It’s a cold. Mrghmghn. And I have to be an MC on Sunday at Orchestra Hall. That’ll be keen if I’m deep in the snort-and-sneeze phase of it all, but I can probably get by if I blast my nose with Afrin before every performance. I’ll have a honkingly red schnoz, probably. On the other hand it’ll be the end of the season, which is the sort-of-kinda start of Spring, in my book. So many years it’s been cool on that day, and I expect the same.

The worst part is the start. You just feel blah without other symptoms - and this somehow convinces you that you do not have a cold, and indeed you often feel fine! Until it finally just pounds you down and makes your nose feel like it’s being gently electrocuted with the serrated tale of a tiny eel.

So forgive me for having almost nothing here today. All available energy went to writing the column. This will be the surest test of the Zinc Method - for years I’ve sworn by the power of Zinc to arrest and minimize a cold, if caught early, and I started hitting those tablets as soon as I woke with a raw throat.

If it doesn’t work I will still believe, and find some other reason that it didn’t work.

Where did I get it? Fargo, probably. I didn’t meet anyone who had a cold, but once you leave your home base you wade into an invisible pool of fungoo.

 

These are some of the buildings going up in the North Loop. It’s remarkable. Down Washington Avenue, an apartment building is topped off and Tyveked, with the customary roof flair:

I had a discussion the other day about the sameness of new apartment construction, and while I get it - the same meaningless grids, same boxy style - I don’t completely agree. Apartment styles have always been consistent within an era, and usually less interesting. I have great love for the 20s apartments, which adorned themselves with historical jewelry - you want Spanish? We got that. You want Tudor? We got that - but were basically the same. The blocks of the 50s were horrible and featureless, perfect for kids coming out to bounce a ball in unison as in “Wrinkle in Time” - an image that haunted me as a kid. The Sixties: white brick. The Seventies: Mansard roofs. You can read the era quite easily, and they’re all much less interesting than modern apartments.

That said, nothing exciting here:

But it fts the area.

A big hole:

Another parking lot about to be a half-block-long residential complex. Say goodbye to this view; you'll not see it again in your lifetime.

Finally, another view of the two-block Thrivent project:

I wish we'd gotten a beautiful downtown skyscraper out of this boom, but I'll take this over stagnation any day.

 

 

Ahoy, or not:

You'd think that someone attempting to impersonate a sailor would get the details right, especially when you're committing a crime in Lawson's town.

All the yeggs had to know Lawson would pick your story apart like that. Solution is here.

 

 

 

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

 

The usual tinkling and shameless sponsor bufffing, which ends before you wonder how the characters of the story know the announcer so well. This time it's a special anniversary!

 

Remind me to tell you the story of how the star of the show tried to get the job of "Albert" on Peg Lynch's radio show.

 
   

The Casey Chord, the gruesome custom cue, the banal scene setting.

   
   

Who?

WHO IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE

   

 

Have I mentioned that Annie was played by the actress who later achieved immortality as Madge, the Palmolive Manicurist?

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.

Wikipedia: " Garber was born in Indianapolis, Indiana. He had his own band by the time he was 21. He became known as "The Idol of the Airwaves" in his heyday of the 1920s and 1930s, playing jazz in the vein of contemporaries such as Guy Lombardo. Garber played violin with the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra after World War I

   

1961. This wasn't his only album for the year.

He put out seven.

   

I grew up hearing a different version of this song, and didn't know there were others.

   

 

 
1951. PSA. If you heard this, the ad rep hadn't sold the time.
   

 

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.

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That'll do - see you Monday!

 

 

 
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