Will I be evicted? I don’t know the status of the SCRIE, apparently because the lease has to be signed by both parties to be in effect. I’m not going to have much income in the next few weeks because I do not have a job apart from the odd Anchor hours (few of which I have taken in the past month), and the paltry nruns work. Laura emails me to say she’s looking at some job in the area and can she still stay with me, and will I pleased take care of the wet carpet, which will be moldly? I really don’t need this shit right now.

Have three pieces to get off to CC right away:

1. Adventures in the Autograph Trade, with H. Keith Thompson.
2. Yockey and the Nuremberg Bullies (complaints about Rosenfeld and others)
3. “Russia Collusion” Confusion: Truthiness Was Never the Issue

Ease in writing follow that in ascending order. The HKT thing could write itself: he’s listed as NYC corporate executive, but what sort of corporate executive is never quite mentioned, or the name of the corporation. But it turns it was a small but very high-profile autograph dealership in Manhattan called Hamilton Galleries, where H. K. was executive vice president for many years. In its heyday, Hamilton Galleries (aka Charles Hamilton Autographs) was hard to miss. It often took the back page of the New York Times Book Review to advertise some of its more eye-catching wares, generally letters from dead writers and statesmen. In the news pages, the Hamilton enterprise got a lot of press as well, in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s, frequently concerning autographs and letters from Mr. or Mrs. John F. Kennedy; correspondence of Lee Harvey Oswald, and signed photos of Richard Nixon, Henry Kissinger, and Greta Garbo. Perhaps its biggest splash came in 1983 during the “Hitler Diaries” brouhaha, when proprietor Charles Hamilton was the first to slam the supposed diaries as colossal forgeries. (In England, historian Hugh Trevor-Roper had accepted them as genuine, while David Irving initially declared them fakes, then hedged his bets.) But by this point H. K. was well out of the Hamilton concern, and was publishing his own book, Doenitz at Nuremberg: A Reappraisal (1983) a compilation of dozens upon dozens of testimonies from prominent figures (diplomats, armed-service officers, historians) in defense of Admiral Karl Doenitz, the last head of state in National Socialist Germany. I first knew him a few years later, and never once heard him mention his career with the Hamilton Galleries. But I gathered he’d had occasional dealings with them over the years, and regarded Charlie and wife Diane Hamilton as a bit shady, concerned mostly with profiteering and self-promotion. But books and news stories leave no doubt about the matter. H.K. worked for them as a key senior manager, from about 1953 to sometime in the 1970s. In Charles Hamilton’s many books we find acres of praise for Thompson, effectively his 2-i-c. There H.K.  was a key authority on such matters as Third Reich personalities, the correspondence of G. S. Viereck, and the use of the Autopen, the robot signature machine which was virtually a state secret until exposed by Thompson and Hamilton:

No secret weapon was ever more assiduously regarded, and White House aides vehemently deny that the robot exists [wrote Charles Hamilton]. “There is no machine,” insisted Pierre Salinger, press secretary to President Kennedy… The Autopen 50 is top secret wherever it is used and no outsiders are ever permitted to see it… I pulled every string, resorted to every plea, in order  to have a look at this remarkable machine…. Finally, from the Chase Manhattan Bank, I got a tip from a certain large insurance company in new York whihch had an Autopen 50. Our executive vice president, H. Keith Thompson Jr., had worked for this company when a young man. He approached the vice-president of the insurance company, explaining that we were interested in viewing the machine, and had been referred to him by Mr. DeShazo, the reputed inventor.

Keith made an appointment for himself and “several friends”… Keith was jovial, full of reminiscences about the old days with the firm…

And so H. Keith Thompson, and Charlie and Diane Hamilton and their crew, oohed and aahed and generally played dumb, while experimenting with this Autopen contraption, and took dozens of photographs of the “robot” in operation.

“We don’t like to make an investment without really looking over what we buy,” explained Keith.

Diane Hamilton tries the Autopen 50, circa 1964.

Just reupped T-Mobile for another $44.

Group run in PP tomorrow eve, but I can’t possibly make it. Not in shape at all. Need to take an hour or so off today and try to jog in CP.

About $2000 in the WF account now, and a $1887.78 rent check hitting it imminently.

I take comfort in that the Con Ed bill is paid, at least for the month (w/ installment), through the Aetna flex card.

Stopped in to see Grimm at 11 and 5:30 yesterday. Effectively I get paid $120 to ride the subways for two hours once a week. Pays me better than CC, that’s for sure.

Went to Whole Foods after the earlier Grimm visit yesterday. Ground bison, boneless chicken thighs, heirloom tomatoes, 3 ears corn, instant coffee, two bricks cheap cheese, crackers. In the evening I got 1/2 pt Platinum at the Chinawoman’s, mixed it with the remaining grapefruit juice, and slugged it all down within a half hour. Developed a sharp headache in the middle of the night. From the cheese, I assume, not that bit of vodka.

