I forgot my car keys at the office today. Stopped on the way to the car, realized they weren’t in my pockets, and saw them in my mind’s eye hanging from the lock in my office cubicle. Sigh. Went back two blocks, up 12 floors, got them, went back outside. I was about a block from my car when I realized . . . I didn’t have my car keys.


It was back at the office? Had I taken it out of the lock and put it on the desk? Went back to the office, up 12 floors. It wasn’t on my desk. I removed everything from my backpack. Nothing. Went downstairs to the main info desk, asked if anyone had handed in keys in the last ten minutes. No. Walked through the skyway, staring intently at everything. Nothing. Looked at counters and tables in the skyway; no. Went to the other info desk in the 333 tower; no. Downstairs to the lobby, thinking:

I will have to Uber home, get the spares, come back - and in the meantime I’m at a 2-hr max space, so if I return and there’s no car it’s because I got towed, or someone found the keys and is walking around pushing the button to see which car beeps hello in return. DAMMIT

I came to the corner, and remembered I’d jogged across the street to beat the light. There was something in the middle of the street. Was it?

It was. Cars had run over the fob. I found the back part a yard away, and fit it together. The keys had come off, so I reattached them, and continued on IMMEDIATELY BACK TO NORMAL.
An instantaneous switch. To my delight the car hadn’t been ticketed, and to my surprise the fob unlocked the car.

This has happened before, and like the other time, the info-desk person brought out a box of keys that had been turned in.

Who loses their keys and doesn’t go to the desks where they were? How did these people get home? Each key fob surely had many stories, one per key at least; in my case there’s a tiny key whose purpose no one would guess.

Keys are absolutely invaluable but we have no emotional attachment to them. The key to your house is everything, but you don’t regard it as particularly symbolic. When it’s not your house, the key is dead metal. Loose keys in a drawer evoke frustration, not curiosity.

Well, that was the highlight of the day. Turned in the third piece of the week, and now about to start on #4. So let’s wrap this thing up.



I think this is Big Bend. I show it here for two reasons: 1. Obviously not all towns I "visit" make the cut for Main Street. Oh my exacting standards. The other thing? It's snow. You rarely see snow on Google Street View,

But they also look like twins who took completely different routes in life.

I did a story on an old White Castle restaurant, and this took me to some original locations. Near a current WC, there was this old view . . .

For decades - decades it's been a grim, empty place.


A bit too much Main Street today, and I apologize, or would, if it wasn't my website, so nyah

Okay, something else.


This is everything I find wonderful about America: a non-Italian guy - a Lutheran! - get an idea for an homage to red-sauce spaghetti joints, and hits it big - and the person writing about it is of Indian ancestry.

But why is this not a bonanza of cultural appropriation? Under the new rules, are we not to slam the Lutheran for staking a claim to his idea of “true” Italian food - as popularized by immigrants, at that - and what standing does a person of Indian ancestry have to write about either?

The new rules are nonsense, and they’re selectively enforced. A right-thinking food website that has incorporated the new rules into its product would probably slam a German-American who opens an Indian restaurant based on the styles and recipes of the 70s. He’d be dragged and one-starred until the cows come home (where they will be treated well.)

BTW, the article says there weren’t any red sauce restaurants in the Twin Cities, which isn’t true.


You'd think he would insist on Inspector Lance, at the least.

It's always the details they needn't add that do them in. Solution is here.



We continue our 2019 review of the music at the Blue Note Cafe.


Every show began the same way, at least during its heyday. The theme, a piano glissando down to the melody playing in the background of the bar, and some fourth-wall breaking with Ethelbert the bartender, Caset the Crime Photographer, and Tony Marvin, the shill.






And then this: introducing the Ace Cameraman who's in a City, the Casey Chord, and then custom music.


City music, but not bustling city music.


Obligatory Edna, with belch reference.


2019 returns to the bins, and the records dumped back into the world when someone dies and the kids give the contents of Mom and Dad's entertainment system to the Goodwill.




"Sit down, Junior, this is like your music, but it's done right."


(Dawns on Junior about a minute in what this really is)




Who isn't?

And remember, Bleat+ members - three pages of updates. If you haven't gotten your credentials, send me an email - my last name @ icloud dot com - with the subject line DILLWEED I appreciate your contribution and want to make sure everyone gets to experience the most exciting site on the Internet.

That'll do - see you Monday!



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