Hello! Minor crumbs today, because it has been a half-hellish work week complicated by Daughter’s tuberculosis. I’m sorry, her tuberculosis test. In order to leave us for a year to join a new family and forge memories at the time when the brain really starts to remember things for the rest of your life, she has to prove she doesn’t have TB. So we went to Target.

Because they have milk and socks and DVDs and that special white-chocolate Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I like and also TB tests. I got a flu shot. Why yes it was a bit late, but this year for some reason I kept thinking “I could go to the store and sit in a plastic chair for an hour until someone jammed a steel rod in my arm, or I could do that later” and I kept putting it off. Besides, it’s not effective this year! But then you read a few pieces about perfectly normal people who could be you DYING from the flu, and think “I miss the false sense of security I got in years past.” So I got the shot. Daughter got a TB test.

It has to be judged by experts within 48 to 72 hours for a form I have to give to someone on Saturday so she can go to Brazil and join her new family, which will be awesome because New Dad won’t have 18 years of history and has a charming accent, but the problem is getting the test verified. We were going to do it Thursday at the Target Clinic that was open late, but the website lied. So now I have to yank her out of school, get to the clinic, get the obvious test results, get her to work, then get to the pediatrician’s to complete the form. You know, Old Dad problems.

Kidding! I don’t think along those lines, I just vent them here to give an indication of the hellish nonsense rattling the lid on the ever-boiling kettle. I know I’ll always be Dad.

Well, Dad V.1. Dad Prime? Master Gold Release Dad?

On the way to her Walker Art Center weekly meeting - it’s a youth initiative that will influence some upcoming exhibits, she applied, she got in because she’s awesome - she described her upcoming piece in the student newspaper, which she co-edits. It’s a humorous piece. I had to smile. She’s headed for such wonderful things.

She’s going to be the first hit for LILEKS on Wikipedia some day. Hell, it’ll autocomplete with her first name after four letters.

Yesterday I mentioned a busted column idea, right? I had intended towrite something about a letter I got at my office account. I get a lot of peculiar enticements. About once a week I get an email from someone in Kazachastan wanting to know if I’m buying oil drilling equipment. Apparently he’s the man when it comes to bulk pipe supplies, and he invites me to write him for a full price list. Of course it’s a mass-mail sent to every single person on the planet, but even if it does get through the spam filter for someone who’s job is buying oil drilling equipment, you doubt he’ll say hmmm, this crudely worded offer from theboss@bolshoiscam.ru makes an intriguing proposal.

It can’t work. Can it? I know, it only takes a few to make a scam pay off, but who responds to something like that? Then there’s this:


That’s always a good way to begin. That’s one way to let people know this letter is on target like a Tomahawk.

*** Clam Fish Trap ***

I do not know what a Clam Fish is. I expect someone would want to trap them, though; they sound like a peculiar species that could be sold for research for a nice sum.

Upon Googling I learned that CLAM is a brand, and they make Fish Traps,I guess - in other words, the internet abounds with people who are ready and eager to sell you Clam Fish Traps.

It’s from Jeffery Brown. Not Jeffrey, but jeff-er-ey. A completely total normal American guy who awaits my responds.

I don't know if you were aware of Steak-Umms' Twitter account and its campaign to get verified, but two guys who make all-caps statements about BEEF SHEETS to make the brand bro-friendly wanted to be verified. At first I felt sorry for them, and the Internet seemed to be on their side.


The Shat Seal of Approval.

Then the roast:

  Ouch. And you know, it's true. The comic possibilities of MEAT jokes tends to peter out after a while.

On a walk around downtown I noted the new decorations:


Sunday is going to be harrowing.


Let's check in with our curious little dog, who here is auditioning for a role in a 19th century painting.

"Well? There it is. Here I am. Well?"

Yes, it's the return of Lance Lawson! All new strips! New in the sense that they're from 1948, but weren't posted before.

That was quick. Typical Lance work. But how? How did he know? Interesting to think this was a challenge then.

I'll post the solution in the comments around noon.



I came across four grabs from a predictable sci-fi radio show, and wondered why I’d chosen this. Partly because of the person telling the story; it seemed like a step down from Citizen Kane.

It’s another version of a story told over and over and over again in the 50s: incredibly wise and powerful alien comes to earth and judges us, then decides if we deserve to live. X-minus One had “You Died Last Night,” which has a novel ending: the narrator uses the alien’s time technology to go back and blow up the alien before he even gets out of his saucer. Usually they’re not that aggressive. Usually there’s a plea for mankind to get it together, because they’ll be back in a year! And what then? What then?

In “The Tenth Planet” the high-and-mighty alien comes from . . . the tenth planet, out there beyond Pluto.

It’s 1952, so it’s too early to be credited to Johnny Williams. But you can hear his style, can’t you?


Think "Lost in Space," and you'll hear it.




Pinned copy: Instead of the swank old sounds of Goodwill albums, this year we're going to share bad 1960s pop music. The second- and third-tier tunes. The ones that tried to capitalize on a particular niche or fad.


It has that early mid-60s chord progression. It's not the most melodically inventive thing I've ever heard.



Treet was one of the Spam Pretenders.


That'll do! Enjoy the weekend, and I'll see you back here on Monday.


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