Marshal 1 position.

On Saturday the 13th, the Squirrel Stampede on Gov Is. Setting up and taking down Finish, marshaling from after 8am till almost 11. We were being treated to tacos at Taco Vista afterwards but the tacos never arrived, I got impatient, and headed for the boat due to leave in a few minutes. Was also annoyed that John L was eagerly priming Alexia for her possible interest in working as a timer. Now, I was sitting right there, I’d done timing things, at least at a base level, and here is John talking about how badly they need more timers. WTF? I gave him a hard look but our eyes never met. (Alexia kept asking me for my website address, and wants to see the cartoons I was blabbing about last years as we trudged through Crown Heights handing out advisory flyers for the Brooklyn Half.)

Actually, I’m mildly pissed off about my treatment by nruns over this calendar year. I’m used as a pair of hands at start/finish, and sometimes to marshal. That’s about it. Once I drove the blue van, a few times I set up split mats. A couple times I rode in fans. That’s it. Also once I and someone else were supposed to set up finish mats but we were slow or behind (Finish manager kept changing our position) so we were just starting to wire when Bryan G jumped in to finish it quickly. I must say I do not look forward to more painful, near-frostbitten winter races.

Sunday I got a sudden craving for Popeye’s fried chicken after seeing a nigger commercial on TV. I pulled myself together, bought fried chicken on 8th Avenue and then 9%+ABV IPA at the drugstore. Luncheon of champions.

News has been filled with the Charlie Kirk killing. Pointless but inevitable. The Mossad got him, or something like that. And why not?

Seventy-two. I like the sound of it. Really getting up there. It’s not quite three in the morning. Tonight I ate a can of tunafish, and just now, two packages (4 total) of those fig bars I got at WF a couple of weeks back.

What America Means to Me, First of a Series (mashup of Marion Power Shovel pictures, TH Benton and Hogarth)

I know what I’ll do tomorrow. Run in the park. Jog. Jog/walk as much as ten miles. It will wear me out but break the no-run spell. It’s been ten fucking years. Though up to about 2018 I made attempts but found myself fagged at a quarter mile. You know why? Because I had a whole elaborate warmup procedure. At my age I need a half-hour warm up. That’s a walk, slow-shuffle, stretch, jog, stretch. Very very easy jog then for me.

Meant to hit First Friday Mass at St P’s. Didn’t. Got involved in something mighty important on FB. Maybe the AI comic illustrations. Looked at the time and it was 5:30.

There are still dishes in the sink. But I did put the trash out, mostly. Headache and lying on bed most of the day (Friday). Why you think? I drank a pint last night, first time in some days. I also, incredibly, went back to the boo pipe, scraped it, and also found a few minuscule crystals at the bottom of the St. Sebastian’s box. I got a few half-decent hits. Two nights ago. Up most of the next day. Finally polished off the Buckley bio review and sent it in last night (Thurs) around 9. About 5000 words. Ungainly. As a hook I lead with the USPS ‘Forever’ stamps coming out on Tuesday, with an unrecognizable Bill.

Wednesday I was supposed to set up and marshal a special “Wunna Gunna” 5k in PP, but I was very ill. Fever of 102º-103º in the middle of the night. Dreadful. My fault. I went and got a flu vax at CVS on Tuesday. That did it for me. I did it for Anchor, but no Anchor work for me now, not this week, and I’ll miss the money and the pay for the race. So I’m out like $400 that I won’t get.

New St. Jude novena objective is now just, get a fucking job. You have a couple of shitty part-time jobs.

Paul Wood in Romania just wished me HBD on FB. Today (Fri) he told a story of how his granddad worked at the War office for a Mr Burgess. One day Mr Burgess didn’t show up and it turned out he’d fled to Moscow. Utter nonsense, of course, except that granddad may well have known someone at War who knew Burgess at the FO. I hypothesized that when Burgess disappeared he went to Washington. The London-Moscow hop happened nearly a year later.

Have not paid rent or electricity, but I can manage to do that now. Next few days. I should have anywhere from $350 to $500 hitting me by next Friday. And I’ll be applying for grownup jobs. Anything to bring in $2000 or more net every four weeks. That’ll do it. And bothering Social Security again, dire need. Call them Monday, Tuesday.

Started to watch Citizen Kane the other day. It’s not really that good. I had it for 48 hours. Is it still available? (Fumbles with remote.)  Oh it’s still up. Orson Welles looking across the breakfast table at Ruth Warwick. So I have another few hours on this. Now Jedediah (Joseph Cotten) in the old folks’ solarium is talking to the reporter. Flashback to first meeting with Susie Alexander.

