LILEKS (James) :: The Bleat for Monday.

Little by little, the Bleat goes more Seventies.

I do not know what’s going on with the guy on the right. His office looks like a phone booth.

Scant top today because MY. GOD you have no idea what happened that turned out to consume the entire weekend. I'll tell you in a few months. It left me no time to do anything. No one died, nothing tragic. nothing that can't be remedied, but MY. GOD the things with which I have had to deal compound and grow exponentially. We solved it with teamwork, which was nice, and ended up laughing in that "nothing is normal and we'd best abandon all hopes of normal except for the part where we have dinner and be kind and laugh and talk-about-daughter normal." Almost four months of this life. Surreal and normal, shattered and cohered.

I will note that the switch place replacements arrived: huzzah etc. The reason I had to get new ones was because the painters lost all the screws for three plates, as you may remember. Current Wife does not like the replacements, and her judgment is correct. They are slightly shinier and look a bit cheap, so I just used the screws from the replacements to attach the old plates.

And of course one of them did not go in easily, and in the process it popped out and WENT INTO THE SINK

Five-alarm fire. I carefully removed everything from the sink, moving like I was driving a truck full of nitro over a rope bridge stretched across a jungle gorge, then I picked it up and set it on a piece of blue painter's tape with the rest. Then I put a towel down in the sink basin. I was not going to lose the screw.

And I didn't. Minor accomplishment. Major accomplishment: got all of my things out of the Hated Storage Closet, so that's no longer a burden on Current Wife's mental picture of the house. This also meant two nights of winnowing and scanning. Many lost treasures found. But that's for later.

One month to the sale, two months to leaving. On the good days - and there are lots of good days, although they’re better described as okay days in which I am tired of being unhappy about it all - I find things to which I can look forward. I don’t think of the Fred as The Box To Which I Am Being Sent to Die, or the Fortress of Solitude, but the Hip New Place. I go back to the furniture bookmarks. I think about the Day One box.

What’s that? Why, exactly what it sounds like. The first box you take in and open, so you have the basics. I’ve been assembling it on the Target website so I can pick it up and that’s that, everything’s there. I have to arrange furniture delivery so there’s a bed, stools, a kitchen table, a TV stand. The next batch is the sofa, and the office desk. The third batch is the coffee table, end tables, and bureau. Ideally, all would arrive on the same day, and I’d have a “fun day” of setting everything up.

What Birch will make of all this, I don’t know. It’s possible the move-out day won’t be the first, so maybe he’s at the house for a few days before he comes to stay for good (heart sinking as I write this) but I do not want to make a big sad moment about him leaving home. I just want us to go somewhere together and that’s our new normal. She can’t come over to see the HNP then leave, because he’ll wonder why he isn’t going with her. Why I’m not. We have to break the paradigm together.

If she wants to know how it’s going, she can watch the videos.

Yes, the videos. Starting on April 1st, I’m going to document this fun as humorously as possible for the Substack app, which you can get on Apple TV and some other platforms. I’ll be uploading the Small Things series to YouTube. The Bleat will change somehow, too. Routines have to change. Habits and modes and rituals. Walk in the morning, then work, then the gym, then the pool, then lunch. Bike ride on the trail. Shopping. Nap. Dog out to the park, dinner. And so on. I have to make use of the amenities, and that means I have to make myself go upstairs to the roof in the nice weather and read by the firepit, or go to the library, or the big room. Move around and be around people . . . if there are any. I did get a notice that there’s an arts and crafts fair next week, all welcome, friends and family. Somehow I feel as if I should invite Current.

Does that sound daft?

It’s not.

Scant top today because MY. GOD you have no idea what happened that turned out to consume the entire weekend. I'll tell you in a few months. It left me no time to do anything. No one died, nothing tragic. nothing that can't be remedied, but MY. GOD the things with which I have had to deal compound and grow exponentially.

I will note that the switch place replacements: huzzah etc. The reason I had to get new ones was because the painters lost all the screws for three plates, as you may remember. Current Wife does not like the replacements, and her judgment is correct. They are slightly shinier and look a bit cheap, so I just used the screws from the replacements to attach the old plates.

And of course one of them did not go in easily, and in the process it popped out and WENT INTO THE SINK

But I think I can be excused for that.

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.


		When you get to the bottom it's something of a letdown.

I think this is probably the same outfit.

And now it's time for this year's thrilling serial:

Wait a minute, you say - if we must suffer these, don't we suffer them at the end of the month, rather than spoil the mood of the nice new month? Yes. But there's a reason I held off, as you'll see.

From the start I am absolutely sold on this. I don’t like apes. I hope the robbit moiderizes him. (They used to pronounce “robot” in peculiar ways - ribbit, robbit.)

First, a flurry of newspapers to annunce the holy birth:

Meet the Monster, or rather, the Metaligen Man. Also: is THAT WHO I THINK IT IS

It is! An old friend of the Bleat, now in serial form.

They could’ve the ribbit a bit less . . . monstrous.

After the demonstration, two of the scientists are driving home, listening to a story on the radio about their great triumph. Suddenly a voice breaks in, and says “you stole my ideas, so, you must die.” They think it’s mad! We must go to the police!

Alas:

Ah, a mystery man who’s behind the murders. He tells the third inventor that he’s next, and will perish in one minute.

ME LOVE YOU LONG TIME

Meanwhile, back at the lab, we meet an old friend of the Bleat.

If you don’t recognize him, take a listen:

That's why I ran that B&W selection last week, to remind you of him. It’s that intonation on “clue.” George Macready. C’mon. He has to be the bad guy. He’s George Macready.

Mr. Morgon, an investigator arrives by train, and some men from the lab pick him up from the station. Real state-of-the-art motor vehicle transport the high-tech lab has:

But they’re not really from the lab. They’re agents of the mysterious guy who’s siccing an ape on his enemies. They want to use his credentials to steal the ribbit. He wakes in the back of the truck, there’s a hats-on fistfight, and Mr. Morgon falls off a hill. They assume he’s dead and drive off.

Well, the guys stole the ribbit, but they didn’t get the Metaligen Disk, which is “the most important part” of the machine, essential for its use.

(Five minutes later: the disk is stolen)

I am to happy report that . . .

. . . he’s revealed as the bad guy in the first episode. To cut a long story short - and the first episodes are always long, a half-hour - Agent Morgon goes to see The Remaining Professor, who’s already been kidnapped by George Macready, BUT he suspects Macready and disarms him, then goes to find the professor, who is being threatened in the most awesome 1945 way ever: