The question: after my Time Machine backup hard drive fails, how long can I comfortably live without it, even though I have cloud, on-site, and off-site backups, all of which were completed in the last week, and in the case of the on-site backup of the most crucial information, completed at 3 AM?

Approximately 47 minutes. I ordered a drive at Best Buy and drove to pick it up. Something to do, I guess. It was $64 for a WD 1TB, and $69 for 2TB. I don’t know who’d take the first option. Two terabytes? Whoa, that’s way too much. No need to get greedy here!

The fun part is checking the reviews, which are always the same for every single hard drive. There’s an AI summary, and they all read like this:

Customers liked the capacity, ease of set-up, and quiet performance. They liked the price and the fact that a cable was provided. Some complained that the color was not as black as the pictures. There were concerns about stability, fragility, smell, early failure, slow transfer speeds, and muted sounds of a voice chanting Latin in reverse.

Ninety-four percent are positive, because the drive has not failed yet. Six percent are bitter about the drive failing. To be fair, the one-star reviews are all people who got a brick out of the box, or had it fail within a few months, and hence LOST EVERYTHING. For them I have no sympathy. Assume imminent failure on 50 percent of your storage media, backup, rotate, etc.

As long as I was out I did some other shopping. Infinite Intoxicants had a sale on a new Jim Beam Black 7, or something - about $24 for a 32-gallon drum. I’ve never been opposed to Jim Beam - there was a time in DC when it was my choice after the whistle blew in the newsroom and we all slid down the Dino tail to Smith & Wollensky’s downstairs. But compared to my favorites it’s a bit on the paint-stripper side. Let’s check the reviews!

Customers liked the warm vanilla notes and hint of clove. They liked the price and the fact that it came in a bottle that kept the liquid from just pouring through your fingers. Some noted that they loved the smell of napalm in the morning. There were concerns about temporary blindness and loss of motor control.

Ah, what the heck, let’s pick it up. Try it. But that’s for Friday, when I reward myself with the weekend delights: pizza whiskey ice cream. As for that pizza, I’ve a problem: I have another of the Jalapeño Hamburger pizzas, and I really like it, but Friday is, and has always been, about pepperoni, sausage, and sauce. Technically I could have the pizza on Thursday and it would not count as pizza at all. If I scraped off the toppings and put it in a bowl it would be ersatz Chipotle.

Ordinary day, all the excitement described above to the contrary. Edited a piece, put up a big Substack for the paying customers, worked out. Speaking of which: there are new machines.

I call it . . . Bob.

 

We now begin this year's account of meaningless, random clickings on the internet, following one link from here to there, learning some interesting things along the way. You know, the rabbit hole.

   
  So! What's the journey that takes us from this image . . .
   
  . . . to this one?
   

I was researching the original names of some 19th century churches for my architecture column, and this meant studying a lot of old newspapers. At the bottom of one general-news page, a note:

I'm guessing that Mr. C died, and his widow is closing up his shop.

Well, which to investigate first? Lester Prairie, or New Germany?

Lester Prairie is small:

Its main gas station is called Big Don’s Carthedral, a name guaranteed to annoy spell-check programs. The main industry seems to be this place:

Liquibox. Among other things, the company makes boxed wine possible. The Lester Prairie facility makes the fitments. And now you know what those things are called. But what’s this business about being “Liquibox, Now A Sealed Air Company”? Sealed Air bought them, and wants everyone to know it. Can you guess what Sealed Air makes?

That’s right. Their first product, in 1960: Bubble Wrap.

Bubble wrap was invented in 1957 by engineers Alfred Fielding and Marc Chavannes in Hawthorne, New Jersey. Fielding and Chavannes sealed two shower curtains together, creating a smattering of air bubbles, which they originally tried to sell as wallpaper.

That's rather ultra-modern, and I can see why it didn't catch on. No one really wants to run their hand along the wall and feel something plastic with welts or buboes.

The company has a remarkable product line, which would seem to be the result of wise expansion into adjacent markets. What I can’t find is where they make their air pillows. You know, those inflated plastic bags you get when you get a box from Amazon? I’ve alway thought those would be a great plot device in a terrorist thriller novel, because no one thinks twice about popping them and letting their contents waft into your space. Where does the air come from? Is it Chinese air? Do they t ship bales of inflated plastic pillows all the way from China? Or is it domestic air? If so, where are they, ah, sourcing their air?

As for New Germany - a name that would settle decisively an out-of-towner’s query about the residents’ heritage - it’s smaller. Wikipedia:

In 1917 during World War I, the village changed its name to Motordale. It restored the name New Germany in 1922.

Not according to the New Ulm paper, which said the change was made in 1920.

Anyway: “New Germany was established in the 1880s around the Great Northern Railroad depot.” Which is gone. But it makes you look for the remains of the railroad line, to see if you can trace it from space. As it happens, it’s easy: it’s now the Dakota Line Trail.

In Oct 2014, the rails were still visible.

The rest of the trail is unpaved, a ghost lane into the woods.

You can follow it west from the Google Maps, because it’s dead straight and marked by trees on both sides of the line. You can follow the line for a long time by following the trees. Sometimes you just have to know it used to be there. It explains the lonely elevator, waiting for a train to pull up and receive the boon of the land.

Oh, the "Here" image at the top:

I wonder if there are any bags out there unopened, with the air of decads ago.

 
 

 

  

   

I think it's a tradition to begin the year with an extensive account of one blasted, destroyed, hopeless street littered with fine old buildings left to die. And so here we are, back in the Detroit metropolitan area. Where to begin? It doesn't really matter. Let's start with the marvelous remnants of 70s design.

Almost an optical illusion with those things. They look like hallways.

Ah, we’re going to be doing Decline today. Got it.

Looks as if they ripped out the bays, and didn’t particularly trouble themselves with the aesthetic aftermath.

I spoke too soon

I really spoke too soon.

I am absolutely fascinated with this. What did it look like when it was new?

Better than this, I guarantee you. And what’s the explanation for the circle?

The second floor looks like a cotton-ball storage facility. Note the stone mosaic in between the second and third floors, and the framing of the windows for no reason but aesthetics. Someone took some care when they designed this one.

 

Decline like this is hard to reverse.

This once was a proud, civilized, and elegant location.

If I had to guess, I’d say the facade and stone around the windows came later - perhaps even ten, 15 years after construction.

The rehab looks worse on the front. Just commit! Do the whole thing! Don't leave a sliver of its old style.

This is turning out to be quite depressing, isn’t it.

Another simple facade, maybe late 40s or 60s, with a Hee-Haw wood ruination.

Then nothing.

It has the look of a bank branch.

Its relative preservation is an indication of the level of vitality around here. Retail's gone, but the lawyers have an embassy.

Happy Sixties script, with a bouncy cheer.

The question is whether the street died of natural causes, or was murdered.

Let’s hire someone to make murals to revitalize the neighborhood! Make it vibrant.

How long has the theater been dark?

A long time. 2009:

Let’s back out again . . .

No roof.

Well, at least the locals will respect the art of the muralist, because -

Ah - I’m looking at old Streetview visits. Let’s switch to the latest view . . .

The last identifying aspect has been removed. Ciinematreasures:

The Highland Park opened in 1915, designed by B.C. Wetzell, who also designed several other Detroit-area theaters, like the DeLuxe and Arcade. It could seat 1,600 and may have originally been a vaudeville house before switching to movies sometime later.

In 1967, it was renamed the Paris Theatre, and began screening adult fare. Three years later, it received another new name, the Hiland Art Theatre. Wayne County prosecutors fought to have the Hiland shut down during the 1980’s, claiming it was being used as a front for prostitution.

This is just the start. We'll be up and down this street all month.

That will suffice for Thursday, Bleat-wise. The updates for today follow our usual pattern: Main Street postcards at the top of the year. Then comes . . . what, class? Yes, Google Street View selections. And then? Very good, restaurants. When May returns it's time for the run of a hundred motels, but that is very, very far away.

See you around.