This is the balcony view. Rush hour. The freeway is a few blocks away, past the Seagate factory and the vast parking lot. The view is growing on me, but only because it’s familiar now. The huge quantity of mechanical equipment on the vast factory roof is almost abstract, always chuffing with unrelenting mechanical purpose.

There’s the Bell Tower to the left, which lights up nicely with the reflection of nuclear fusion.

Somewhere in there is a computer that has the record of the mortgage for the old place.

Now let's go out back, where it's a different world.

"Well," I said to Birch as we were walking through Sunderwood Park, "are we going to look back on this with fondness? I'll bet we do."

Perhaps he will be less inclined to nostalgic reverie, since he lives in fear of being left alone in the afternoon, no matter how much I try to slip out without key jingling or meaningless instructions to be good, and I will surely be back. NO YOU WON'T Yes I will! NO YOU WON'T

Sigh. I didn't expect it would be like this, permanently. But I've been thinking about other things that turned out differently than I expected. Aside from, you know, my life.

What does not work:

ONE: forcing myself to stop working every night and watch TV. Most nights I stop working in the office at 10, since it's quiet time in the building and I expect I am directly over someone's bedroom. I work at the kitchen counter, and if I want to watch TV I prop up the laptop while I write or do absolutely essential budget-app tweaking. I have to categorize all these expenses precisely so I know how much I’m spending on Dog and how much on Lunch, it’ll be the poorhouse if I don’t.

TWO: classical music in the morning. This is my fault, as I keep accessing a rather shallow Apple playlist. When I get to the same tune, I feel as if I’m stuck in a loop: Monday is Thursday is Sunday, and there are only really 14 pieces of classical music in existence, one of which is some guy playing Bach on a guitar with a exaggerated way that deliberately plucks the string fortissimo, creating an unpleasant BLUNK sound. I hear that BLUNK about twice a day.

THREE: this really pains me,but the new coffee regimen is pang in the arse. A tsuris in the tuckus. Refilling the stainless steel K-cup thing with fine-ground coffee gets a million atoms of coffee all over the counter. I’m always sweeping up coffee. And get this for a petty comparison: at the Good Old Place, I had a full-sized trash can under the sink. I could knock that reusable K-cup against its thick side with gusto. Now I have a half-sized can in a smaller space and there's less room to knock, because everything is 17 to 34% harders.

I sunsetted the post-meal espresso ritual tonight. It worked for a while. A nice little moment of sophistication in my Hip New Place, enjoying a cup on the deck and watching the world pass. The daily reality turned out to be a bit less special; the pot inevitably dribbled (more coffee to clean up) and while the coffee was good and the chocolate nice, it felt like an affectation after a month. The rituals and routines I put in place were like the wood frames into which wet concrete was poured; now it had hardened sufficiently and I could remove them.

I reserve the French Press for the weekend, a really good cup of coffee, but it’s even more annoying to clean. The other day I was over at the Giant Swede’s and he . . . just had a pot on, and he had a cup and I had a cup and then we had another cup without having to do anything. Not me, though, I have to be Mr. Fancy Beans.

I’m thinking . . . maybe I’ll get a drip Krups when I get a house.

If I get a house.

When I get a house.

If.

Where?

I was doing the daily motel research - four a day until. 2027 is done - and I was in Florida, on the west coast. Saw what appeared to be some sort of humid apartment hell:

It goes on and on. It's part of an old development called "Top of the World," which seems odd for Florida. But there's a vast amount of single-family homes as well, and when I checked the prices I was stunned. I could do that!

And then I'd be in Florida, because . . . why? What would I do? Then again, what would I do in Red Wing?

What am I doing here?

I know what I am doing here: the work, every day. By noon tomorrow I'll have finished, posted, & submitted eight pieces. Does it matter where I do it? Why not just settle into Fred Base One and figure, this is it. Every other day I have a few thoughts about the next step, and lately the idea dissipates quickly. Day to day is how I'm living, and that's good, I guess; it's all we have. But somehow it makes life feel like a giant Pez dispenser: you wake, the head goes back, the ration comes out, and you spend the day gnawing away until it's gone.

In the old life we would be getting ready for the summer family trip around now. I would've made the reservations long ago, and plotted all the excursions. If we were leaving soon I'd print them all out and put them in the color-coded plastic sleeves.

I was sitting outside this morning at the cigar spot, Birch on the grass gnawing on a stick, looking at my calendar. When were we in Italy? Whoa: exactly one year ago we were all together at the Rome airport - wife and daughter heading back to the US, me popping up to Walbers. I can see it just like it was last week. Another summer, another trip, another iteration of family-flying. A constant in all our lives.

Can't imagine looking back on the three of us whizzing around the Roman environs and past the gates on the Appian Way en route to the ruins of the Aqueduct, and thinking, I have to figure out a way this never happens again.

Well, happens with this particular cast of characters.

I went back to the archives to see if I had any airport footage, and of course I do. But the video ends with a three-shot from the wedding in the castle, intended to be the Christmas card for 2025. Everyone's beaming. Now it looks like a production still from a movie that got put in turnaround. Moments like this make me think that I haven't come to terms with any of this at all, and my brain still thinks I'm at some resort on an extended stay. And tomorrow the Pez head will crack open and another ration will slide out with a sound: BLUNK

Ah well. Off to write now, and watch something. It was a good day. Tomorrow will be fine. And so on, and on.

It’s 1897.

		The El Paso Times said, at the time: The river reached the highest mark ever recorded at El Paso yesterday at noon. The water was fully 13 inches above El Paso Street at the intersection of Overland street. Just before midnight last night, a general alarm was sounded and the entire city awakened. The levee separating the backwater from the canal had broken. Many homes are in danger. Street cars would do a good business carrying people to and from the Stanton Street Bridge, and they may be run there.

A few stories on the front page about the troubles down in Cuber:

		The sinking of the Maine was eight months away.

		The East coast? Or East Texas? The former, of course. Because it's EFFETE. Wiki: The Giles County earthquake of May 31, 1897, in the folded Appalachian Province of western Virginia, is assigned a maximum intensity (MM) of VIII and a felt area of at least 280,000 square miles.

		You know, in the past they respected religious institutions like the Salvation Army! Now in our godless times, people sue them!

Well:

New York, May 28.-Fred erick de la Tour Booth Tucker, commander of the Salvation Army in the United States, to t night was convicted of maintaining a disorderly house at the big army barracks in West Fourteenth street. Sentence was postponed until June 8, and the commander was liberated on bail.

Complaint was made by res idents of the neighborhood of the barracks who allege that they were greatly disturbed by the singing and band playing at the Salvation Army meetings, especially those that last ed all night.

Booth Tucker was defended by ex Mayor A. Oaxey Hall, who quoted from the Scrip Lures to show that Miriam was the first "Hall lujah Lassie" and that trumpets, cymbals, harps, castanets, cornets and timbrels were used by the ancient Hebrews in the worship of God. The Judge's charge was unfavorable to the defend ant. The jury was out five hours.

		I don’t know what they were het up about, but he didn’t abdicate. He ruled a total of 50 years - and then he was assassinated.

As he approached the fiftieth anniversary of his accession, the King made plans to abdicate in favor of his son Constantine immediately after the celebration of his golden jubilee in October 1913. Just as he did in Athens, George went about Thessaloniki without any meaningful protection force. While out on an afternoon walk near the White Tower on 18 March 1913, he was shot at close range in the back by Alexandros Schinas, who was "said to belong to a Socialist organization" and "declared when arrested that he had killed the King because he refused to give him money". ] George died instantly, the bullet having penetrated his heart. The Greek government denied any political motive for the assassination, saying that Schinas was an alcoholic vagrant. Schinas was tortured in prison and fell to his death from a police station window six weeks later

		Meandering notes about stuff, with a little ad for Cascaret slipped in there. It was a laxative made from the bark of the Cascara Sagrada tree. I guess at some point someone ate the bark for some reason, was relieved, and put two and two together. Or there was just a lot of trial and error,a s they ate everything a few times to see what it did.

		There were many stories scattered throughout the paper about Cuba. On the back page, this note. This website says he was regarded as a Cuban Hero, a man who fought for the island’s liberation from Spanish clutches. The stories that constitute the run-up to open hostilities are always a bit chilling in retrospect.

That will do.Outtakes at the Substack today, for paying customers. We suspend the 70s Sears wishbook until next year, and move on to another decade. Prepared for an exciting month of Sears Office Furniture!