The bad news: my wife ripped something in her heel playing tennis, and came home on crutches. The good news: this will ensure she takes it easy this weekend, and perhaps puts her lovely legs up and watches TV and reads books while I cook dinner and do the housecleaning. The bad news: she does not want to do these things, because there are THINGS TO DO, and will probably move around a bit too much.

I have a contrary, unhelpful attitude: if everything is done it’ll have to be done next week. If nothing is done it’ll still have to be done next week. Relax. This doesn’t mean I like a messy house; on the contrary, I am always cleaning counters and surfaces and neatening things. But I do not take a wet Q-tip to the area behind the sofa where the wall meets the floor. I am not bothered by the fact that there may be detritus in that area, because there will not be a knock at the door, and I’ll find The League of Relatives & Busybodies who shout “we’ve come to judge you on the basis of the region behind the sofa against the wall! Stand back! We will not be denied!”

It’s probably not a tendon, since she was able to hobble and move her foot around. They had crutches at the tennis center, because the pursuit of sport and fitness occasionally results in injury and incapacitation, which is why I confine my activity to lots of brisk walking and pushups. My watch tells me every day that I’m meeting all my targets, too!

I have no idea what my targets are, but I meet them.



As you might have gathered from the banners this week, I went to Hunt and . . . well, Gather. I bought a collection of 1960 Cunard shipboard activities programs and brochures, which will be up in the Ships section on Misc some day. I know, I know - you’re tired of hitting that link every week, and there’s no updates!

Soon. Some day. Also bought some matches, even though I’ve got them scanned, sorted, and written through 2020.

Anyway: Anti-freeze. There are many empty old rusted cans of anti-freeze. How did they survive?

The owner said she’d recently done a buying trip in Iowa, so I’ll bet these came from farm barns.


I remember these! They were Space-Age indeed.

Super-light and thin, and in COLOR. We were not prepared for this great, sudden leap in key technology.


Hail our old friend Aunt Jenny:

Again, how did this survive? Store displays like this were always tossed, and this one has to be mid-30s at the earliest, early-40s at the latest.


“Nope, Billy - even when you compare the fibers at high magnification, there’s no way your shirt and pants match.”

iIt’s a piece of New Frontier adventures-in-science fun. You got a microscope, some slides, some chemicals, some beakers. All you ended up doing was pouring vinegar into baking soda.


I keep seeing “Mouth-Gas.”

Although some people’s mouth gas could kill bugs. Men, you’ll appreciate this bit of knowledge about Dichlorobenzene, which HAIL is 100%:

p-DCB is used to control moths, molds, and mildew. It also finds use as a disinfectant[3] in waste containers and restrooms and is the characteristic smell associated with urinal cakes.


I don’t know why they’re together, but they are.

Art, for art’s sake.


It's all one panel - and a pretty good example of the Mumps Lawson phase.

Everyone's story is just ridiculous to Lance. You can imagine he just got so tired of people who put so little thought into it. Solution here. Full panel here, if you wish.



Our monthly revisit of the classic Couple Next Door cues, the best in 50s domestic library music.



We have it all here - busy city music, passage of time, wrapping it up with alls-well-ends-well panache.



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.

1967. The stoners thought they really had something here . . .


. . . until someone said "I don't know, isn't that 'Satisfaction' by the Stones, man?"


The song would be blessedly shorter if Mom had just said "yes" and closed the door.


1942. PSA for the Waves.



Friday already! That was fast. But as Kirk said, it was . . . fun. Mostly, as Newt said.



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