Cleaning and winnowing and sorting on a Sunday night, and I want you to know two things: 1) I just looked at and reread all your marvelous Christmas cards, because I needed that, and 2) Astrid will soon be sending the ones that arrived after I left. I'm still stunned by the cards. I still remember what it meant.

Current Wife is watching 1883, the prequel prequel, and I swear every time I walk into the room and look at the TV, a group of people on horse are fording a stream. I know everyone raves about Yellowstone but I watched one episode and was not drawn in. It also felt like a tremendous job, with so many seasons, and prequels. I feel as if I poked my head in the front door of an enormous house to see whether I’d want to wander around, look at the books, lounge in a chair, snack in the kitchen, explore the back passageways - and just said nah, I don’t like their taste in decor. These days it takes instant captivation, some little signal, some detail, an aspect of the set design or the way it’s shot. Something that flips a switch. Discernment? Poor attention span? General mental itchiness? Don’t know.

Update: she is now on 1923, and whenever I walk past Helen Mirren is worried, or Harrison Ford is tired. I am reminded that I always like Harrison Ford and I also think he is a mediocre actor. These are not incompatible.

Fell twice on the ice on Friday. The first time I was going down the back stairs, again, Birch straining on the leash, again, and I managed to land in a snow bank, or rather an ice bank, since they’re covered with a layer of crunchy shards. The walk down to the woods was sheer treachery - it’s all downhill, the sidewalks are slick, Birch is going this way and that, and I have to rely on a unique set of muscles in my leg and back to stay upright, all the while talking to Astrid in England about this and that. The second time was quite remarkable. It’s happened before. I had to pull the garbage and recycling bins from the bottom of the drive up to their special corral. This means going up the slope of the driveway. Not a steep grade, but when the footing is nonexistent, and you’re trying to drag a large bulky object, it is an opportunity for gravity to demonstrate its omnipresent power. I went down hard, and the bin came down as well, my hand wrapped around the lid-hinge, smashing on the cold ground. For once I did not do the standard leap-up-and-say-I’M-FINE move. I laid there and I groaned.

But you can’t lay there forever or your watch calls the ambulance. It had already tapped my wrist and said LOOKS LIKE YOU TOOK A HARD FALL, and I had to say yes, I damn well did but I don’t need medical attention. No, medical indifference will be just fine.

As I may have mentioned, I signed the lease. It was easier after I saw the unit, occupied, and got a better sense of what was possible. The present tenant is a larger person than me, and also subscribes to the “overstuffed” theory of apartment decor. The sofa was too big. The dining-area table was too big - but, huzzah, a dining-area table does work. She had a penchant for unnecessary bureaus, plural. It was the opposite of what I’d do, but I was able to pare away what was there and imagine the space with refined and spare items. And the light! It’s just brilliant. Seventh-floor view is better, too. This made me feel much better.

Also revisited some amenities, including the Sky Kitchen. SKYYYY KITCHEN / HOW HIGH CAN YOU FRY / WILL YOU EVER (ever everr) / BAKE A PIE. You can just show up, make dinner for friends, have a nice big table and a spectacular view. You could throw a party up there - but no more than ten people, it’s the rules. Can’t smoke a cigar on the balcony, it’s the rules. No sink disposals, because they want you to compost. (It’s voluntary.) Can’t have a liquor container bigger than a gallon, or something like that. NO CANDLES. Thermostat must be set between 60 and 78. No opening the windows when the AC is going on. And so forth. All sensible, except for the no-vape-on-balcony rule, which seems to be based on someone somewhere else smelling something. And again, I understand, but you’re outside. It’s water vapor.

Anyway, the days of writing at the kitchen table and going out the door for a consultation with a small cigar: over. Unless I want to be evicted. This is all quite the reversal of all the assumptions, the modus vivendi, I’ve had for 30+ years. I get steamed and peeved about it, but then I think: right, right, rooftop fire pits, that’ll be nice. A lagoon with a charming bridge. The lake and park beyond.

None of which relieves the steam or the bepeevment.

We're now in full prep mode. At least I have a plan and a destination. ETBF is focused on the house sale. I am focused on what comes after.

In keeping with our Monday tradition, which became a "tradition" for reasons I can't recall and probably don't matter, we continue with our Monday trademark. For this year we'll do 1936.

		I for one am sick to death of all the fake trees

How about that, folks: still around.

So you know from the start, it's a cheapie:

Oh boy oh boy

She’s the one who takes her clothes off!

It starts with a dispatcher sending All Cars to the Hollywood district:

. . . and then immediately goes to an interrogation room, where they’re grilling some frail. A bit confusing.

We meet a reporter for the Globe-Bulletin, and go to a nightclub. Five minutes in, and there’s no murder, and no stripping! And then we go straight to a bubble dance.

I guess we’re supposed to think that they’re at a nightclub, and that explains the routine, but it’s just dropped in with no connection to anything, no audience shots, no applause, nothing.

Anyway. Her father, a cop, is murdered, so she goes undercover as a nightclub stripper to find the killers. I gather she uses a fake identity, Valerie, and all the papers go along with the lie. MONTAGE ME, BABY

Then Henry King shows up to lead the band through a musical number of no particular interest, followed by a lackluster dance routine, followed by Rand doing the feather dance, shot with with no aplomb whatsoever.

Twenty-five minutes in, there is absolutely no reason to continue watching. We even know who committed the murder, because we saw it.

The director had been at the game for a while. He’s best known for Perils of Pauline . . . and Reefer Madness. To be fair, there are few movies whose titles have entered into public consciousness like Reefer, so he's in select company.

It's back.

That will do, I hope. Tomorrow: the abandoned embassy of the Tree People. Substack about Ancient Gods up around 11.