Please clap.

 

Clownbombing.

 

Professional photographers generally agree that 2023 has been
the worst year to date for clownbombing of weddings.

I think it's been going on for some time -- why, in all the groom pictures from my wedding, there's a clown front and center! 

St. Prez.

In Hamlet, Shakespeare writes, "When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions." I think that can be said for the president. Absolutely nothing is going right for this man and his passel of pointy-heads, and everyone knows it. One suspects that even they know it, although if they admit it, it would be like saying, "Yeah, the emperor is naked, so what?" And then it gets even worse. 

They can't even do propaganda right. Say what you will about Obama, his people could do propaganda. Here's the famous St. Obama photo, the first of many where the president just happened to have his head inside a halo in news shots:

And here's Ol' Joe's people trying the same trick. 

The thing is, that doesn't look like a halo. The first thing I thought of was:

Which, no offense to Art Garfunkel, is not a halo. In a flash I thought the Prez had let his hair-plug maintenance get out of control in the hope of holding on to the youth vote. But alas, it seemed like the attempt to put the ring of holiness around President Biden instead put his head on a platter. Which, as much as we love St. John the Baptist, is not the kind of image a president wants to project.  

I'm sure that Trump's people tried to put out pictures like that, but the wire services wouldn't have run them anyway. He was in the Lyndon Johnson position -- Johnson who famously said, "If one morning I walked on top of the water across the Potomac River, the headline that afternoon would read: 'President Can't Swim.'" 

Well, there's no point in pretending we're electing saints to any political offices. I think most politicians are working for the other side, IYKWIMAITYD. 

Heavy metal classics.

This could also be called "What's on Fred's Phone?" Here are the latest pictures I took, which I suppose is a pretty dumb way to compose a blog entry. Welp, here we go!

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Friday morning was the foggiest I can recall around here. The weather center issued a heavy fog / black ice warning, which is a nice way to start the day. Here is the shot I took, which I think is worthy of hanging in MOMA (MOM's Art collection on the fridge):

Frederick Key, Fog and More Fog (2021)

Fortunately the black ice was not too bad here, and I got to play light saber with my flashlight.

whoom.... whoom

Now, I promised heavy metal classics, and here's one:

It's upside down, but by gum that's an old-fashioned metal garbage can. You hardly ever see these around anymore, since they have have no wheels and have to be carried. But Home Depot does sell the classic galvanized steel one, a 31-gallon model by Behrens, for $25. They can be racoon-proofed with a bungee cord, as long as your racoons are not especially smart or determined. Anyway, I'm glad to see the metal trash can tradition being kept alive. It's almost like finding a rotary phone.

Speaking of old stuff....

So RC Cola, the distant #3 behind Coke and Pepsi, is bringing back the old "Me and My RC" slogan that was in use in the mid-seventies, complete with groovy font. I wonder why. I suppose it was successful, more so than the "Decide for Yourself" campaign of the eighties. but a forty-five-year-old slogan doesn't seem like it would hit that youth demographic sought by beverage manufacturers. I have nothing against RC, but I wonder what they're thinking. Maybe they figure they can snag the old-timers while Coke and Pepsi fight for the Millennials. It's as if in 1975 they revived this campaign, except it would have been only thirty years old at the time, not forty-five.

But I think most of us feel that 1945 feels culturally a lot further from 1975 than 1975 feels from 2021. 

Finally, we have one more chunk of heavy metal, the base for a steampunk automobile.  

Nah, this is part of that annoying cable project they started a couple of weeks ago. The flatbed trailer brought a backhoe to the party, and the wheel was one of several that held a cable sleeve to run underground to allow the cable to be slipped along the curb. It was a pretty big project. They've moved on to running cables along telephone lines now. Since I took the photo the flatbed is gone, but the stupid reel is still sitting there, just off the road. If they don't come back for it by February, I'm selling it for scrap.

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And that's what was on my camera app. Be here next time when you get to see five shots of my index finger!

Thanksgiving in photographs.

