Oh, these days are just perfect. And it’s enough. Should be getting ready for the Fair, but there’s no Fair this year, of course. Of course. Seems absurd we even thought it might happen.

Just work today, that’s all. Kept it diverse so there was always something different to do, until I got bored of that. Finished resizing one of the more pointless projects that’s been sitting in the folders: the 1970 Sparky Comic Book. I bought it at a jumble sale in Norfolk on a rainy afternoon, and it spoke to me. Not because I liked it - the stuff is dreck - but because of what it represented. You held the thick issues, and imagined some 10 year old on the floor in a row house on a raw October afternoon, reading about Keyhole Kate.

She looked through keyholes.

Hence the name.

How had this lasted half a century, and ended up here? Who saved it, and why? Had he died, and the kids dumped the stuff no one wanted in the antique store? It was a popular comic collection, ran for decades, and was a staple of British kids’ pop culture for a while. (Keyhole Kate actually goes back to the 30s, so whoever read this, his father may have seen his son reading about Kate and smiled a bit.) There’s also the part about being ten and being excited to get the new issue. To read the letters and the reader submissions, the action spy serial. I don’t know; there was just something about it said “save me.”

And then it said “scan me” and started getting churlish after a year. “Okay, you scanned me. Resize me. Color-correct me. Find me a place, write some stuff. POST ME DAMMIT.

Someday, Kate.

Went to Chick-Fil-A with daughter, and discussed the world. She wanted to talk about the Russian Revolution, because she’d watched some history videos, so we did just that. Then we went to the grocery store and looked at the pictures of dogs people post in the pets section. All those solemn dogs, waiting for something. I should post Birch. He has his moments.

 

 

   

 

   
   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We had an incident here in Minnesota, where some activists went to the home of the head of the police union, and a fellow colorfully castigated the neighbors who had come out to see what was going on.

The City of Hugo should be burned down. It will take a lot of gas:

Some context, to show where it is in the Metro area:

You can burn a lot of fossil fuels to drive up there from the city. The revolution will not be carbon neutral, but that's okay; they can fix that afterwards.

Ah, but it’s just rhetoric; it’s intended to be a general prescription for changing the system. Of course, if it is literally burned, well, that’ll move things along quicker, and one cannot control the actions of the more committed folk who are serious about Justice; things happen in a revolution. You can’t empty the jails without shooting a few jailers; you can’t root out systemic racism without burning down a few systemically racist cul-de-sacs.

No, they’re not about burning down the suburbs. Just the police precincts.

You can’t fault them for zeal; their demands are modest. It’s not like they want to burn down every city and every town. Just the buildings devoted to the police.

After that, justice flows like water from a dynamited dam.

The fellow who made the Hugo speech is a DFL candidate, endorsed by the governor. He has since “apologized” for being caught on tape saying what he believed. And that's all, folks! Strib:

Minnesota DFL Chairman Ken Martin issued a statement Sunday saying the party didn’t condone such rhetoric.

“I’m grateful for the work John is doing to combat systemic racism, and I’m glad that he recognizes yesterday’s rhetoric was inflammatory, hurtful, and does not help move our state forward in the fight for justice,” Martin wrote.

The governor has not rescinded his endorsement - not because he agrees with the colorful fellow; I’m sure he doesn’t. But there is no political pressure for him to do so, and it will all wash away with time and the incuriosity of the local media. They are concerned that he led a smashing of a pinata made to resemble the wife of the police-chief union, who is a local TV reporter. Otherwise, the vulgarity and animus would have been met with a cringe and a wince, and then we move on.

I've no point here, except to say that I wish my newsfeed wasn't full of people dressed in black moving through previously beautiful cities burning and breaking and chanting and beating. You'd like to think it could be stopped. But we've given up a lot of the things we used to think.

 

 

 

It’s 1931.

Some quick hits today. You can tell that the nation’s transportation infrastructure was different.

“Friends” have told the press he’s going grey and has new wrinkles.

FRONT PAGE NEWS

   
  Sweet mother of GOD, what a way to go
   

   
 

Boom goes the yegg: Nate wasn’t kidding around.

The last paragraph suggests it took some time to put all the pieces back together.

   

   
 

The Depression is taking its toll, you suspect.

Wonder if the guy had any lines on his face.

   

   
 

Meanwhile, in Eloi-land: let’s get away from the grim news of day and imagine ourselves having a gay weekend in our Manhattan penthouse!

   

   
 

The clown prince of the talkies! I was dimly aware of him growing up, perhaps because he died in 1973, and it was in the news. Immensely popular, and his bio makes him sound like a regular joe.

   

This history page says:

 By the fall of 1930, and continuing through the 1960s, the Schade Theatre became known as Warner’s Ohio Theatre, under the proprietorship of Warner Brothers.

No; this is 1931, so off by a year or so. It ended up as a porn house, closed in 1979, and was subsequently razed. Of course, it would be hard if it had been previously razed.

None of this is stuff is particularly interesting, but . . .

LA Times, when Janis died in 1956: “Mary Pickford, who was at the bedside of Janis when death came said, ‘This ends the vaudevillian era.’ Pickford added, ‘She was certainly one of the greatest entertainers of all time.’"

I can’t find out why they had a feud.

Hubbard Keavy was from Sioux Falls, and went up the journalism ladder until he hit syndicated column paydirt. Died in 1980. A tip of the hat to a fellow newspaperman.

 

There you have it! And now you will have more, if you like: some commercials of 1983, one of my favorite years.

 

 

 
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