Outdoor, gazebo, dog, crickets, sirens. No planes. Must be a slow night. By which I mean they had insufficient speed to remain airborne - ah, no, here comes one. The siren stopped a few blocks away, which is never a good sign, but at least we don’t have the vroom-vroom cars anymore. It’s possible the idiots racing around the neighborhood encountered various obstacles, like Law, or a Tree.

Well, what’s new? Our publisher announced his departure today. He had guided us through parlous times, and I wanted to say farewell in person, so I hopped upstairs. Told him that if the Titanic had a shift change in captains on that night, it would have berthed in New York. Reminisced about the days when the office was just the two of us, which really is a publisher’s nightmare: the City Hall’s on fire, I can see if from my office? Who can cover it? HIM? OH LORD

Everyone keeps peeling off, at least from my cohort. Good to see new people around the office now and then, when they come in.

Had a hot dog at Walkin’ Dog. There was a line! Had it with sport peppers. Filed my column, wrote a feature for the Bleat you’ll see next week, then took my walk listening to the Thursday Walk podcast. (Creature of habit, moi?) It’s “Anatomy of Murder,” true-crime as you might guess, but never sensational and always marked by keen intelligence, well-matched personalities, and a great sense of compassion. I mention it only because the co-host, Scott Weinberger, a former LEO and TV journalist, noted in passing the other day that he had been in Phil Collins’ old band for a while.


Not Genesis, which left Brand X. Sure enough, he played in Brand X. Impressive. That was a complex prog-fusiongroup, and we knew we would love it because the album art was by Hipgnosis. (He came later.) One of those bands that plays in 7/16 time in seven keys.

Well, anything in the detritus bin? Only this. I wear water slippers around the house, to my wife’s dismay, but they provide everything I want in slippers. They are not loose. I hate flapping around in something that requires the scrunching of toes to keep them secured. They are cheap. You can find hundreds of colors and styles on Amazon, all put out by a Chinese factory that hired someone to craft a landing page full of the usual Chinese BS. How they are dedicated to Your Life and Style and devoted to the Good of Special Life.

And how can you tell it’s Chinese?

And that name. WateLves. Gah.


No action on the Washington Avenue project. Hmm.

In a few months, it's gone feral. But it has its charms.

Meanwhile, over at the Stadium apartment sites: NOW we're talking. out of the pit and a few floors up. Breadth established.

Over at the Firehouse site, you can see the scope of the project now:

About 5/ths of the entire block, it seems.

It turns out that the Northstar renovation wasn't just about tearing off the 90s facade, but building something new. Will it be stylistically consistent, or look like another anachronistic imposition?

Another huge project was just announced, but I'll save that for next week.

Tiny's studying for his detective exam, is he?

There's a lot going on in that third panel, isn't there.

Solution is here.



I was listening to an OTR show on the way to work. This is Your FBI. The Walkie-Talkie Stick-Up. Two young hoodlums, with no respect for private property or the well-being of others, just like those nations of Europe that ran over the rights of their neighbors (really, that's what they said) had stolen two walkie-talkies from an Army depot, and used them to coordinate a robbery of some nylons from a factory warehouse.

Of course, the FBI got involved.

Well. Many questions. The FBI got involved in a case as small as this? YES, because these vicious young hoods were a growing threat to the safety and security of decent Americans. And also maybe because an Army warehouse was hit? Wasn’t mentioned. But the idea that two agents would run down a teenager who boosted a walkie-talkie seemed ridiculous, from a modern perspective. I suppose it was meant to reassure everyone that the FBI was on all these cases, and no case was too small for the Super Police.

The main hoodlum - named “Knuckles,” of course, was a sneering, swaggering type who wanted to work his way up the chain of crime. These nylons are just the start, see? And again, you stop: nylons? Black-market nylons. Okay. But still. The idea of this new breed of young criminals were learning how to innovate with walkie-talkies, in order to steal nylons, and that the FBI gets involved, tells you that this is pure grade-A booshwa to unnerve the squares, and get them thinking about this new breed of criminal.

Except they didn’t seem new at all. Just a new iteration of the usual kids from the wrong-side-of-the-tracks pulling heists and mouthing off to authority figures. Angry, bitter people who were presented as unredeemable. They were not to be reformed. They were to be suppressed.

But who was to blame?

Let’s ask J. Edgar himself.


What was wrong with parenting in the post-war world that they had to say these things? They’re basically saying do the absolute minimum. Was the audience for this show guilty of lax parenting - or was this a signal that it was okay to blame the slovenly lessers for their indifferent child-rearing?

If you think Hoover sounds different than you imagined . . . well.  
But don't you do that, because you'll be arrested.

This year we're counting down the top hits . . . of 1922.

The Happiness Boys are having a laugh.


Fantastically popular act; they took this one to #2.


1979: Troubled by sluicing innards?






That'll do. Thanks for your visits this week, and we'll start it all up again on Monday. Oh - this week's Misc updates finishes off one of those peculiar obscure sites that populates the Miscellany area. Old AM Radio Logos!




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