For Thanksgiving on this dreary year, I thought it would be fun to look at the holiday with images of past years. Thanksgiving may not be grand for us in 2020, but better times will come. 

Courtesy of the Amazing Actors of Old Hollywood community, allow me to share some Thanksgiving publicity photos of great movie stars back when movies were fun, not wanton obscenity and hectoring minefields of political correctness. 

Felix the Cat shows how it's done. Not sure about the
guy in the Felix suit, but then, the original Mickey at Disneyland
was terrifying. 

Marilyn Monroe goes after wild game.

Looking delicious, Rita Hayworth -- and 
so does the turkey!

Adelle August had a short movie career but
plenty long legs. Probably not the 
first turkey she got to do her bidding.

Debbie Reynolds lands on Plymouth Rock.

That moment Doris Day became an animal
rights activist.

Durante compares schnozzolas.

I dream of Pilgrims. Seems to be a holiday mashup
for Barbara Eden.

I think we all know who killed this turkey.

Just slipping in a little cannibal from the neighborhood!

Harold Lloyd either doing his shopping for Thanksgiving dinner
or just back from Black Friday doorbusters.

And finally, another great movie star, the Tin Man,
wombles down the avenue.

Happy Thanksgiving, all! Feast and be grateful -- if you're reading this, you have survived 100% of everything life has been able to throw at you so far. God bless! 

Where have I been?

Nothing political again today; I just can't stand it. 

Actually I had a busy week, and not just snoring slumping sitting at my desk. I was on the move, getting things done, seeing and being seen, and so on. 

So where have I been?

Walmart, for one, and the garden section is whole-hog Christmas now, featuring that damned snow homunculus, Olaf. God, I hate him and the whole Frozen franchise.  

My cart at Walmart was probably the only Halloweenish thing I saw, thanks to some wag who used a shelf label on my cart:

Must be the anti-Buffalo Bill.

The less-convenient-but-superior local supermarket has not hit its Christmas stride yet. Not that you could guess from the seasonal aisle:

The difference is, rather than any holiday-themed music, they were playing the Greatest Boomer Hits That Annoy Fred. Everything I've heard to death and never bothered to buy, like "Band on the Run." And you know what bugs me about the Yardbirds' "For Your Love"? The backup vocals are awful. They sound like they're singing with a sock stuck in their windpipe. "for yar lahvb"

"Did they play 'Imagine'?" my wife asked when I was kvetching later. 

"I said Hits That Annoy Fred, not Hits That Make Fred Burst Into the Manager's Office and Rip Out the Muzak Machine." 

In the pet store, I could buy a stuffed Santa ass sticking out of a stuffed chimney for the dogs to chew on.

No thanks. Would last about twenty seconds here. 

In another town in the county, a man named Gus Krauss started a camera shop and studio in 1907, and it seems to still be operating today, although said to be closed at the moment, possibly due to Chinese Death Virus. 

Gus left us in 1977, but the shop continued with new owners. Good to see a small business survive so long. 

On that note, the place I go to get my hair cut seems to have been killed off by the COVID, although the signs in the window say they "hope to return soon." Meanwhile, it looks like my wife will be cutting my hair again, unless she wants me to do it myself. Yes, it's blackmail and I don't care. 

Finally, here's a misty moon for you. The nice kind of moon, not the naughty kind. 

Keep on shining, wherever you are.

Hubby Lobby.

What will an average husband take pictures of while his wife is shopping in Hobby Lobby? Let's find out!

🎨🧶🎎🕈📚👗

"These places all look the same. What's the difference between Hobby Lobby and Micheal's?"

"Oh!"

"Here's looking at you, kid."

"A place like this could give a guy ideas."

"Did you just assume my gender?"

"Holy crap! The secret's been here all along! Hey, everybody!"

"Crazy Knitty Ladies appear to have as much paraphernalia available as Crazy Kitty Ladies. Is there a lot of overlap? Don't cats ruin yarnwork? Just askin' -- not trying to start a rumble or anything."

"Painting by numbers: Craft or art? Hobby Lobby says craft. Let's poll Aisle 8."

