Rare, but it happens: wife couldn’t find her car keys. She had to be at tennis on time, or they forfeit, so we tossed all the locations it might be with dispatch. No keys. Clock ticking. Well, I hate to do it, but grab the backups.

And where are the backups? Do you have backups? Can you find them in 30 seconds? I could, he said, preening. I tossed her the spares, and off she went -

BUT

I had this thought: what if the battery is dead?

So I just stood outside at the top of the steps to see if her car pulled out. It did not. I heard my name called, and headed back in with a quickness, as they say. The key doesn’t work!

It’s probably a dead battery. Hold on.

NOW.

When was the last time you changed your fob battery? I remember doing it a few years ago, and there was a trick. But first: where are the flat batteries? They are upstairs in THE BATTERY DRAWER. Victory one: I have a fresh supply. Step two: get them out of the pack. This is not easy; they are held in place by unreasonably strong plastic. I have to cut them out, as they will not pop through the cardboard. Step three: click the button, pull out the door key, insert it into the top of the fob, turn it so the fob pops open. Pry out the batter, insert new one, snap back together (which didn’t work because she had called form the back of the steps and I couldn’t get the loose buttons to align) and then run downstairs, open the door: it works.

The day was saved because I watched a YouTube video about this two years ago.

Let's do the Friday closet clean-out! I had this in the MISC folder for this week - something I clipped a while ago and stored away.

What sort of art did the authorities deposit in the green land of Nebraska?

This is some alien machine coming out of the earth to form a large machine that irradiates the people of Lincoln with Death Rays.

Erma, by the way, was the artist's mother.

It's still there. Google Street View:

I'm sure some people will defend it. They will also note that unpopularity does not equate to quality: people just don't get it.

But there's not much to get, is there?

There is nothing about this that suggests desire. It’s a favorite conceit of the abstractionists to ascribe qualities or places or emotions to their work, and while it might be an interesting little game to play in a museum -

“It’s called Cape Cod Picnic. Is he referencing ketchup and mustard?”

But the supposed subject is rarely evident. You have to do the work to look at Motherwell and feel bad about the demise of the Spanish Republic. I say all this as someone who likes a great deal of modern art, and is perfectly willing to do some work. Just don't ask me to pretend that beauty is irrelevant, or that I should put aside aesthetic enjoyment because I have to learn a lesson.

I had returned to DC after a long posting abroad, and was moving into a temporary housing. Or was it? The suite was quite large, and intended for long-term stay, but I didn’t know if I could decorate it to my whims. I went down into the facility to talk to the gals I knew down there, one in particular who I had my eye on. She was always cheerful and friendly in a way you couldn’t help but misinterpret. Going down the stairs, I saw Manny from the orchestra in his white tux, looking older and woebegone, and he said hello with no particular enthusiasm.

I chatted with the gals and exaggerated my importance and my efforts abroad, showing off the large gold coins I’d gotten in my travels. The cute friendly one was eager to hear more, but she really did have to get back to work, bye now!

Back up at the suites, I learned that my uncle and nephews had moved in, and would have the property for six months. They were already redecorating. I remembered that I should check my next shift at the restaurant, and realized I’d probably missed it. I had. I was supposed to have been there at 11:30 AM. Well, that job was gone.

Then I saw my cousin out in the pouring rain, glowering, pushing a baby carriage. He stomped out of sight and the rain filled the gutters.

LANCE SWOLLFACE. I don't believe I've posted this one.

You can tell they're early, and not just because of the artist. They're so wordy.

Solution is here.

T. G. Sheppherd. That was the 70s radio: funk one song and country the next.

Wikipedia:

William Browder, as he was then known, first recorded for Atco Records as Brian Stacy in 1966.  Browder worked as an executive at RCA during the early 1970s, but in 1974, signed with Melodyland (later Hitsville) Records, a short-lived country label owned by Motown Records. He used the stage name T.G. Sheppard to avoid jeopardizing his job with RCA, due to his recording material with a different label.

According to Browder, "The T.G. in my stage name is really and truly just initials. A lot of people through the years have had fun putting what they want the initials to stand for, but they really don't mean anything, they are just initials."

That'll do - just one Canadian bill today, because otherwise the next batch gets thrown off kilter.