Anchor, it appeared, demanded a flu vaccine by Sept 1, so on Sept 2 I got myself one at the CVS on 57th St. In the evening I had a beer, fell lightly to sleep (having slept much of the past two days, and having a long PP shift in front of me, midweek (Wednesday). By midnight or so I felt definitely ill. Thermometer told me 101.7º, and a little later near 103º. I checked the time every hour or so. If I felt okay come 10 or 11 am, I would shower and get ready for the PP 5K race shift starting at one pm. I didn’t go, in the end.

After 9 in the evening now, and I feel completely washed out by that fever. It broke into sweats during the morning and I have felt seriously fatigued since. First time I have ever had to “call out” at nruns.

Yesterday and today watched To Catch a Thief in bits. I could never get through it before, but forced myself. So it remains one of my least favorite Hitchcocks, a nice travelogue with little tension. The culprit is the little French gamine. Jessie Royce Landis plays so excellently against Cary Grant, she got cast as his mother in the next one, though they were about the same age. There is a lot of one-armed rescuing toward the end, also to be repeated in that next feature. Grace Kelly is beautiful and insipid. The plot is extremely sketchy. Cary is an ex-jewel thief, suspected of being the robber in a new set of heists. Grace seduces him, perhaps.

Walked to Mass at St P’s today, didn’t really go. Said part of a rosary in the Lady Chapel. Sermon going. Left. Got 3 tacos at Chipotle, the new smudge didn’t know what that was.

Bugs all over, mainly fruitflies. They had leveled off a lot before Laura was here two weeks ago, because I’d sprayed and bombed the place. Went to DR and bought another can of RAID flying insect spray, sprayed around. Also got some root touch-up. I last colored on about July 30, am due for touch up now.

Got some boo from Grimm when I was over there on Monday evening. A teensy bag lasted me two night and kept me up. Then another night or two scraping. Madly writing about everything and nothing. Buckley review which is not done. Emails to Diana Gise. She wants the whole history of 25 Church Street in Saratoga Springs. I believe “we” owned it from 1870 to 1938, when the Morrisons sold it. Since Maggie Hayes had ownership in 1924 when Thomas passed, she must have sold it to Dennis’s widow and daughter and her husband.

Not much Anchor work coming up. I requested a few slots this past week, got nothing. I do have Grimm tomorrow (Labor Day) and I have a race in PP on Wednesday afternoon and evening. Try to get some shifts for Tuesday, Thurs, Fri. Must pay rent. Can barely do it at the moment. And send in the Buckley review tomorrow.

Recurring tooth pain which I’ve staved off with the last of the Erythro and with rinses of peroxide. After eating steak a week or so ago the upper right molar was wobblier than ever.

My birthday this week. Saturday. I will make K take me to dinner if I am free in the evening.

No vodka at all this week except for a pint of Platinum last night, mixed with grapefruit juice. I had a Resin beer a couple of days earlier, from Whole Foods, which I did not pay for. The wonders of self-checkout. Of course it was also the cheapest thing I bought.

Cattrall and her greasy black mop (James Wolcott?)

Watching a bit of the film Tribute, which was always playing back in 81 or 82 when I was flying back and forth to California. Kim Cattrall gives the game away when she knows how to open the hidden bar. Who was the movie critic who denounced her greasy mop, in, was it Village Voice? The Wolcott guy from Baltimore?

You can see it at archive dot org or on YouTube but it’s really fuzzy and faded both places. Not celebrated as a classic.

Laura’s supposed to arrive in two days, August 9. Staying with Keith. Aug 9-19. She arranged this just be emailing him, I suppose. She’s never been to his new place which is convenient but a sty. Didn’t confer with me, and I certainly would have told her it was a stupid idea to come to New York City in August. Weather has tempered a little but it’s not idea. Who would even think of such a thing? She had the idea of renting a car and driving around upstate. Upstate meaning, north of Poughkeepsie, basically. I gave her the suggestion of taking a train to someplace like that and renting a car. Left it to her to make arrangements, because if it had been up to me I would have said, AFTER September 20, please!

New patient today. 77yo nig, quite pleasant, living in a Second Empire building at the beginning of Restaurant Row. Holy smokes, this was clearly remodeled to be a boutique hotel, how did it become a cool SRO for these people. The guy is from SC, which I figured out, and I told him I had SC background, so we bonded over that and lots else. But he’s one of those clients dying for company and thinking I’m somehow his maid. Actually he hasn’t much to do except cook and sweep his floor. Nice wood floor. His speech is almost totally incoherent. Some kind of Low Country jabber. Geechee Gullah?

