It is flowering tree and bush season. The Sears catalog makes it seem rather fraught, though. Little Jimmy isn't coming back.

One thing I neglected to note in the account of New York: scaffolding. Everywhere. It seems permanent in many locations, and has the effect of ruining your view of the building.

This poor old fellow.

Looks like Richardson, the simpleton from Deadwood.

I googled the situation, and read a few pieces that say some building owners leave them up permanently, as it's easier than putting them up and taking them down for the every-five-year facade inspection. It's ugly. It gives the streets a Gotham-city look, as if it's all falling apart, and everyone's given up on long-lasting repairs. Now it's just wire to hold things together for the moment.

Something else that irritated me, as if it's the fault of the world, and not me, walking around, looking for trouble:


We're all safer. And that is the thing that should inform every single possible interaction: the assumption that we're all diseased.

I can report that the clerk of this establishment did not seem to care for me. I can't blame her, since I was being an unobservant idiot. I'd been surprised by the price of a very small sandwich: $3.99. That seemed cheap for an airport, but it was miniscule, so . . .


. . . I took it to the counter for our cashless, caring transaction. She rang it up.

"$13.99," she said. I said no, hold on, what? She pointed to the menu and said "there's a one in front of it" in a tone that suggested she had to say this 3457 times a day. It was indeed $13.99, but the one was so small it was like a footnote. An advance footnote.

I did not buy a $14.00 sandwich the size of a Hostess Twinkie. I mean, no. Boo Airport and your canny application of market conditions. This is why I hate that insurance ad where they make fun of people who bring lunch to the airport instead of buying it there. You're turning into your parents ha ha! Explain to me why it is stupid old-think to make the exact sandwich you want, with the condiments you want, for $5, instead of spending $20 for something you only half-want. Lol just get a sandwich it's only $20

Perhaps when you've trained yourself for fork over $4.89 for a coffee confection every day, or you're just used to helium-inflated New York prices, $20 for a tiny wrap the size of a pro-wrestler's thumb and a bag of chips is normal, but gah. In Manhattan i bought a bottle of Zero Water, which is a ridiculous $1.50 here, and it was $3.12. I burst out laughing when he rang it up and told him what it was in Minnesota.

I know, I know. Yeah but you're drinking it in Minnesota. For three bucks you can drink it in New York.


Thursday night I felt a bit droopy and fuzzy, but nothing too noticeable. Sometimes it’s just a mental thing. Your brain goes to neutral, and you feel like a bag of wet cotton. Nothing interests or excites. Could that be from COVID? Hmmm . . . possibly. Everything can be ascribed to COVID. It is the wet square of cement outside Graumann’s into which we press our identities, right?

Kidding. But. I had a sore throat. Scratchy, but also oddly ripe. You can ascribe this to anything, but it had the particular quality I associate with a cold. I never quite remember what it is until I get it, and then I remember: oh right. This is that which presages the rhinovirus. Well, zinc up.

Wife backhands my forehead: I’m warm. I don’t feel feverish. In fact now I have climbed out of neutral into first, because I got some stuff done in the evening. Laid out the week’s below-the-folds, signed the fence-staining contract, filed all the New York photos in the archives, started editing the video. Had a little time to fire up Planet Coaster, and realized I’d made a great mistake, but it’s unlikely any of the visitors will care. As usual, it’s something you file away for the next park.

There’s always a next park.

The one I’m working on now was not intended as the Final Park of Perfection, so I’m not concerned about the errors. But I have to finish it.

ANYWAY the whole day was ajar. It was sunny in the morning, and it hailed in the afternoon, denting the gazebo roof a bit. Sigh. Many other contrusions. Didn’t go to the office, because a handyman was due. For some reason the refrain this day kept popping up, peppering the mood: what next? This day.

Around nine-ish, with the throat in mild distress, I wondered if I was about to play that modern game, Cold or Covid? If it was the latter, that would be entirely my fault, I suppose. I willingly went to New York City. I walked around. I entered buildings. I talked in bars. I acted as if everything was normal.

Well, let’s say it is Covid, and it’s mild. Worth it? Sure. It’s all a tradeoff. Let’s say it’s Covid, and it is serious. Worth it? Depends. Do I live? Then it’s worth it, inasmuch as you can get the damn stuff anywhere. In the last year I’ve been to Colorado, Arizona, California, London, Norfolk, Mexico, and New York. Any of these trips could have snagged me the C. If I don’t have it, then the next one could.

I am vaccinated, twice, and double-boosted. The idea that I could get this damn thing after FOUR FARGIN’ SHOTS is a testament to something . . . and I’m thinking it might reflect on the initial assumptions we all had when the vaccines were announced. Success! Release! It’s over! It’s the last reel of Contagion where Lawrence Fishburne gets his vaccine and the long nightmare is done!

Except not.

Well, if I have it, I expect it will be as mild as Lutheran breakfast sausage. If not, then it’s been a good run.

UPDATE: no worse, not exactly 100%. I suppose I should take a test. Stay tuned!


Ruth was one of those born-in-a-trunk types:

Roland was born in San Francisco, California to Elizabeth Lillian Hauser and Jack Roland. Her father managed a theatre, and she became a child actress who went on to work in vaudeville. At age 12, she was the youngest student at Hollywood High School, having attended the school around 1904 or 1905 (there is debate on this date). Roland was Hollywood High School's first homegrown movie star.

It's about divorce, of course.

She made over 200 films, but Reno would be her next-to-last. She gave up the screen for the stage.

Here’s Ruth, talking in a Voice of Hollywood short, which I find charming. Interesting appearance by some comic who went on to other things.

Yes, he was well-known by 1930.


Also Wikipedia: "In 1979, a concrete box containing Roland's personal film collection was discovered buried in the backyard of Roland's house, and donated to the UCLA Film Archives by her heirs in 1980."

What was in it? How many lost films did it contain? This news story says it contained her original nitrates, including all 15 episodes of a previously lost serial.




The end of the month means we pick up on the adventures of . . .

Not much happens here; lots of running back and forth. I suspect that's most of the plot for this one - Earth to Saturn, Saturn to Earth, Earth to Jupiter, and so on.

  Let's catch up with the exciting head-'em-off-at the-pass music.

Another case of mistaken identity, which has happened three times so far, I think. They’re trapped, and bombed.

After an irrelevant action piece where Buck disarms some haywire rockets, they’re off to Saturn. Immediately spotted by Kane’s ships, of course, but the Scientist Guy, from the ground, uses the beam.

And they’re invented the cloaking device.

They make it to Saturn, where Killer Kane’s men are waiting. They find a Convenient Ventilation Port:

Dude, bust out a window!




That'll do! See you around.




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