> Tells wife never to look up symptoms on web, you’ll just get horrible results and conviction of certain imminent demise
> Has pains
> Felix_unger_myback.jpg
> Googles
> 95% treatable with time and mild stretching and OTC pills
> Believes it completely

Fredwise, currently. Evening visit. Had to get out the boat-anchor Bible for a Substack piece, and take the evening constitutional in the back park - as seen above - or at least as much as I can stand. Actually, I can’t stand, that’s the problem. But I’m not here to complain about that. I’m here to get away from the place I love, because I’d probably be upbraided for not pulling my weight in the throwing-things-out department. There was a slight contretemps, or at least a darkening of the public mood, when she was cleaning out the top shelf of a hallway closet, and wondering why all this needless stuff was there in the first place. I hadn’t put any of it there, except for a large jug of Purell, which has been filling her soap dispense for about ten years. I’m not kidding. It seems to refill itself in the dark.

I’m absolutely certain I am not pulling my weight when it comes to the throwing-things-out department. This will reflect poorly on me, but I’m more concerned with Saturday supper and Sunday breakfast.

Now we come to the first night in the new place. I have a lot of trepidation about this, and much more sorrow. Friday I’m by myself; Saturday, Birch comes with. I’ll give him the tramalamadingdong or whatever the pooch trank is called, so he will - I hope - not run around panting with worry. There will be a Frosty Paws and the really good wet food to each, and I plan to start by taking him to the Pub Room where he got all the treats and feeding him some stuff. We’ll have hamburgers for dinner. It’ll be like going on a vacation!

That never ends and quickly stops being a vacation!

But we have to eat, and I want the first dinners to be good. I had lunch here the other day, some Tyson blackened chicken strips. They were once a staple of my lunch, since they’re all protein, no carbs, and spicy. Didn’t see them for a month in the store, but then they returned, and I bought a bag. Previously: dense, somewhat moist if not overcooked. Now: much less dense but still rubbery, and disgustingly wet. What happened? I should grok, and see if anyone else is complaining.

Yes, it turns out people are complaining. How about that. In the future I’m just going to make my own. Raise a chicken in the Needless Bathroom, maybe.

Thursday I picked up the last pieces of furniture from IKEA, at least for a while. A shelving unit that does not look like a typical IKEA white laminate bookcase, at least according to the pictures. Probably means it’s worse. Two nightstands with small lamps, and by small I mean “The size of my fist, alas.” Just temporary.

The next big step is tiresome: sorting the things that will stay in Zork Storage. I’m getting a smaller unit, and I want to put everything in consistent bins with labels. That means sitting in the storage unit and moving things from one to the other, on a nice spring day.

There was a piece in the Wall Street Journal about storage spaces, how some communities are pushing back against them - understandable, since they’re ugly, unless the designers make them look like row houses or stores, which fools no one. You look at a row of fake house facades and you know there is a government lab nine stories down where they teach e.coli how to fly.

The storage facilities that aren’t hiding still have an inert quality, a sense of concentrated silence, as if the building had promised to keep secrets it didn’t find particularly interesting. The story linked to some guy’s account of spending $100,000 on rental over the years for a unit far from where he lived. Furniture galore, knick-knackery, framed pictures, the dreaded cardboard tube with something rolled up inside. I will not be that bad. I will probably sell the matchbooks, as there’s no point in keeping them,. But I have to perform triage to separate the chaff from the really good ones, and then of course keep the really good ones because why shouldn’t I?

It all seems like putting off the inevitable and dumping it on Daughter’s shoulders some day, and I can’t do that. She might wonder why, for example, I hung on to this.

This was a book I labored to learn. I became very good at the first one. I can whistle this for you now, if you like - no? Okay

I could play that expertly with all sorts of dramatic dynamics. No cold precision for me: no, the romance of the keyboard. I lacked only the hank of hair falling over my forehead as I played, making the ladies in the front row fan themselves with flustered enthusiasm.

Ah, but then:

This isn’t that difficult, but brother, it took a while. If you don’t know music, those little symbols mean “you may think it’s this not, but it’s actually another one. Also, the other one could be represented another way.” I think I frustrated my teachers a bit because I wasn’t keen on practicing. Who is? Ninety percent of piano students do it because they have to, as much as they may enjoy playing. That timer would go off and I was done.

Daughter was the same way, but it was worth it. The Friday lessons were a sign of the week’s end before liberation from duty, something that always ended with picking up the pizza on the way home. The lessons were mostly fun. Well, partly. Kind teacher, some good kids, and I got to chat with the Moms, one of whom I still know to this day. Would give her a call but I’ll wait for the shame to abate.

Anyway, one Christmas Natalie came home and spent the week teaching herself to play the Succession theme on the piano, and she did it. All those lessons paid off.

Well, that’s it for today. I know it’s not the most riveting copy. And such small portions! I spent the day breaking my back hauling boxes again, and working on a huge, illustrated piece about a huge, illustrated Bible. That's for the Substack. But I made yesterday’s GoRF Substack free, and you can sign up for cheap for five pieces a week. It literally pays my rent.

PS I think this is the last Bleat filed from the desk where I have worked for 25 years. I might be moving all the computer stuff Fredwise this weekend. Or not.

I just don't know. I'm here, I'm there. I'm supposed to be here as much as possible to assist the cleaning out. I know I should.

I don't care. So shoot me.

Stars from the 70s usually made a bid for 80s relevance, complete with period hairstyles.

Bonus fact: "The back-up vocal was sung by Richard Page, lead singer for the pop group Mr. Mister." Yes, it is the 80s.

Her 10th - and final - #1 on Country charts.

That will do. Strange week. Fast but slow. Hurtling and crawling.