I went out on an errand for him to Duane Reade, getting him some Vitamin D and a half-gallon of milk on his OTC card. (Welfare card for Medicaid recipients. I have one myself but spend it all on Con Ed. More about that later.) He was in a tizzy when I brought back D3, not Vit D, because that’s how they brand Vit D these days. I think D3 is the active ingredient of Vit D. Off on his own he went to the drugstore and came back with two big bottles of D3. Rest of the morning (9-12) I washed some dishes and swept his little floor (nothing there) and made his bed. With him. Actually enjoyed it. Jolly guy.

Came home, thought I’d take a nap. Did nothing. Internet. Later got around to making potato salad for Dottie tomorrow. Special recipe I found online, avocado and other things, but no mayo. I bought her coleslaw at the little Whole Foods at 50th and 8th because she must have it. In revenge I did not pay for it at the self-checkout. What else? Bought some great big wild shrimp which look to be unshelled and veined. The latter bit I have to take care of. EBT purchases, can’t complain. Got a chicken burrito of sorts, it was okay, filling, nothing great.

Clocked into Deputy for 1/2 hr to get the docs for the upcoming BICS half and 5k on the 23rd. I left it on for over an hour…have emailed Jen to strike it all.

[From another popular blog, md/news1: “I did not renew presenttension in time, and my payment has not gone through at this moment. Diary entry here instead, late on Sunday June 20, 2025.”]

Today I saw an old photo of Union Square with a very distressed billboard for Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips. Well where the hell can I get good fish and chips? I found myself resorting to things like Yelp. I was guided to Judge Roy Bean, out the back door of my building. Where Moki and I spent many a lazy afternoon 1998-1999 and maybe beyond. We had a regular barman named Rudy. Lebanese, and I think he was or had been a student at Columbia. Great guy, could talk about anything. I got there today at noon. It was empty. I sat at the bar. Almost the same as the last time I was in there (around 2003 maybe, with Keith, both very drunk, and the place was unaccountably filled with niggers). But the bar is a lot longer now. They broke open the kitchen and made that a seating area.

The $22 fish and chips were okay, served up with malt vinegar, ketchup, tartar, et al. I made notes in Book 88 about the Buckley book. Things left out. Lack of focus in Tanenhaus. The bill was rather more than twice that $22 as I had two beers. Can’t do this again for a long time. Money very short. Rent. Con Ed. Bills.

Cagney, Cuddles, Whorf

Last weekend, on the day when I was not due out in Queens (that would be Saturday) I found myself watching Yankee Doodle Dandy. I had tried to rent it on the Fourth, but there was some Amazon glitch. But the rental was made anyway and it was available when I looked a few days later. Friday, Saturday. My, it was much much longer than I remembered, and I must have been raised on truncated editions on Million Dollar Movie and The Early Show. What I remembered were the Little Johnny Jones numbers (Yankee Doodle Dandy and Give My Regards to Broadway), somebody singing Mary It’s a Grand Old Name, and Forty-five Minutes from Broadway. And then the lights go off in an outside stage, but with the help of headlights they all sing Over There. And of course the story is framed with Cohan meeting an FDR impersonator in the Oval Office (which is upstairs in the WH, not by the Rose Garden in the West Wing, as it had been by FDR’s day), and at the end Cohan dances down the WH stairs. The Sam Harris character I barely remembered, did not remember at all it was played by Richard Whorf.

And I never saw, or blanked out, on the early scenes when young George M. is playing in Peck’s Bad Boy and gets beat up by the neighborhood ruffians. And then talks fresh to Mr. Edward Albee, the theatrical manager, who comes to the theater to lure the Cohans down to Providence. Cuddles Sakall is an early angel when Harris and Cohan go into business. That I did not recall. Or the four Cohans singing I Was Born in Virginia.

That’s the place that’ll win ya.

I unpacked the Waterpik Flosser today and used it three times. I’m very clumsy and uncoordinated and sprayed water all over the place the first two times. My old Waterpik in orthodontia days had a big tub receptacle that held about a pint of water. The handheld device, attached on a siphon, was controlled by a button that turned the squirt on and off. This new one is shaped like a cross between a dildo vibrator and an insecticide can, where the squirt nozzle goes into your mouth but you control the spray from an on/off switch on the side. I will adapt.

Very few hours with HHA this past week, just Jeffrey R and Grimm. Small check next Friday. Big hunk taken out of paycheck this last time however. I think I netted $363 with Anchor and $185 with Gusto nruns. Not good.

Sort of a William Wegman weimaraner mosaic in the 23rd St F train station. I’d just been to Home Depot.

