Strange day in the peaceable burb. First, at the gym: raggedy guy walks in, plugs his phone into the wall, starts using the paper towels for some purpose and throws them on the floor. The nice lady to mans the desk walks over to ask him not to make a mess, and he starts yelling: she can’t tell him what to do and PLANET FITNESS IS A FAILING BUSINESS.
Whereupon about ten of us were . . . activated, let’s say. There was a general, slow, but purposeful Movement of Men towards the interloper. He left shouting angry things and no one really got more than two yards away from their starting position, but it was fascinating to see the yard population stir like that. Maybe maybe there’ll be a chance to do something with all this bulk we’re piling on!
Later, walking with Birch along the Promenade, what do I spy in a verdant pergola but a purloined Target cart packed with crap, and two people passed out on the bench. One balding guy in his thirties, an older woman whose age I couldn’t quite tell because she was bent over, holding her phone. The telltale fenty lean, I gather. I called 911 in case they were dying.
I should note that there are no zombies in the park here, no encampments, no wandering wide-eyed shouters like the one who came into the gym, no needles, no trash. In other words, it’s perfectly normal. It is exactly how it should be. Edina is having some pains with the implementation of some luxury beliefs, but in general it does not permit disorder. No one camps in Centennial or Sunderwood Park because it’s not done. It’s not allowed.
This is probably regarded by residents of the core cities as not doing our part.
When I returned I saw a cop car leaving, driving on the pathway. The couple was awake and sitting there with glazed looks of amusement. I walked on a bit and saw a young woman standing in back of the FedEx, and she waved to me. I waved back and crossed over. She said hi and how’s Birch today? She was a FedEx worker on break, and to be honest I do not remember when I talked to her, but we must have - he must have made an impression. Edina’s Top Dog. I told her why the police had been by, then we continued our walk . . .
. . . And the cops were in front of FedEx, dealing with the guy who’d been in Planet Fitness. He was standing off to the side ranting about something or other, and eventually they told him to behave and drove off. He had not met the threshold for detainment, I gather.
Off to Infinite Intoxicants. As I entered the parking lot, I saw a young woman emerge from a PortaPotty on the edge of the lot, and wash her hands in a portable sink. There was a rangy hyped-up guy bouncing around the Pottys, and when he saw me looking at him he bent over and put his hands up to his eyes and shot his index fingers at me back and forth, taunting me for looking. Then they vanished into the tall grass at the edge of the lot.
I asked the clerk inside if the city or the businesses had put up public toilets for the roaming folk, and the clerk said, with a bit of embarrassment, that it was for the employees, as their own bathrooms had . . . problems.
All of that in the space of an hour was uncharacteristic.
Otherwise? Eh. I hate weekends. It’s the loneliest time, and I can’t quite say why. It’s as if the lack of a deadline and a daily double post of Bleat and Substack means I’m not communicating with anyone. I certainly got things done: 1. hung two pictures, 2. changed the shelf paper under the sink, 3. did a lot of site work, 4. got a new phone case, which was guaranteed not to yellow.
I got it because this is the old phone case which was guaranteed not to yellow:
Weekend nature: industrious insects.
Hopping frogs. They’re everywhere. Birch does not want to eat them. They must smell wrong.
On Sunday, I surprised myself by going to Home Depot. It wasn’t that much of a surprise, since I decided to go there, picked up my keys, started my car, and used surface streets to go there. I was going for some lights to replace the battery powered little puck that I put up in the shelf for dramatic effect. While they certainly do illuminate the shelves, the batteries go out after about an hour’s use. I needed something wired.
I was surprised to find how much I did not like being at Home Depot. I’ve never exactly felt like it’s my kind of place, the way gather used to be, but I knew my way around. It was full of tools and implements and projects and things that I have no ability to do, but it’s not as though I can’t do some things around the house, of course, I am no longer around the house, there being no house to be around.
What struck me was the wealth of memories contained in this particular Home Depot. Towards the end, I was going to a different one, because the old Home Depot was associated with the house we were in the process of fixing up for sale. Memories of miserable mulch runs, Christmas light selection, low-voltage light planning, rugs, lawn supplies. So many things. The new one had a different layout, and it was next to a Target so I could browse plates and flatware for the inevitable move. (I was told this was a waste of time and I should have been working on the house. I suppose so.)
It all came back: the unreality of living in the house and having a generally civil and occasionally warm and emotional relationship while the shadow of divorce and leaving the house loomed out there, in the distance, a towering black tsunami.
Four months tomorrow since she drove away. Haven’t spoken since the middle of July.
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.
Apparently this was a difficult act requiring a helpful implement:
I did! It got lost in the brain tornado of the early part of the year.
Remember, there are two kinds of eps: Monster, and Ape.The former is a Ribit which runs on Mettaligin. The latter is, well, you know. The bad guys use the latter to steal the former. That's what I remember of the plot. That's probably all there is. It has Friend of the Bleat, George Macready.
When last we saw our hero, whoever he was, he was heading unconscious into a furnace on a conveyor.
Either some frames are missing or this is the worst cliffhanger resolution, ever.
The bad guys get away, even though our hero throws two slugs at them. Shoots high and wide. Well, they escape, so now they have to walk to town. The bad guy, Professor George Macready, has enough “metallagin” to activate the Monster, possession of which seems to swing back and forth.
Bad Prof goes to the Zoo, because I guess that’s his base of operations. That’s where the Ape lives, too. The Ape wants to play with the box of Metallagin.
Er - that’s right out in the open. No one would see the secret passage?
Oh, I guess the Prof built a secret lab under the zoo, somehow. It’s quite elaborate, if dark.
Back at the labs, they activate the Monster. The Good Professor uses a control unit, Babs explains, that he developed before he hit upon using Metallagin “as a controlling force.”
Bad Prof hijacks it remotely, and makes the Monster do the Funky Strut:
He disarms it by yanking off the disk. The Good Prof says he’s disappointed, because now he knows the Unit - being the second robot - will not operate without Metallagin. This is all very bad technobabble.
I should note that the bad guys have a spy sweeping the sidewalk, hearing everything they say:
Bad Prof learns that Good Prof has a special Metallagin Detector he forgot to tell everyone about, and they’re going to use it to find the supply. Our hero finds the stuff, bursts in, fist-fight, annnnnnnnd . . . it’s time for this one.
That will do. Substack column up between 11 and 12. Matchbooks, of course. See you around.
