Everything you see above is gone. But we'll get to that. I should also note in the matter of full disclosure that this shot was colorized by AI, which added the words WONDER BAR up on the left. The original text said GARRICK.

Panic! at the Fred. Friday night the lights went off outside. Birch was nosing around in the bushes out front when the underlights that illuminate the tree snapped off. The entrance lights, the big sign: all dark. For a moment I thought Birch had peed on a light and shorted out the entire complex.

Before, after:

It's darker than it looks.

Because I am that guy, I went to the office the next morning and noted two things: one, that the lights was out, and you can probably guess what sort of liability flak you’ll get if someone decides to trip. He said “absolutely” and got that face of someone contemplating liability.

Point two, the after-hours “emergency” line isn’t exactly something that encourages confidence. I got a generic “the party is not available” message, and a beep, and no one called me back. I didn’t really expect to be called back, because they were too busy being johnnies-on-the-spot (I expect it might take more than one Johnnie to fix), but it was underwhelming. What I wanted was “hello, you’ve reached Fred after-hours help, this is Bob, how can I assist you?” Or, if no real person was available, “hello, You’ve reached Fred After-Hours emergency assistance. I’m either helping someone else or I stepped away for a brief moment - please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible, within five minutes at the very most.”

And why do I want this? Because I am haunted by losing my keys outside and being locked out of my flat. When I mentioned this to one of the staf, inquiring if I could get a spare key, I was assured that after-hours number would help, and they’d send someone to let me in.

Well. Doesn’t seem too responsive. I don't expect to hear a C-130 overhead and see a guy parachute out, but now I don't expect anything.

Now it's Night #2, and the lights are still out. I’m thinking this must be serious, require a special part, and so forth. They know the lights are out. Because I am really that guy, I started to write an email on the building portal suggesting they send out an email to everyone keeping us informed about the situation. They’re always keen about informing everyone of things concerning the Fred Community, so this would seem normal.

But no. I’m not going to be that guy.

Here’s the peculiar thing: As if this morning, I was the only person who had informed them, twice, that the entire exterior lighting system for the building is down. The front office didn’t know, which meant my call had fallen on deaf ears, or they hadn’t been told by Upper Management, which seems unlikely. When I chatted with other residents about this issue, they hadn’t noticed, or had, and just . . . accepted it? Y’know? Yah it’s weird

This is precisely the sort of passivity I expect from people who DoorDash all their food

In other Fred news, the unit across the way has been rented. It’s an eighth-floor special, with high ceilings. They have a direct sight-line into my bathroom, so now I have to lower shades or close doors, or not. Also, the lady who DoorDashed a Sonic shake and who has the two yippy nasty dogs that go after Birch as if they want to rip his face off has moved down to 5 for a better view, because, as she explained, her dogs really couldn’t see much from her unit and will enjoy the park view. Great! Well, see you around! (Update: the dogs love the view Okay. Weed smell in hall: 7 out of ten today. The other day I caught the distinct smell of Ozium, which was always a sign to the dorm floor resident capos that someone was smoking weed - but you couldn’t bust them for it, just like you couldn’t bust anyone if they put a wet towel at the bottom of the door to keep the smell from escaping. They’d hear the noise and know you were up, but didn’t see any light from under the door, so that meant wet towel. Plenty of probably cause, I suppose, but unless they smelled something, they couldn't gently rap. rap upon the chamber door. If the light is blockin' don't come knockin'

At Sanford Hall I had a neighbor who did LSD and listened to Earth, Wind, and Fire at high volume. One night my roommate, a very normal fellow who was also an absolute weed fiend and once put the phone books in a trash can, put a target on the can, and stood in his closet at the far end of the dorm room and fired his rifle at the target, was making tea, and put one of those immerser coils into water. It tripped all sorts of fuses and blew out power to half the floor, including the neighbor who was starting to trip while listening to “Shining Star.” I imagine there was just a second when the song slowed - STARrrr - and cut out, but it possibly could have seemed like an hour. He knocked on our door and stood there like Frankenstein, eyes wide and darting back and forth, sweating, swaying slightly. We had to walk him back inside and put him to bed. Of course a while later the power came back on and I’m sure “wwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhahaaaaaaaat THE WORLD CAN TRULY BE” started up on his stereo.

