There's a merry sight, eh? The tallest towers lost in gloom. But I like it.
Well, here we are at the end of another week, with most of the big solid mass of January behind us. This week was, shall we say, a standard ration in all senses, with one notable moment: as I was walking through the 333 skyway lobby, the tall silent custodian - he's always polishing or hoovering something - was spraying something on the floor. As I got closer I saw Ishmael in his standard natty suit, holding up a hand for caution. There were two blood drops on the shiny marble.
"Crime scene?" I asked.
"I don't know. Nosebleed probably. It's all the way from 701." That would be the dispiritingly quiet 701 4th street, a high-80s Helmut Jahn building across the street.
"I hope it's not on your nice new carpet," I said, looking to the skyway.
"Hope not too. You going to get some coffee?" he asked. Not sure why but any conversational sallies downtown are welcome.
"I'm going to make some coffee," I said. "First thing I do when I get upstairs, I make a pot. No, first thing I do is pour out the coffee I made yesterday and didn't drink, then I make a pot." He gave me a thumbs-up.
I followed the blood through the skyway. Same pattern: one big drop and one small. It faded as I got to Ameriprise, and then headed north. I'm sure it's not the first time. You wonder how much blood those carpets conceal.
When I got upstairs I discovered that someone had already made coffee, which is like being the last man on earth and coming home after a foraging expedition and finding that the windowsill is slightly ajar.
From Natalie in London:
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I was convinced she was the victim of a prank and scoured the socials for "London Pickle Prank." |
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It's this McDonald's:
She later told me that the McDonald's worker had offered to give her an entire burger, it being paid for, and she took him up on the offer. Shortly after she ran into the guys who had ordered the pickle at the Tube station . . .
. . . and taunted them with the full hamburger she had received.
She's enjoying London a lot.
I had to get a new phone case, and like all the stuff that comes out of China for "premium" brands, it has a philosophy. None of this stuff is convincing.
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The orange portion is a card from inside with QR code so I can register it.
I guess we're going on a journey now.
Also, I presume their brand slogan is "Simple , but Unique."
I presume incorrectly: |
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"What do you want from your phone case, durability?"
"No, it's more important that it complies with my own characteristics, being 'curiosity, exploration, and future.'"
"Future isn't a characterist. Will you be content with quality life experience?"
"Hit me up fam"
And now, the weekly dream-journal entry, illustrated by artificial intelligence.
William Conrad was following me around, asking questions about The States. He braced me in the office bathroom and asked which state was FBI Agent Beurgeron Ford killed in? North Dakota, South Dakota, or Montana? I had gotten all 49 questions right, so the pressure was on - but I couldn’t remember which questions I’d answered, so I couldn’t remember if I’d had a Dakota question.
Someone at the wash basin said “North Dakota,” but I said no, you’re thinking of Special Agent Gordon Cole from “Twin Peaks,” whose name was similar to a Posse Commitatus guy in North Dakota who shot a Federal Agent. No, I know this one. It was South Dakota.
And I was correct. The dog stirred and woke me - then I fell back asleep at dreamed about someone on Twitter who knew lots of esoteric data, hinting of an announcement of a great breakthrough in some technology that had to do with thin wires and tiny grains of diamonds.
AI Prompt: FBI agent North Dakota William Conrad in the style of Norman Rockwell
In the first one, he has a twin.
Number Two: He has a smallish sidekick. A deputy, perhaps. His expression dares us to linger on the misshapen atrocity on his desk.
I like his taste in ties.
Perhaps he was assigned to North Dakota to safeguard the military's new miniature rocket program, and was going undercover as Mike Lindell:
Saddle up, boys, we got a lead on the killer of Agent Beurgeron Ford. Johnson, fix your shirt collar.
The fabric on the suits is remarkable. The details . . . they make an impression, seem like something you know, but are out of reach of close study and comprehension. Just like things in a dream.
A backdoor picture of the Stadium apartments on a dim day.
Surface lots used to cover 70% of the blocks in this part of town. Never looked good. I expect this one will be converted to housing in five, six years.
If the guard hadn't been dead, would he have called Lance?
It seems as if some critical information is missing here, like the guard not having his gun out of his holster, or the clerk stinking of gunpowder.
Solution is here.
This year's old newspaper feature: a "social no-no" single-panel illustration. Can you figure out what's wrong?
The answer will be provided on Monday. That gives you an entire day to speculate in the comments!
That will do. Thank you for your visits, and I'll see you on Monday.
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