"Hey, they do have a men's department in this place."

(Sorry for the bad picture, but among the books on sale are C. S. Lewis's Screwtape Letters and Mere Christianity; you won't find that at Blick.)

"Come on, everyone! Na na na na na na na na, Na na na na na na na na, BATMAAAAN!"

(At this point hubby is sent to wait in the car.)

Autumn miscellany.

Just emptying my phone of recent pictures -- another sentence that would have made no sense 25 years ago -- and I wanted to share a couple with you. Always something interesting around, if I bother to look. 

A month or so ago our lilac plant, one of several we planted last year, came under attack by those disgusting purveyors of disgustingness, tent caterpillars. For a short time in late August and early September these punks were busy in the neighborhood, and apparently some of them like lilacs. The plant became bare of leaves where the little creeps were munching away, and it seemed to be spreading rapidly. My wife, who hates tent caterpillars even more than I do, or would if such a thing were possible, was convinced we would have to uproot the thing and hope to plant a new one in its place. But not I. I was too determined, too thoughtful, too cheap to entertain such a notion. So I went to Home Depot to get vicious, dangerous poison, and came back with some weenie insecticidal soap in Miracle-Gro's Nature's Care organic schmorganic line. I didn't want nature to care, I wanted it DEAD. The store was out of all the really effective stuff because everyone else was also killing tent caterpillars. So I wound up with soap. I wasn't planning to give these bugs a freakin' bath. 

Well. Not only did the soap kill the bugs, but the lilac survived, and was the only one to give us a late bloom. 

"Ta-da! Thanks for killin' the bugs, mate!"

So I owe Miracle-Gro an apology. Sorry, Miracle-Gro; thanks for saving the plant.

Other bugs I have left alone this fall. This big fellow gave me a start, but he was just minding his own business.

Caught this shot below while driving (totally illegal, I know -- breakin' the law! breakin' the law!). Obviously an abandoned little house, right by a busy road. Almost looks like it had just been dropped there.

Made me wonder if little tiny houses can be haunted. It's always castles or big mansions in the stories and most of the movies, but the little ones might have even more ghosts. Depends on what happened there....

And maybe... maybe even station wagons can be haunted!

There was so much stuff packed into this one that I thought it had to be driven by a ghost, because there was no room for a live human being. In a way this car was itself a ghost; there was a time not that long ago when cars like this were all over the place. Then they started to fade away, get replaced, drive off into the sunset, and now they're all gone. All but a small, brave, possibly haunted few.

To end on a pretty note: All the mums are fading, but weren't they nice in September? A neighbor had a bunch of these around.

So that's some stuff that swam into my ken of late. What's new with you?

Second dog song.

Everyone knows about second kid neglect, especially if you are the second kid. If you were a tot before smartphones made photos common, when you still had to get this stuff we called "film" "developed" at a place like the "Fotomat," you may have seen 30,597 pictures of your older sibling and 18 of you. If you were a third child, 2. Kid #4 and beyond were lucky to have their names remembered. And of course that did not mean your parents loved you less. They just had less time and -- let's face it -- the novelty of progeny had worn off.

Well, I suppose the same could be true for your pets, although it hasn't quite turned out that way here.

Tralfaz, our first dog, did get a bazillion photos of him when he got here, but Nipper, second dog, got the same treatment. They were both so stinkin' cute. Sorry, I mean Ka-YOOT. And Nipper was such an excitable puppy, such an energetic puppy, such a freaking hungry puppy, that he demanded an outsize amount of attention in a way that babies don't. (Newborns need a ton of attention, but for quite a long period in their lives, if you put them down someplace, they tend to stay there. And they don't chew wallboard or flooring. Usually.)

Over time, the attention issue has seesawed until neither dog need feel neglected, or both dogs should feel equally neglected. We do our best.

