All is fine here. Working on my next next column, then some TV. Took a *long* walk with Birch today - he did not want to go down to the creek, no matter how much I tugged, but wanted to go north, check out the Washburn grounds, then wander all over the neighborhood following scents. Good poop. I listened to The Rest is History members-only show, thank you very much, and learned about Charlemagne. He has not begged for anything after meals - Birch, not Charlemagne - although I did give him one of those Nubs after the hamburger dinner. He has also not requested late afternoon pre-meal meals.
This was all true. It is just me and the dog, and his attitude towards food is completely different. I am not a soft touch. I will say no. I will not head towards the closet of snacks the minute he barks and stamps his paws. Thus it has always been, and he shifted easily into this mode. He does stick close, though; the first night, after everyone left, he kept by my side to make sure I didn’t throw clothes in a suitcase and head out the door.
We had an ordinary Saturday, just the two of us. The aforementioned walk went to the Washburn grounds, as I said, because there was discarded food left there three years ago. The high schoolers are wont to strew wrappings and boxes, and he is keen to glean. Then he followed some scent which will ever be inscrutable to humans, and just as well; I have no need to be intrigued beyond reason by the dribblings of strange fauna and follow them to the ends of the earth, or the block. We had to cross the busy street, and if there’s one thing that separates dogs and people, it’s this: people know that there may not be a car in sight now, but there may be one quite quickly. In fact it is likely. Hence we make haste. If there is pancaked spoor on the road we will not stop to interrogate.
We passed the King of Toast’s castle, noted the slightly deflated lawn decorations and the way they caught the strong light of the afternoon, then made our way home. I took a nap, but it was cut short when the white-noise speaker stopped. It’s a ten-year-old Sony bluetooth, purchased to provide music on cruises. It has a nice bass quality that makes the white noise deeply soothing. The battery has been waning, though. It will hold a charge, but its grasp weakens after half an hour. It has to go. It’s just odd that the absence of white noise woke me, but I suppose it’s like being on a ship, dead asleep, and waking because the engines have stopped.
I made a hamburger in the accustomed Saturday fashion while watching the Bengals - Broncos came on my iPad. Exciting game! Hey, I might be alone here but the day’s okay -
LATER: I am telling my wife to crouch down and use the forward-facing camera to check the underside of the router to see if there’s a code.
Every - time - she - goes - to - her - mom’s place there are internet issues and password issues and network issues. One sister comes and helps and changes things and leaves and another sister comes and helps and changes things and leaves and then another sister comes and helps and changes things and leaves and SOMETHING, MAYBE, gets written down on a piece of paper, but it’s lost or tossed, and now no one can do anything. I end up on the phone asking questions and making suggestions for half an hour, minimum. Thus it was on Saturday night. Here’s what I’m dealing with:
The front desk at the assisted-living complex said “The security key is written on the bottom of the router, or the side.” This is the network password. Supposedly. I’m also looking at that coax, and thinking it’s not Cat-5 or -6, so this is old. I call up the provider’s home page and sure enough, it’s supposed to be written on the top or the side or the bottom. Ugh. Well. We’ll have to figure this out, because my wife needs this to work remotely.
Because she is going to be in Arizona for a month.
Me and the dog, for a month. Together, my friends, we will chart my descent into insanity.
As I mentioned last week, we saw the Arrow Awards, the British TV advertisement complilation.
This one made everyone happy, eventually.
There weren't many ads that starred, you know, those men things, except for this one - which knew exactly how to appeal to the core market.
Big-budget efficient world-building:
Not one of the commercials had the accursed unnatural blue that characterizes 65% of American ads. I wonder why.
Counting down the last of the 1934 trademark applications. This hasn't been a complete accouncing - it's just the ones I found interesting for whatever reason. I don't know why I chose this, other tha its resemblance to every vermouth label ever.
I've seen this one in newsgroups - sorry, I'm dating myself, subreddits about old comic compilations. I may have a few.
Almost nothing in these books is funny now.
And now, the conclusion!
Which means no cliffhanger! But we learn the identity of The Ghost. The only question is whether he’s arrested, or has an ironic death.
First, let’s do our traditional thing and play the opening.
To bring you up to speed:
When last we saw our hero, he was in a plane, being chased by a car.
So . . . I guess Dick’s okay?
He’s in the hospital. But he’s released right away! Since this is the last ep, we’re wondering how he’s going to catch the Ghost. Well, technobabble:
And everything has “opposite values.” Stands to reason it’ll reveal the Ghost. So let’s get to it. This means getting the two members of the Plutocratic Industrialist’s Council to show up, since Tracy thinks one of them is The Ghost.
Neither looks up to the task.
This leads to something we’ve never seen before: negative fighting!
But The Ghost knocks off the power and escapes, so that’s the 14th dead-end in the whole thing. But! Tracy uses bloodhounds, and they lead him straight to the getaway car. The henches bug out, and the Ghost has to to the other hideout, where he tells the sole remaining hence that he’s going to “escape over the high tension wire.”
It’s turned off, right? Right! The engineer is tied to a chair, so there’s no chance anyone would free him, turn on the juice, electrocute the Ghost, and send a powerful surge through the invisibility generator that blows up the controls in the car where the other bad guy, Lucifer, is sitting. Can't happen, right?
Anyway, the Ghost was this guy.
Turns out he was the brother of Rackets Regan! Remember how the Ghost began this thing by saying he was out to avenge his brother, Rackets Regan? He had a secret brother! The guy on the council. No one really cares. What matters is the one question we have at the end of a serial: does it, or does it not, end with laughter?
It was okay. It wasn't Tracy-like at all, though - very little cop-shop action, no two-way wrist-radios. Why, I don't know.