I thought I’d have some hours this weekend, but not so far. (It is Saturday.) I turned down shifts. At the dentist at 3pm Wednesday I got a call from Jennifer seeing if I would work for “Mister Wade.” No, I do not wish to go back to Mr Wade, and fortunately I could say in all honesty I was at an appointment. I thought Haim Zitman the Israeli wheeler-dealer on East 52nd would be in the bag for me today and tomorrow, but no. Lourdes Vasquez is back on my availables, but now looking for someone in the afternoon. I should much prefer that. I fear Jennifer L. the samovar is going to return to my list soon. Had her two Sundays ago. The apt was comfortable enough but the hours passed slowly. And the tragedy and amputations were too much to bear. If I were to see her again I’d tell her she needs to start a podcast, not about her disability, but about other things in addition. Then she’ll get her bionic hands quicker. The sad story began a few years ago, when she’d been living with MS for a while, then was found passed out and comatose by a friend. Off to the hospital where they saved her life by taking off her hands and toes (gangrene) and giving her a colostomy. Septic shock or toxic shock, I don’t know. As she came too she found she couldn’t use her mobile phone or a TV remote because (she thought) her hands had been all bound up in a kind of tight sock bandage. So she asked the nurse if she could rebandage her hands so she could at least have a lobster claw, with her thumb separate. And the nurse goes, “Oh my dear…”

Walking home from Jennifer L’s on Sunday July 6th: the Jurassic dinosaur at 30 Rock is being disassembled.

Curious thing is that so far the only white people on this HHA patient roster have been Jews. Haim, Jennifer, and the egregious Esther Levy, in an overcrowded and hot, stuff apartment on West 71st (last Friday).

Oh, but I’m forgetting the reliables, Grimm and Jeffrey. Only Grimm is not so reliable. He is punctuality-challenged. Misses the times when he’s supposed to come visit me (I said 1:30 in the afternoon back in March, and he wakes at 1:20 pm and messages me: I overslept) or meet somewhere else (he was supposed to go to the Dental Oral surgeon at 164th and Broadway last week, and I was meeting him there, but he stood me up—vile place anyhow). Jeffrey I see each morning for an hour, generally walk with him to Bellevue and back, and that takes up the hour and gives us both some exercise. Grimm I’ll see briefly if he’s there…this last time I sat with him in his sitting room where he watches his new flatscreen tv through a big mirror he’s placed opposite his chair. He’s quite the scavenger, finding things on the street. A shop-vac that looks to be in mint condition, an incredibly beautiful drafting table. First time I connected with him, three Mondays ago, we walked all the way to Grand Army Plaza (Blkn) then up Vanderbilt in Prospect Heights, had a beer at the vinyl-record bar, then ice cream cones nearby. The entire expedition took less than three hours, and we walked about 8 miles on my watch (dubious).

On the walk back from Haim’s, and Draught 55 last Saturday.

When he did not meet me at the oral surgery place on Wednesday the 9th, I bought a black scrubs top and then had a burger with fries and very good but expensive beer at a new pub across Broadway, called Fort Washington. Now, that scrubs top, size S, looked plenty big in the store (nasty, stuffy, crowded little store, USA Scrubs) but I could barely squeeze into it. So next day, Thursday, I went back and traded it in for a size that fit, which turned out to be an L. Nicely designed garment, but I’m sorry to say it cost $26 and the fabric, some synthetic, is awfully heavy. Fort Washington, the bar, tempted me again, and this time I had just a beer and french fries. Coogan’s closed a few years ago, and this new place seems to have taken up the slack. Its neighborhood notwithstanding, I recommend it.

(Another good place where I spent even more money: Draught 55, near P.J. Clarke’s on East 55th. I was the only customer when I got there around 1:30 in the afternoon last Saturday. Splendid burger and garlic fries. Brilliant new craft beer, high ABV, but something like $9 for 12 oz. The barkeep made it out that they made the drinks small because potent.)

As to Grimm: An alley cat adopted him a couple of weeks back and proved to be pregnant. Three kittens but I haven’t seen them. This past visit, I stopped at Barclay Center to check out the nearby shopping mall. Went into Old Navy where I bought nothing but thought of getting a couple of simple, cheap, v-neck t-shirts as scrubs alternatives; then Best Buy to see if they had an HDMI-VGA adapter. They did but it was $20. That was Monday. Around Wednesday I got around to taking it out of the box and hooking it up to the ThinkPad and old Viewsonic (?) HD monitor, which I’ve relocated to the glass shelves by the living room wall. No sound from the monitor speakers. Must use laptop for sound or attach speakers to the 3.5mm port on the back of the monitor. Only thing I’ve watched on it is OANN for an hour or two. A much better news channel than FoxNews or even Newsmax, but it often annoyingly plays the same ‘inspirational quotes’ house-ad filler over and over.

Thursday, I think it was, I did half the dishes and mopped the kitchen floor. It didn’t look clean enough so I went over it another couple of times with bleach. Looks okay now but I haven’t put the squeegee away.