One area I had neglected was I had never written a song for Nipper. I had, yes, written a song for Tralfaz, three years ago, when he had gotten quite large and scared people who were scared of big dogs. Some folks are scared of big dogs no matter how friendly they are, and I can understand that; it's kind of irrelevant to a normal healthy adult whether the Chihuahua next door is vicious or pleasant, but that German shepherd is another story. Anyway, I wrote Tralfaz's theme song to the tune of Caspar the Friendly Ghost's, and you can find my humble efforts here.

I decided that, to be fair, and even though dogs have no clue that we do any of this kind of thing or why, I would have to give Nipper his own song. And so I did, to the tune of the old Gumby theme song:

He was once a little cute ball of fuzz
Nipper!
Now you should see the crazy things that he does
Nipper!
He can help you with any job
With a lick on the elbow too
If you've got a heart then Nipper's a part of you

If he knew what the heck we humans were on about I'm sure he'd be pleased. He is one of those dogs that like to follow you around when you're doing little jobs about the house and gets in the way, and he really likes the taste of human elbows. He has always been a lot of fun; even when he's been naughty, it's never from malice, just from wanting to be part of the party. And he is our party pup.

So that's the dogs, and if we get a third, or a pet weasel, or go adopting children or taking in homeless bums, I guess I'll have to write songs for them too. I'm in danger of becoming the crazy theme-song-writing guy.

Mid-June delights.

Just some pics of things observed this June, often while walking Mr. Dog:

Now a followup on the bird's nest that I wrote about in May; Mother Robin had her babies, and they popped out of the eggs. Here's the fat little babies all clustered in the nest:

But robins, unlike humans, don't waste much time hanging around. Americans adults may be treated as children to the age of 26, but birds don't buy that namby-pamby stuff. By last Monday everyone had moved on, and I took the this year's nest down.

What's this next shot? Some kind of flowering ground cover? Actually it's a close-up view of a tree. What kind of tree, I have no idea. I never paid attention to the arboreal stuff in my career as a Cub Scout. Where I grew up in the city you'd see the same oaks and sweetgums everywhere and little else. This is beautiful, though. You wish your pillowcases looked as silken and inviting as these white flowers.

And this is... I actually don't know what the hell this is, either. Someone's house. Or someone's ex-house. We just happened to be passing by. What a bizarre side door. 

Finally, here's a thrilling monster movie -- 22 seconds of the biggest slug I have ever seen in person. Usually our New York slugs just look like something you coughed up, and about the same size, if you had a cold, maybe. This sucker had weird patterns, and looked to be as long as my index finger. It was the kind of thing you associate with southern areas, where the winter is never cold and the bugs just keep growing to the size of Elantras. Here he comes, sliming his way out of his nice safe lawn and onto the street. Go back, stupid slug!

The movie ends abruptly as a shadow (Dog) comes closer to investigate. I didn't want him to eat the slug. It might have been bad for both of them.

So that's my season so far; hope yours has been kind to you.

While walking the dog.

Some autumnal scenes while walking the big dog. The little guy is still too little to go far. Thanks to the cool weather, the big hairy guy has a new leash (har!) on life.

Here's some trees:

Nice. But you see what I meant yesterday about arboreal coordination? Some of these guys will be bald when the rest start to go. Come on, gang! Get it together!

The swamp. Kind of a stagnant pond, very popular with ducks by day, frogs by night, foxes when they want to eat ducks and frogs. 

Some kind of fall-blooming daisy. Shasta daisies, I think, based on two seconds of Google. How did we ever know anything before the Internet? 

Sorry for the crummy shot; it was early and dim and so was I. But I can tell you, that birdhouse is still nicer than my first apartment.

Some quality of grayness in an Autumn sky is a little different. Especially on a Sunday morning. It looked like a hangover.

They're grrrrrrate! This is right on the sidewalk, and Tralfaz wouldn't walk over it. I don't blame him. Once on a dare I walked over a train trestle from abandoned tracks with unsound and sometimes missing ties (which inspired a scene in my book Faster & Closer). It was scary. I can't imagine how much scarier it would be if I had hind feet that I couldn't see while walking. This could have made for a broken leg for my dog. We went into the street.

Sometimes autumn looks good just lying there.