One quarter-second later:

It's the type of lightning that lights up everything, vague and diffused. I expect I will see some good bolts and forks up here in the summer, as I stand transfixed getting video, standing on a metal balcony.

Let me tell you, friends: when Zork Storage sniffs out that you’re interested in renting a room, they snap to it. I was exploring the next phase of storage life, wherein the downsizing boxes have themselves been downsized into a manageable collection of plastic crates whose contents are both essential and ultimately irrelevant in the great sweep of time, and lo: I could go from a 5’ X 10’ to a 5’ X 5’ and cut the price by 45%.

Cost-cutting is keenly on my mind these days, what with . . . everything. So I reserved a unit but did not commit. Since they had all my contact info, someone called me Saturday. Paige, her name was. She guided me into the new unit as a transfer instead of a new contract. This meant I did not get the new contract pricing, but avoided the $29 “administrative fee.” There’s a number calibrated with care, because some people would balk at $30. What’s this? They’re just making that up. But $29 seems reasonable, even though you know it’s impossible to quantify exactly what’s going on here, except I'm paying for them to have people like Paige who will help me.

If I have the unit for four months, I will save a dollar.

Four months is how long I intend to be here at Fred Base One.

I could be wrong. I do not want to be wrong. I feel as if I have one move left and it has to be right.

Asked myself today while walking Birch: do I really want to shovel a walk again? Mow a lawn?

Good Lord yes, I do.

Progress: left Birch alone for nine minutes. No barking. I’m going to try some afternoon errands without him this week, because it’ll be too warm to leave him in the car to run into the gym for half an hour. Speaking of which: today while I thumped on the treadmill there was a guy doing the stair-climber thing who was singing. I use the word loosely, since it's probably the closest definition of what he thought he was doing. He was vocalizing along with something on the screen he was watching. I turned around and stared now and then, because I am of the ancient generation that believes you do not play your speakers in public or sing along with videos. This went on for ten agonizing minutes, until eventually I waved my arm and gave him a look that said “you do know we can all hear you, and the meandering, tuneless utterances you are bleating out, the wordless oratorio whose purpose is both unknowable and uninteresting, is a hindrance to the general well-being of those in your immediate orbit.” Yes, that look. He instantly looked abashed and shut up.

Was I wrong to harsh his joy?

No, of course not. A dude may hum but a dude ought not sing amongst strangers unless they have paid you money to do it, or unless you’re al heading into battle together. Even then you choose your songs carefully. .

Let’s see . . . anything else? Oh: the car. Turns out I didn’t write a column about it for the Substack, because it just didn’t have enough comedic pop. Bottom line: the guys at the oil change place probably didn't secure the plate in the undercarriage, and it dropped off while driving - on the highway! - and stuck underneath and screamed louder than any car noise I've ever heard. I made it back to the Fred so I could check it out, then called the garage. Headed back making the same ghastly screech. People looked at me with expressions of anger and alarm: how dare you? One guy said "hey you got something stuck under your car"

Yes indeed I expect that has something to do with the shrieks of the damned I hear

"On my way to the garage," I said, as I drove out of the garage. You know what I mean.

Anyway, it wasn't a thousand dollars, so that was good.

At evening's end I went outside to consult with a small cigar and let Birch irrigate some poor bush that only wanted to live, and looked at my phone: ah. Idea. They’re trying to find a new Bond. I can do something with that. Probably rehash old memories of You Only Live Twice, the ur-Bond for your host. Went back upstairs, flipped open the laptop, commenced to type. phone: Ding

		Are you available to chat now?

That's the icon I settled upon, by the way. Started out as a flower, then went to a dandelion with all the white puffy seeds, and now this.

Deep conflicted emotions, doubt: about what? Some money thing? Paperwork? Like an idiot, I said: sure. As it turned out, all the family had left AZ and she finally had some time to herself and wanted to check in and see how we were doing.

Which would be completely normal except

Except, you know

What followed was a normal conversation about things and family and emotions and such, normal except, you know. I made the occasional reminder that this was not normal and I was kinda sorta, in, y’know, a general and specific world of suck because, well. At the end of it I got back to work and put on the SiriusXM Mancini channel, thinking, as ever, how long until I hear that great wide chord and the sad descending melody of the You Only Live Twice theme, the one that always just hits me in the sternum? It's usually within four songs.

It was the third.

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.

"For female complaints."

		Ester, my grantillas are acting up something fierce.

Gosh so sorry my bad

A newspaper reporter, Hugh Bowman, falls hard for a pair of gams attached to Ann Savage.

They fall in love in four minutes. Real time, not run time.

Everything's great!

Unfortunately, she’s married to an old rich man. And she tells our patsy: if you loved me you'd kill him.

GOSH wonder where this is going? All it needs is Edward G nosing around, trying to figure out what’s going on. Regular guy gets taken in by a money-mad dame who uses him . . . except we don’t even have that angle, it seems. She’s really fond of him, for some reason.

OH here’s the Eddy G guy: the newspaper editor. Mind you, this is an editor talking about a crime and a trial that happened months ago.

It’s just the same movie, right down to the end: the reporter types his confession, instead of the insurance agent dictating it - and then his boss comes in and lights his cigarette before the wounded killer dies. Surely everyone caught on about five minutes into this, and thought: did I just pay money to see a remake of something from last year that’s about 1/3rd as good?

Why yes. Yes, you did.

Substack up around 11. Remember, Monday is free, but paying customers get stuff M-F. And I thank you for your patronage.