I’ve been living mainly on A-Sha noodles. The other day I opened a can of mole chili I’d bought at Whole Foods (very expensive) but it wasn’t good at all. I’d had a couple of ears of corn lying around for a few days, getting rather dessicated looking there in the fridge, so ate ’em and they weren’t bad at all. Wednesday I think it was, I went to Whole Foods and managed to run up a total of $60 (EBT card: play money), mainly on two jugs of honey and a Porta frozen which was on sale, something less than $9. Little blueberry yoghurts. A $5 loaf of sourdough which quite possibly I did not pay for. Two cans of skipjack tuna. Four or five peaches, which I haven’t touched. Now, does that add up to $60? Oh wait, some honey hot sauce, which was about $6.

I got a notice from the SNAP office that my food-stamp benefit is being raised $90, from 202 ro 292. I really don’t need that. I need cash to pay the rent. And Con Ed. I need to send in a rent check now, and then again in two weeks. August 6, the next T&L court date, is coming up, and I want to have shown some earnest effort by then. It is too much to hope that SSA will come through with the $25,000 they owe me from the last few years. Two weeks from yesterday brings me another Gusto check (nruns gave me a 10% raise, for the princely wage of $25, effective with the last shift on July 13 in Queens) and a not-too-big Anchor check, and the $165 benefit from Aetna, and the not-yet-recomputed SS deposit of $1481 (deposited by August 1, as the normal date of Aug 3 is a Sunday).

Minor tragedy from Dottieland. She ordered a $300 Sony Trinitron, maybe 1994 vintage, on eBay. The FedEx guy dropped it and the picture tube came loose. I’d like to take a look at it and see if I could fix it, but I have much too much going on. I told her to cash in the insurance.

I had a minor tragedy myself on Monday evening in that thunderstorm. For fun I was listening to the old iPod 3rd Gen, 4-button one, on the subway. In the drawstring spike bag it got water damaged as I was coming down 57th St, diving under scaffoldings and canopies, but getting awfully wet nonetheless. So that’s dead. The apple comes up, but then a low-battery icon. And/or a no-file icon. Bios works, no power, no working storage drive. There is absolutely no reason to keep this, except maybe decoration. The beat-up old iPod Touch 4 that I bought back in 2021 to replace the Tuppy one Michael gave me for my birthday in 2010, but which I lost in the snowdrifts of West 18th St in early 2014…that has some real utility.

The Coliseum appt on Wednesday, July 16, was pleasant enough. Nice black lady named Maleka, friendly and intelligent. Consult and probe and bitewing. I’ll go back for debridement in a few weeks. In the meantime I ordered a new Waterpik flosser, which ought to have arrived by last night.

Spent most of yesterday flat on my back, rewriting an old Substack draft, “Before the Internet, Part I,” which grew into both Parts I and II. Haven’t spread them around on socmed, they’re not that good. Long though. I have been putting off writing the Buckley book bit for CC. “How Billy Buckley Broke Bad,” is my proposed title. I begin by noting that Carto is not in there, neither is GLR. Relations with Joe Sobran are barely touched on, though we get the tantalizing information that Joe was fired at the urging (behest?) of Norman Podhoretz. Tanenhaus wrote the book over about 15 years, and it looks it, 1000 pages long, and rather spotty and disjointed, with the last 25 years of WFB’s life compressed into a couple of chapters. He was chosen to write by the book by WFB’s son Christopher, largely because Tanenhaus had done a magnificent job with the bio of WFB’s friend and idol Whittaker Chambers. But the Chambers biographer had a clear focus: the tumultuous tragicomic Bildung of Chambers’s own life story, climaxing serially in his break with the Red underground, his astonishing success at Time-Life, and then the Hiss Case, the greatest political watershed of mid-century America. By the time Tanenhaus took over the Chambers story, the Hiss Case was no longer murky and controversial. Alger Hiss himself was still alive (he died in 1996, around the time time book was published) and preposterously proclaiming his innocence, but of his guilt there was no doubt: it was settled history. There’s no such clarity in the plot-arc of the Buckley story, and Tanenhaus is too overwhelmed by his own research, and perhaps his own cultural limitations, to weave the tale of the Buckleys into a sustainable and coherent narrative. We’re given the maudlin story, stage by stage, of the decline and fall of the House of Buckley, blossoming gorgeously in the 50s and 60s and 70s, after a luxurious, indulgent, horsey springtime in Europe and the Buckleys’ two vast estates in Connecticut and South Carolina, then their fortunes slowly collapsing with fraud suits against the family oil company, the eldest son drinking himself the death, other family members and in-laws growing dotty and disabled, the two estates finally being broken up and sold, the goods all auctioned off, in the early 1980s. The youngest Buckley daughter, Carol, marries a Jew (for a little while anyway; and Mr. Raymond Learsy was a thoroughly presentable author and commodities investor); Christopher, WFB’s only son, abandons the Catholic Church; Pat Buckley, a lifelong cigarette smoker and convivial imbiber, dies in 2007 from a series of illnesses, followed the next year by WFB himself, of emphysema (cigar smoking, and inhaling) and diabetes, which he developed after a weight gain late in life. But while these tragedies were slowly mounting up, and the family fortune dribbled away, Bill was becoming more and more successful, maintaining a thrice-weekly newspaper column for forty years, and editing NR for most of that time, cranking out nonfiction books (mainly collections of columns and essays), and then finally hitting paydirt with his spy-thriller series. There were one or two setbacks, such as a radio-station empire that never quite paid its way, but generally as money disappeared from the rest of the family, through illness and improvidence, it kept pouring into Bill’s coffers. And he was very generous with this largesse, seeing that his increasingly mad and crippled brother in law Brent Bozell was kept comfortable, and his children’s private-school bills were paid. Tanenhaus credits WFB, and Bozell as well, for spearheading the Conservative revolution that got Goldwater nominated in 1964 (Bozell ghostwrote The Conscience of a Conservative—for $10,000, but then no royalties on all those millions of copies sold, Tanenhaus helpfully informs us), and finally put Ronald Reagan in the White House. That would seem to be the great lifetime achievement of WFB and his kin, and Tanenhaus is neither enough of a sourpuss or right-winger himself to point out that the Reagan years accomplished nothing memorable or lasting. (Find that quote from Roger Devlin.)

