S A SCALE. SEE THESE WRINKLES AROUND MY EYES? THIS SUNSPOT DISCOLORATION FROM SAILING THE SEVEN SEAS, LADDY? I KNOW IT'S A SCALE.
Getting everything stowed away was hilarious; moving underwater, sighing, groaning, fog-schmozzled. Where's the Zinc. It's around here somewhere. Ah: ask wife is she put the zinc in one of her enormous bags again. She said she did. Ah. Why? Because I know where it is if I need it. But now I need it. And you know where it is. In my bag. But what if your bag was at work? Then you should get some more for the medicine chest. But you took that one out of the medicine chest. Right, in case I needed it, at work.
No arguing there. I got everything away and went to sleep for two hours. Picked up daughter from work, then worked on the art for the pieces for the newspaper Vegas column. Did I mention that I spent the first hour looking out the window? It was incredible. Caught between the heavens and deep time below, and wherever you look, a reminder of your own utter insignificance.
This doesn't bother me at all. I've come to terms with everything. (Or so I like to believe.) I've done what I wanted to do; I think I've done good work. There's lots more to do and see, but there are no imperatives, only possibilities and opportunities. And perhaps relief from crippling joint pain down the road! That would be awesome. Anyway, what matters is being awake in the moment, and looking down on these sights, figuring out why they are what they are, why they look the way they do, because that's important. You have to know these things. That's why we're here.
I didn't watch a movie on the way home, because I had a window.
Five Hundred isn't the best score, but at least it was possible. You can't get 500 in a game today. If you drained without getting 500 you'd get your ball back.
It's a 1971 table, with art by Gordon Morrison. Bio:
His instantly recognizable art style married Comic Book pop art with Art Deco's focus on geometry and psychedelic designs, and the high popularity of Gottlieb's pins allowed him to refine a visual language for a generation. Gordon's simple but effective art style was highly flexible for a wide variety of topics, whether it was attractive women, toothy-grinning jesters, futuristic landscapes, or otherworldly environments. He was often quoted as saying that a pinball designer gave the game a personality, but the artist gave it a soul.
He's absolutely correct. There's a little Jack Davis in this guy
Says the TV Tropes page: "Apparently, many of the women featured in Gordon's artwork were based on then-current or former girlfriends."
Oh, what a lucky man. As the song has it.
The Crimson Screaming Red Nasty Ghost Traitor returns!
Happy jasper, isn't he:
And then he went out of the building by hanging to a power line, which the Ghost blew up. We know he's not going to fall to his death, even though that's exactly what we saw last week. So what happened?
That's a relief. Do we fade to the usual talky scene in the office? No: The Crimson Ghost runs to his car, and his hench drives him off. But they've lost the chance to get the heavy water! No matter; when the scientists meet tomorrow - and remember, CG is one of the scientists - then they'll talk about getting another source of heavy water. Our hero says he'll be meeting someone who has some information about the CG, and asks the heretofore underutilized Gal Pal to drive him.
But it's a ruse! He thinks one of the scientists is in on the deal, and this will draw them out.
"I'm hoping some of the Ghost Crowd will follow us," he says.
The Ghost Crowd. Everything about this one is snappier.
They drive into the . . . have we done desert yet? Yes? okay, forest. Gal Pal covers our Hero with a gat, which she handles as if she knows here way around a pistol like any other research institute stenographer. The pursuers see our hero get a secret message out of a rock, and so:
They find the chauffeur, but he's dead. Who cares? Proves that the conference room is the source of the leak. So our hero comes up with a new plan, and it's back to the conference room. Well, look what's under the table:
But . . . if the CG is one of the group, why would he need something this obvious? Oh well. Time to give them something to think about: "GOOD THING I HAVE MORE HEAVY WATER," he says. "LET'S PUT IT IN THE SAFE."
HIM? THIS is the Crimson Ghost?
The Crimson Ghost, hearing this, uses his brain-manipulation power (activated through the Collar of Deadly Obedience, remember) and it's time for a fight, but the portly scientist isn't really up to the job, and his neck collar shorts out. But! Ash runs in and steals the heavy water!
And they GET AWAY! Our hero and heroine give chase, and for a moment it's almost something out of a well-composed, carefully lit noir:
But he's sealed in the room, which makes you ask what the title of this one was again . . .
Ah, the Gas episode. I believe Fire is next.
That'll do (snortl) (hack) and I'll be back tomorrow.