Sorry if this week has seemed a bit repetitive or torpid. Nothing torpids like torpidity, as they say. I think we’re all due a bit of slack, and I don’t just say that to excuse my own weak product on this page, but to justify it entirely. No wait -

Let me start again. Lame week! My fault! At least it’s done. Moving closer towards emancipation. As I tweeted today, four weeks ago I was going into this thinking “I’m going to finish this book” and now I regard it as an accomplishment if my pants fit when they’re fresh out of the drier.

Last Sunday Daughter said she wanted to make Salmon Pesto, which sounds like some bad-boy provocateur author who got a fatwa both from Khomeni and the Pope, and I said “sure, give me a list of ingredients.” I was making an all-important weekly run Monday morn. I bought fresh, or at least fresh-adjacent salmon at Target, and then smoked salmon at Traders Joe. That would cover it. Turns out I bought 4X more than the recipe needed, so we had the fresh salmon for Thursday dinner WHO CARES JEEBUS WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THIS

Because: started cooking around 7:30, and ended the meal at 8:45, which is what you do when it’s the best part of the day, and you want to burn off the evening and just get to the part when you can stand down and uncork the wine and let the gratitude seep into your bones.

“Oh, uncork the wine. Aren’t we putting on airs. No more buttered scones for me Mama, I’m off to play the grand piano.”

Okay, okay, poke through precut perforation of the box with your thumb and fish out the spout nestled in the folds of the plastic bladder, OKAY? We don’t drink a lot of wine around here, and the boxed stuff stays drinkable longer.

“Oh, we don’t drink wine, we’re regular folk who have good old American beer, not that Commie wine.”

What? No. I like wine, but it makes me sloppy, or drowsy, or both. Slowsy. Droppy.

By the way, have you ever noticed that people who make broad, sweeping assumptions about Dumb Murcans don’t regard them as a subset of the nation’s population, but a class of people who exemplify the core set of rotten truths about America?

Anyway, I’ve never had an interesting night that began and ended with wine. On the ship the evening’s consumption would begin at the late supper, and a glass would lubricate the dinner well enough, but when it came to talking long into the night with some degree of precision and focus, the wine people were always the first to fade. Whiskey increases one’s desire to write but makes it impossible to do so in short order, because Whiskey.

Friday I have to make a grocery run for Easter. I’m looking forward to it. I get two trips out of the house a week, one being the Wednesday Assertion of Normalcy, the other being the trip into the Poisoned Realm of Food.

Except, of course, it’s not normal, and it’s not poisoned. But as I’ve said this week, I fight the “new normal,” holding the old standards like a soldier in a trench clutching a picture of his best gal before he goes over the top. Except for the “not being in mortal danger at all, at least not like the people who are laboring in hospitals to minister to the infirm” part.

It was bright and hard and cold this morning, and it snowed. But the sun solved that problem by five. The purple flowers, the first signs of the lurid lush world to come, are up. That’s the news of the day at Jasperwood. Banner headlines, as far as I’m concerned. 1A, above the fold.

One more thing: no book completed, but this week I wrote 87 pages of updates for and overhauled a fargin’ metric buttload of sites. All for 2021, and I believe we will enjoy them together, as we have over the days and weeks and months and years this site has been up. Onward, etc.

I said this feature would be suspended for the Duration, but I'm not in the mood for suspending things during the Duration any more,m because SCREW THAT, I'm tired of suspending things. I walked around downtown on Wednesday, took pictures. Come and get me, copper.

More reveals of the Public Services building.

The "new" modern makes the old modern look a bit tatty, as it always does.

The Thrivent building is getting sneers for being so small and suburban. I think it's a a crisp piece of modernism, and I like it.

A non-charitable reading sees it as boring and suburban, but it's a bit more . . . precise.

The ground floor colonade, if you want to call it that, distinguishes this side of the structure from all the others.

A view of a part of the city that didn't exist a year or so ago.

They were parking lots. This is better than parking lots.

From my vast collection of things with almost no monetary value whatsover, I bring you this week's entry.


Tichodroma Muraria was one of Czechoslovakia's most famous wildlife painters.

Kidding! That's the bird.

"Murárik červenokrídly" comes back as "Red-winged Murderer."

Fierce little fellow.



Lance has that look that says it's been a long week.

That's awl the evidence he needs!

Sorry. Solution is here.






Hello, ever-y-body! Hello.

Let's drop in on our old new friend, the homespun philosopher dealing plain truths and extrapolating all sorts of things from things like . . . well, you figure it out.

Our subject is "Thoughts," and how they can send you to hell!




Tom's been blazin'




He's not wrong




Goodbye, everybody! We've had a happy time thinking about our mental patterns and the possibility of damnation




Everything about this art says "he was popular in an era before the graphic design styles changed."




You may, or may not, like that chorus-based countrypolitan style. Me, well, it reminds me of my father.





In 1976, Mazda wasn't what it was today.

That'll do. See you Monday! Enjoy your strange weekend that seems to lack the distinctions we enjoyed before.



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