Pat and Nan…maybe the early 80s?

I drank nearly every day this past week. Monday I got caught in a huge flooding thunderstorm coming back from Grimm’s. Went home to dry and change. Seriously thought of getting myself some nice gin. Why not gin for a change? Instead I got a tall IPA from the drugstore, one of those 9% ABV deals.

Next night however (7/15) I went to Shirley’s and got a pint of Tanqueray for $21. Won’t do that again. Vodka, 1/2 pt, next evening, and 1 pt the next. Friday 7/18 I looked bloated and unrecognizable when I caught a glimpse of my face while snapping the dog mosaic (above). I’d been to Home Depot for some batteries…and a motion-detector light for the kitchen…baking soda, paper towels. Stopped at Wendy’s for a sausage biscuit and home fries. Good but I initially grabbed the wrong order.

No drinking yesterday except for a small Kirin (I think) from Dainobu, which I drank with some chili shrimp thing I microwaved.

Memories of that gin bottle: I didn’t drink much of it before knocking off to sleep. Then around 1 or 2 in the morning I got up and drank half of what was left, and then after tooling around online for another hour, I drank the other half. Knocked off again, woke up, in my dreamy half-sleep had a sudden orgasm. Pretty intense. Not July 29, 2025 all-over waves of intensity throughout my torso, just your localized thing, but it was there. Impressive. I roused myself to check the time. It was about 6am. I figured I’d get up after 7. When I woke again the clock said 7:27. Oops. I would have to book it. Forgot my card-belt, couldn’t find my backup OMNY card actually bought a full-fare one from the machine. A few minutes wait for the subway. Didn’t get to Jeffrey’s till after 8. He’d gone to Bellevue. Oops. I won’t do that again.

Hung over from the Tanqueray, I actually missed my 8am meeting with Jeffrey on Wednesday…so I had a crumbcake and energy drink in the Whole Foods cafe at Madison and 28th. Took note of this sign.

Last Sunday’s setup and takedown in Flushing Meadows (a 5k) seemed like one of the longest and most strenuous of my nruns outings, but I did not feel wasted and dead to the world when I got home. I was much taken by Cara Bernstein’s white sneakers, which cost only $22 on Amazon (or the Bezos Bin, as her daughter calls it). From my iPhone I ordered a pair myself. I had a choice of size 10 or 11, and Amazon recommended 11 (based on past purchases). Well they came but they were pink and not white, and great big clodhoppers. So I took them back to the exchange counter at Whole Foods. On Tuesday…or was it Wednesday? Tuesday, I’m pretty sure.

Lots of work putting up and taking down the mesh in Queens. A special sponsor this time.

The previous weekend’s Firecracker 10k on Gov Is was, conversely, very tiring, and I wanted to bail at 11am. Lacerated my right pinky badly opening the door gate at the warehouse. Rode with Craig (b) to the Ferry terminal, set up clocks and H-frame mile markers. Marshaled way over on the west side of the island. Jen H was running, so passed me a couple of times, hand-slap first time. Sun beating down, really needed shade. A funny guy in the medical tent gave me some dressing for the lacerated finger, but it continued to smart through the day. Kept changing the bandages all week. I headed for the Ferry without giving anyone a heads-up. Many hands, they didn’t need me. But the Ferry line was long. I looked for the new installation for Taco Vista, a quarter-mile away. Had two chorizo tacos. Very good, but they cost $13. Then I realized I had to return my radio. Trudged back to the start/finish where whatsisname, Marcos, was happy to direct me to the person taking the radios (Jasmine, who was a skinny thing when I met her 13 months ago and has now blimped up incredibly). Then I got to lug a few things around and help reload a truck for a few minutes, before peeling off again and going to the Ferry, which this time I just missed. Sat on the stone ledge outside the visitor center for 20 minutes, and finally got home by 1pm. Then I slept, I think.

