In today’s installment of “pathologically investing inanimate objects with unhelpful, tangential emotions and narratives irrelevant to their essence”: I don’t like my cookware. I am indifferent to my dishes and flatware. There’s nothing wrong with any of them, and they were chosen to be as neutral as possible: “don’t make any big decisions right away,” people say, so I said no patterns, everything spare. I’ve mentioned the trouble with the toaster, which has two settings, barely warm and crematorium. The unpleasantness with the coffee situation, well, we will not speak of that again. I am happy with all the furniture, though. Why am I resentful of my dishes?

Because they were procured during the end times. Now I look at everything I got in the hopes of making this the Hip New Place and it vibrates with unhappiness, like it soaked it all up and stored it. Ridiculous! And I will come to terms with it. They’re just plates. But I know exactly where I got it, how I was in that perpetual fog of ache, and I remember I also bought some nice shampoo I wouldn’t ordinary buy. I’m almost done with that now. Can’t stand the smell of it.

Small things. Perhaps I’ll get new dishes for the house. If. When. Whatever. What’s more important is the state of the ducks in the pond at the Edina park:

To my dismay they’ve widened the perimeter around the Home Store project, so I can’t get close to see the demolition and construction. We walked along the edge, Birch looking for le spot juste, then we circled back to the car, passing The Old Rocker on Break. He works in one of the stores in the strip mall and takes his break sitting in a shrouded corner in the back. He has his own chair. He has a boombox that plays 80s metal. He rolls his own and smokes it in defiance of the park ban. He’s like a wholesome version of the Man Behind the Wall at Winkies.

Got a haircut from the least talkative stylist I've ever had. Monosyllabic until I got her on the subject of Sam's Club sliders, which took some work.

There was much more, of course, but I think you can tell the level of excitement that coursed through every capillary of every second. It was a Wednesday and that was fine.

Previously known as "Here to There."

Found this at archive.org. The cover of this magazine defies understanding. Stock illustration, probably intended for use as a sporting-event program, and a name that doesn't seem to have anything to do with what's depicted?

All-American! Happy New Year! The Torah!

Well, let's check out a typical article . . .

Those wily Reds

Surely there's something by the table of contents that might explain this . . . ah,

So it's giving you an assured pick-up. A feel-good mag, then. There's an editorial that expands on the idea. I OCR'd it for you:

This new publication, Over Here, affects to broadcast such assurance. It merely measures up and keeps pace with Human Nature as God composed it.

Vague, but okay, they want a broad audience. We continue:

What are the fine, constructive, eternal values in mortality that repay the soul for seeking them? Whoever imagines that these become antiquated doesn't understand the nature of the species with earth herein afflicted.

Uh -

The whole world, in other words, needs to become More American. It needs to abandon the insane illusion that Progress means opportunity to disdain and ignore Discipline, to seize whatever pelf may be grasped, to assure liberty in greater gesture by starting to deny it individually at the grassroots.

Over Here is established to emphasize these Principles.

This sounds like the work of one crank.

Let's look at some of the ads.

		Limp Leatherette was Grace Jones' unsuccessful follow-up. Soulcraft seems to be the main advertiser. This would be their house organ. Let's see if we can find anything out about them.

Google says it was the philosophy developed by William Dudley Pelley. "He developed an elaborate religious philosophy called "Soulcraft" based on his belief in UFOs and extraterrestrials." One of those guys. The nation's history abounds with them.

Except that sentence in his wiki bio was preceeded by this: "The terms of Pelley's parole stipulated that he remain in central Indiana and desist from all political activity."

Let's rewind to the early years.

Largely self-educated, Pelley became a journalist and gained respect for his writing skills. His articles eventually appeared in national publications such as the Chicago Tribune. Two of his short stories received O. Henry awards: "The Face in the Window" in 1920 and "The Continental Angle" in 1930. He was hired by the Methodist Centenary to study Methodist missions around the world. He joined the Red Cross in Siberia, where he helped the White Russians during the Russian Civil War.

I'd want to know more! Sounds like a fascinating person! But how does Wikipedia start his bio?

William Dudley Pelley (March 12, 1890 – June 30, 1965) was an American fascist activist, journalist, writer, and occultist. He was noted for his support of Nazi Germany dictator Adolf Hitler during the Great Depression and Second World War.

He had a thing for the Jews as the bane of mankind, which makes the imagery at the bottom of the magazine cover all the more peculiar. He wrote movies for Hollywood in the 20s, but thought the Jewish studio moguls treated him poorly. In 1928 he had a near-death experience, he said, in which he traveled to another dimension. He wrote about it, got lots of press, and managed to have two more, during which he met with God and Jesus.

In the 30s he got political, founded the Silver League of America, and proposed some colorful notions:

In his book No More Hunger, William Pelley called for populist economic policies, such as a universal income of $1,000 a year (over $24,677 in 2025) for White citizens and a ban on inheritance except for family homes, or limiting wages to $100,000 (over $2,467,700 in 2025) a year. He also called for African Americans to be re-enslaved and Jews to be ghettoized and sterilized.

His hijinx and accusations got him slapped with 12 counts of sedition in 1942. He got 15 years in the pen, and was paroled after 8.

By the way, one of his early movies was based on a novel he wrote.

And before that . . .

Which we visited on Monday. Quite the story. Croaked in '65.