That's the view from the Trader Joe's parking lot. It's from last week. Haven't been to any grocery stores this week. Haven't shopped at all. Four days without spending a dime! Tight as a tick, that's me.

Actually, it's something else. (Although I am. Tick-tight. Not a bad trait to have these days.) I just don't have the room in the freezer. Once upon a time I could count on three or four pizzas in the downstairs freezer; now I buy one before I take it home and cook it, since the space is limited. I had a box of Chicken Somosas from TJs, and I've used 2/3rds. The rest go in a plastic bag, with the cooking instructions scissored out and put in the bag. Saves room! I miss that freezer and capacious fridge. You had a nice life, as I was reminded with scorn and contempt. (I hadn't done anything to deserve it, being an inert and feckless sponge.) It's odd to be reminded of that phrase while you're making more room in the freezer drawer.

I'm reminded of that phrase at least once a week.

Anyway, I'm facing an interesting decision. It is not an ice-cream night. But there's about a cup left in the crushed scround. Shopping is tomorrow. Do I finish off the ice cream to make some room?

Has anyone ever asked "do I finish off the ice cream" and not convinced themselves that the answer is yes? There's the question of why there's only a cup left. Even if you've filled the small bowl you use to keep portion size reasonable - and I used to have ice cream out of cereal bowls when I was growing up; so did my Dad - that doesn't keep you from standing at the sink and finishing those last few spoonfuls. After all, if you're having it standing up, by the sink, there are no calories.

You might say, with the helpful tone for which you are known, that I should buy pints. Oh no. It's not as easy to lie to yourself about the caloric amount with a pint. It's too easy to eat half, somehow. I stare longingly at the bespoke pint selection at Lundsnbyerlys, but turn with stern resolution to the other side of the freezer aisle, where the scrounds are stacked. And I reach, as ever, as always, for the chocolate ice cream with the thick peanut-butter ribbons. None better.

I should also report that I bought Zesty Dynamite Sauce at TJ's, it being a new item that looked like it would go well on a hamburger. In my world of culinary sophistication, there are two main criteria: would be good on a hamburger, or would be good with eggs. Zesty Dynamite Sauce could be something you drizzle on Dynamite, but I think it's an attribute. The name was so vague I couldn't resist.

Basically hot mayo, formulated to have the hue we associate with Secret Sauce. That thousand-island color, a very 60s thing. In those days when you ordered a salad, the waitress would say "French, Thousand Island, Green Goddess?" which sounds now like secret coded messages that alert the partisans about D-Day.

The most unusual thing about Wednesday: Birch took me all over the field after lunch. Usually we just go to the little spot where sit on the small base of a streetlight and have a few puffs off the Panter, and he enjoys the cool grass and a good chew off one of his collected sticks. His curated collection. I had to smile today to think that his days of cool grass aren't over, even though his plot of ground, once a wide yard, is now a yard wide.

When I stood to go back in, he stopped, and planted. No. No, we must go this way. He went to places in Sunderwood we've never been. When I tried to pull him in another direction, he turned into obstinate muscle and gave me the side-eye. "Adamant refusal to go back" usually means he has to unburden himself of a pliable cylinder, but naught came of it. We ended up going through the old entrance of the now-closed golf course:

I expect this will be removed when the park is finished. On that subject: not any work at all appears to have been done, recently. At all.

Off to work out, then take Birch for another walk on the Edina Spine, and exult: it's DEAD

I know a picture of nothing isn't particularly compelling. This was last week from another angle, before and after.

The people in those units will be less than pleased by the substantial development to rise on the site.

Not to use our free space to shill for the paid space, but Wednesday's page had more about Shasta than I expected to find.

Sterner than I remember.

It was, of course, from YouTube's bottomless quantity of old ads. It's as if there was a sudden boomer die-off and a million VHS tapes form the 80s and 90s were released into the world. This next example is from a 60s compilation, though. I'd intended to put it in the Wednesday Miscellany section, then ask a question and give the answer here, then I thought I'd put it in TV Tuesday, and then I thought no, best to do it here, with the answer on Friday.

The things I have to think about.

I don’t think this ad works, because the simultaneous twin-talk doesn’t have enough room to breathe and work. And I wonder if most people who saw this ad knew who these guys were.

I suspect not. WHAT? They were famous! We'll address that tomorrow. First, the ad.

Exit question: if you know who I’m talking about, what’s the connection between Mr. Anderson . . . and Hannibal Lecter?

Here's another one: what was the nearest train station to the office where the voice of Mr. Anderson worked?

And now . . .

We think of the 20s as being a time when a shot of a crowd saw a sea of straw boaters.

Well, this is 1924:

The straw is dead
Long live the felt

So says the FASHION DICTATOR.

It’s Loganized, which I assume was some proprietary process, or a name slapped on a common process. The store was next to the Orpheum; no more need be said.

The Orpheum:

Oh ho, you say. Clever little test, there. You were going to see who noticed, right? Because that Orpheum was built in 1926.

Very good! At the time of this ad, in 1924, the Orpheum was here.

Now the Palace. Its designer:

Gustave Albert Lansburgh (January 7, 1876 – April 1969) was an American architect largely known for his work on luxury cinemas and theaters. He was the principal architect of theaters on the West Coast from 1900 to 1930.

He did most of the Orpheums around the country. (Did he do the one in Minneapolis? Groking . . . . no.) His family entry notes: “Lansburgh’s son was director Larry Lansburgh."

Who worked at Disney on their live-action animal shows. Which leads us to . . .

Hmm.

All imdb says is “Paco, a hound of exceptional heritage, is easily distracted by other animals while on the hunt.” It’s the “Song of the South” of dog movies, except it’s still available:

In the YouTube comments, someone says they watched this in grade school. I wonder if the teacher screened it first or just thought "Disney, should be safe."

Hey kids it’s Bossie:

The movie won the Oscar for Best Live Action Short in 1958.

It was written by his wife, Janet Lansburgh, who started as a Disney publicist. More on Larry:

Lansburgh's film career began in the early 1930s, when he performed stunts for Cecil B. DeMille–directed films. After he broke his leg falling off a horse, he took a clerical job at Walt Disney Studios.

I gather that's where he met his wife. Neither his wiki bio or his wife's says anything about children, but other accounts note two sons, Brian, and Lawrence Jr. Found him:

Larry Lansburgh, who lives in Nevada City, is a public speaker and the author of “The Simple Key to Great Presentations.”

Another column says:

Larry Lansburgh is the author of “The World’s Greatest Snappy Comebacks.” He lives in Nevada City.

Back to the original Larry, the Disney director. A 1973 newspaper piece said he’d teamed up again with Rex Allen and Slim Pickets, and would soon be doing another, “The Great Elephant Chase.” No such movie exists in the imdb database, but there is “Runaway on Rogue River,” which is about elephants, and was directed by Lansburgh, so of course that’s it.

Written by his sons.

All that from a hat ad! Everything has a dozen stories.