Anyway. The weekend ran on rails, as usual. I hate weekends. I like them because I have my favorite foods, and favorite breakfasts, and I see my guys on Sunday, but I have no deadlines and no spur to work, which sometimes makes me feel aimless. Saturday’s dinner had a minor catastrophe: the second burger fell apart when I turned it over. From a patty to chunks. I usually have the second burger on Tuesday. It’s a way of stretching one pound into two meals, and as a single loser I am all about the stretching. On a recent trip to CUfB they had these trays of loose meat with Hispanic titles - El Pastor, Barbacoa, or whatever - marked down to $5.99, which is much less than the usual price of $8.99, which itself is supposed to be a bargain because the real price is $11.99. I don’t know why they don’t say they’re $28.99 and sell them for $6.99 and say you’re saving $22. Some people would buy it. Hah! Fools! Me, well, of course I bought it - I’m saving six dollars! Even though I knew I was only saving three. The same price shell-game applied to another plastic-tray meal, a pre-made meatloaf. Now, that’s generally and specifically ghastly, some extruded meat product held together with bread and sawdust, but I can trick it up with spices and sauce and make two good meals out of it. So, four meals for $12: Brilliant!

Oh, look at this: the special weekend hash-browns are on sale. This is going to be an awesome series of weekend breakfasts. I made them on Saturday, reminded of how Ex hated them because I used too much oil (I used half of what was recommended) and it ruined the fry pan (I used a pan that had been wrecked already, probably by my hash browns, so guilty there, I guess.) Now I live in heedless bachelor freedom, so I used more oil, had the hood fan going, and washed out the fry pan afterwards - only to note that the pan, somehow, was covered with unsightly stains. I had RUINED EVERYTHING, AGAIN.

But how? I use it infrequently, clean it afterwards. How had the sides of this fry pan become discolored? Do I have to go on Amazon and look at the one-star reviews to see “sides discolored somehow by use even though nothing ever spilled over”? Because I don’t want to. I spent time with Bartender’s Friend trying to get the stains off, and nothing worked. How in Bog’s name did the act of frying hash browns inside a pan cause the outside to get befouled by discolored grot?

I really don’t care. They’re not long for my world. If I get a house, they will not make the trip. I’ve mentioned this before, but I have quietly turned against everything I bought in preparation for Fred Base One. Just as everything from the old beloved house had a Story and could not be ported to a foreign context, everything I bought, with the exception of the napkin holder, the paper towel holder, one toothbrush holder, and three yellow trivets has been tarred by all the emotions of dislocation and moving.

The jury is out on the kitchen tools, and I’m giving the finishing salts a pass.

So, you’re saying, you’re going to buy new cooking equipment if you buy a house because the cooking set you bought is emotionally tainted? Yes. Also because it’s stained. And I don’t like the color. I’ve learned. If I do buy a house, it will be carefully rebuilt from the moment of occupancy, not before.

In keeping with our Monday tradition, which became a "tradition" for reasons I can't recall and probably don't matter, we continue with our Monday trademark. For this year we'll do 1936.

Rox, as in mountains, I guess.

		"Particularly.

It’s a solid B.

Widescreen, no big names, Dragnet-style narration, straightforward plot: guy has to infiltrate the mob. The lead hood, smooth and intelligent and unflappable, is our old friend:

Charles Foster Kane’s servant, of course. His imdb page notes that he had a nice “second career” in the 70s doing commercial voiceovers. He also directed a few TV shows.

There’s a bombshell singer who, in real life, was married to Xavier Cugat, who also appears in the nightclub sequences.

All good. What we’re here for is the inadvertent documentary - and what spectacular riches we have.

This is just fantastic. And it’s an indictment.

We can locate the area easily, as the scene is loaded with clues. The Woods Theater is gone, but we have an address. That means our coffee shop location - gone as well, of course - was here.

There’s a brief glimpse of a building on the corner . . .

Which is this.

The Delaware building, built in 1872 - and still standing. Utterly exhaustive history, here.

Nearly every exterior scene has an abundance of information:

The street scenes teem with city life:

Wondering what you'll order at the Ham n' Egger? Here's the menu.

Let's go back to our first shot:

Fair trade?

One more thing. Sorry, spoiler:

		Computer, enhance. Can we find it?
		Of course we can!

That will do. Substack column up between 11 and 12 - probably 11 as usual, but I have some morning plans, so who knows. Matchbooks, of course. See you around!