I apologize to all the AM Bleatniks who spent Bog knows how much time trying to find the difference between Wednesday and Tuesday’s banner. MY FAULT. I neglected to update the number on the image, one of the many many little things I have to do every day to make this thing “work,” and I thought I had done it. I had not. I would never toy with you like that. I appreciate you all and do not wish to be cruel.

the day began with a bloody nose, which is a signal it'll just get better. And it did! Okay day, although none of them are really mine. They’re all in service to the mission and its unhappy conclusion. Birch wanted to go the creek this morning, so off we went in the crunchy snow. He found something to sniff everywhere, and believe me, when he locks in place to get a good snootful he cannot be moved. We made the same circuit we had made in the green times and the brown times, and I kept thinking: he’s strong and hungry and bright-eyed and okay. But what’s really going on? How much time? What’s really wrong? It pains me to think of him having a seizure alone in the room at the Fred,a although of course after they clear post-ictal it’s all good. But I know I’m going to come back to a wet floor because he drooled or peed while seizing, and I know I’ll feel guilty leaving him alone for more than a couple hours.

I know, I know, he’s a dog, he’ll be fine. He’ll snooze and be happy when I come home.

But still. Damn.

Neglected to mention yesterday that the Angry Talker was back at the gym, and itching for trouble. He paced back and forth with the same nasty patter - if I ain’t effin’ I’m fightin’ and I ain’t effin’ so I must be FIGHTIN, said a full volume while walking back and forth in evident distress. He had somehow managed the same consistent anger level over the course of a week. So, yes, I told staff about it. See it, say it, sorted. The guy might be harmless but c’mon, such seething and chanting does not elevate the mood of the joint, and he seems to be talking to patrons in some strange way - he seems to be following you when you walk away, smack talking, then turns and goes back to lifting.

I admit to a moment of gym rudeness myself, at least as much as I can muster. There was this guy, late 50s, silver hair, standing by a machine, talking to his phone, then typing a lot. Like, big business deal typing. Every time I looked around he was standing there, typing. When I went to the next machine I wished to use, he was standing in front of it, typing. Okay, I can do another. Did legs, all sets. He’s still standing. Went to the Chestal Enhancement machine, set the pin, change the chair, begin. Did all sets. He’s still standing. He’s the Elton John of Not Using the Triceps Machine. He hasn’t even sat down. I walk over and say the most aggressive thing I have ever said in. Gym.

“Are you . . . ever?” Implied, of course, is “use that thing.” Whereupon he snapped out of his typing fugue, apologized, and used the machine.

Went to the gym again today, and listened to Hermanos Guiterrez the whole time. It fit. I have a soft spot for moody rueful Latin America guitar, and these guys . . . well. I know this may sound a bit too much, but I am assembling a playlist of music for The Fortress of Solitude, things I haven’t heard but once. I want to start fresh before I go back to the old songs.

Maybe I never go back.

No, I will. But. I recently discovered a YouTube channel of 60s Chill in various genres - spy movies, noir, etc. Atmospheric and moody, romantic, suave. Perfect for a summer night in the box up in the sky, sunset, out on the deck, looking out at the lights and the green expanse of trees.

Took me about a minute to realize it’s AI.

Made me wonder if it’s unethical and destructive to listen to a certain type of music if no one else is making it right now.

Anyway. Went to Target, since it’s Wednesday, and tried to figure out what to make Current for dinner. Ah: green curry, Thai style! Nice salad, some rice, comes in at $5.50 per person. She liked it. I went up to the studio and dug out the last boxes and bags of contributions and scannable material and such, and filled another bin.

Came across this.

I will never deal with these damned things again, and about that I am a bit conflicted. These were Failure Stakes. Whenever I tried to grow grass I would cover the new areas with the lawn-gauze and secure the film with these pins. It never really worked, which I'm sure was my fault.

But. The damdnest thing happened last summer. Everything I planted took. By the height of the summer it was lush and lovely.

I had just taken the picture when Current came down the hall, a bit distressed, holding the blanket that covered Daughter’s bed.

It was wet because Birch had just seized.