I got a haircut the other day, a long-overdue trim. That way you get more for your money, you know. And you can test whether your spouse has actually been paying attention. I signed in on the app ahead of time, and drove to the salon at a leisurely pace, because I had 14 minutes to go six blocks. To my chagrin, I saw that the new restaurant had painted the side of the adjacent building stark white.

It used to look like this.

It’s an auto-body repair shop. Last time I went there for some minor work, it was run by a brassy lady who’d taken over after her husband died. Great sit-com material, really - a take-charge gal and a crew of car repair guys, including a senior fender-whisperer who could coax the dent out of anything.

The mural had a picture of her departed husband, looking down from the great beyond. New management now, I suspect, and the last family connection with the mural is gone.

 

It was never tagged by vandals, now that I think about it. Not because they would respect such things, but just because there weren’t that sort of people around. There were some nervy juvies from the local high school who’d frequent the gas station and supposedly get smokes from compliant clerks. The station wasn’t well run. The pumps were always slow, which meant bad filters, and the inside of the store had that desperate junky quality. Please buy something. It closed, and was replaced by a fusion restaurant - Catalonian / Fiji Island, or some such combo. Overpriced and underwhelming. It closed. Now something else. There was a BBQ joint I frequented once, and no more, because the guy who ran it was brusque and indifferent.

As I’ve always said, knowing what’s where is not enough. You should know what was there before. That’s when you know you’re anchored to a place, or at least have tried to understand it.

Anyway, I got right in, chatted away merrily with the stylist, then bought a puck of clay to keep my hair down. I was prompted to tip, and choose the middle option, since the top option represented a 50% tip. Suddenly the stylist cooled, noticeably. Was I supposed to tip on the sale of product? Was that to be included? Even if it was, I’d tipped 15%. It was odd, that sudden vibe shift, and made me wonder what the devil I’d done.

Now and then I pay particular attention to a particular year, and see what we can learn about the year and the times. What we can learn about 1949 is that wives can be driven to states of murderous rages when the husband announces, at the last moment, that the Boss is coming over for dinner - and he has particular dining preferences.

 

 

Take it from an old bean lover

Interesting how she gives up her secret, instead of taking personal credit. Maybe because the damned bird is still hanging around, and she knows he won't let her get away with it.

Again with the rage:

 

 

She's got devious intent in her eyes. She's not only going to serve up - hah had tennis joke - a good meal but beat the skirts and shorts off those "friends."

Next up: Hubby's dead. How did that happen.

 

Smooth proposal there, fella.

There's also some strips about a kid named Super 'N Rich. Here he saves a child from a car that is going at something less than light speed. Say, about one foot per hour.

 

 

Bread! Of course that's the secret to his super powers.

 

 

Bill, he has a habit now. The Holsum Habit. Because of his Holsum Habit, he has Vitamins. Because of the Vitamins, he can do math.

Little guy knocked the wind out of the big bully, who, in the time-honored manner of evil people, says Heh, Heh, Heh while pushing in the nose of a kid and driving the bone fragments into his skull:

 

 

These are from different days, of course. The rest of the page has all manner of curious little details of the time:

 

I've found this ad on different days, suggesting that Cedric, local beloved radio personality and newspaper columnist, regularly assured people of his powerful memory. I don't know if he's always remembering Peters Meat Product. I've had it, in hot dog form. It was pretty good.

 

Frenched beans, white bread, meat product, and ceeeee-gars:

 

 

The comics pages were just bursting with things to read.

 

 

We continue with a small amount of manufactured enthusiasm to explore the trademarks of 1925, because no one else is. NO ONE!

 

		So it's Taxi Tnews? One of those things about which the internet has no info. But we have this here, its only proof of existence. Or not? There's a NYT letter to the editor from ARTHUR T. GORE Publisher of Taxi News. Could be the same publication.

 

HEY WAIT A MINUTE NOW

 

 

You're saying this is wrong, all wrong - Serials come at the end of the month. True. Except there are too many episodes. More eps than months. I have to double up one of the month, and October drew the short straw.

 

 

We’re still running around an oil refinery - we spend as much time there as in the skies - looking for the special synthetic fuel. When last we left we had a crappy cliffhanger - just Blackhawk and a Commie agent falling off a roof.

 

 

Will Laska find another hole in the wall through which to pass? Well? Will they? And what of Chuck? Oh he’s fine. He fires a couple of shots at the fleeing agents, busts their radiator so it leaks, and they follow the trail.

Meanwhile, Laska reports to the Leader, whom we never see, and we’re supposed to think “oh that’s going to turn out to be . . . I don’t know, no one comes to mind.” But I’m sure it will be the ep 12 reveal.

They trace the car to an ordinary city street . . .

 

 

And find the right apartment. But Laska et al have fled. By the way, in case you’re wondering why all their hideouts look the same . . .

 

 

Yeah, it’s called “The Budget.” They find evidence that the agents are flying to Valdez with the synthetic fuel, so they pursue. In a plane! Finally. The bad guys see their pursuers and disable it with a pistol. Hence the title of this one, I guess. Well, this means they walk to Valdez . . . but they hitch a ride after 15 seconds of walking, so we get to Valdez without incident or too much time.

Yes, we’re in Mexico, all right.

 

 

Blackhawk and Chuckhawk enlist the local police to help them. I repeat, they enlist the local police to help them get back a vital piece of tech that could change the global balance of power. Hey, turns out there’s a local big-wig cattle guy who had an assassination attempt last week . . . could that be related? Sure, no doubt. Well, let’s go talk to the hombre and see what’s what.

Meanwhile, the spies absorb the bad news.

 

 

Hold on, did he say what I thought he said? He heard from Jose Guitar?

 

 

Yep. Acting on another tip from Joe Guitar, they learn that Blackhawk and Chuckhawk are going to the hacienda by secret transportation, i.e. a hay wagon. They follow, and use the Flame Gun, which leads to my favorite moment of the serial so far.

 

 

And so:

 

 

I thought this was the penultimate ep, but no. There are 15, not 12. Don't worry. We'll get through this together.

 

It's the Diner!

That will do for today. Matches and a free Substack await; it'll be up around eleven. Thank you for your patronage, as always.

Tomorrow? Something of a surprise, I believe. See you then.