The marshaling spot #7 for the Firecracker 10k, July 5.

New building going up around 9th Avenue and W 54th.

Friday today, Independence Day, 4th of July, First Friday. I’m mostly staying in. Sunny out, probably hot. Maybe a little run or jog in late afternoon, early evening. Must get to Warehouse by 5:15 am tomorrow morning for Gov Is race (blue van, set up clocks, marshaling). That is Saturday, 7 or 8 hours. Then Sunday there’s a 12hr shift on East 44th St, 8-8.

I can’t do much about increasing the nruns hours—just this, and a 5k in Queens a week from Sunday—but I’m going to have to get all the hours I can stand for the HHA business. This past week we had 6.75 (for Grimm; I wasn’t actually there except to check in and check out) plus 9 (3×3 for Lourdes, though I wasn’t there half the time, likewise) plus the most dreadful 5 for the dying nog with no A/C or fan on West 23rd. That is 20.75, or 32.75 if they count Jennifer L on East 44th on Sunday as end of week. Next week I see Grimm (exactly when, we are not sure) and Lourdes and somebody named Jeffrey who goes for methadone early morning.

Woke around 5:30 this morning then suddenly sleepy a couple of hours later. Listened to the end of the Buckley book. Around 8am two or three dreams intruded. I’m riding bike around Yale campus, worried about keeping my balance as I go over curbs and through archways. This story melds into some kind of party or conference where bratty kids tease me, poke me, end up stealing my belongings (maybe not my purse but everything else). I have some important photographs I need to show off. As I’m besieged by the brats and some adults (who believe I am somehow at fault and don’t like kids) I try to call security, but can’t get through. I don’t know how I get out of this, but I’m off to visit Adam Parfrey. Adam has a big new car, maybe an old used car. It’s a Lincoln Continental the size of a bungalow. I’m in it and he’s not, but he left the engine on and the Drive engaged. I have to race to the front of the car (the house) where the dashboard is like a long desk, and brake the vehicle. The brake pedal isn’t where it should be because this is the English model, and the steering wheel and pedals are way over to the right. We are going to smash into a fine terrace of houses, like something in Belgravia or Chelsea. I stop the car a half-second before we roll up onto the curb. But then forget to put it in Park, or use the emergency brake, and when I get up the car rolls on. I stop it again, just in time.

At this point I awaken. Still asleep enough that I cannot be bothered to stop the Audible when the Buckley book ends. The sound itself rolls on…to samples of other audio books. I go through three or four of those in my semi-dreaming condition, till I switch over to one of the Churchill books. The Martin Gilbert one I think.

Only a half-pint of Platinum last night, after three pints in a row previous nights. I just felt so bushed after working in the daytime. Working, and walking an awful lot. I walk to Lourdes’s (50th and 8th) and I walk from the subway to Grimm’s. Last week Grimm and I walked all the way from his nasty hovel in Brownsville (no A/C and the anemic fan soon broke) to Prospect Heights, via Eastern Parkway. With side trips down Vanderbilt to a nice bar specializing in vinyl records, and then ice cream cones nearby, it was a walk of well over six miles. Then this past week I’d get off at Utica Ave. (the penultimate stop before Sutter-Rutland on the 3 train) and stroll from there through a pleasant park that takes you downhill past tennis courts to a really nasty neighborhood under the IRT tracks (they come above ground after Utica), all bedecked with dollar stores and bad bodegas. Then, at Blake and Tapscott, there’s the early 20th century tenement where G lives with his negro ‘husband.’ The apartment is two rooms plus bath and kitchen, altogether maybe 300 sq ft, and Grimm has it packed with bin bags and boxes and bits of furniture and miscellaneous nonsense. He cannot resist taking on more junk. A local cat adopted him, so when he came across the parts of an electric self-cleaning kitty-litter tray (a revolving barrel on a stand that appropriately looks something like a commode), during our long walk back home on Eastern Parkway, he picked up the pieces and carried them for the last mile. He’d also found a multi-trouser hanger out on the pavement while we walked through Crown Heights, and he had me carry that while he bore the kitty commode.

The hovel, in addition to being over-crowded, is stifling. It hits you like a busy basement laundry room in midsummer. Not my laundry room, to be sure; that’s much better. But there’s like a 15-degree difference between the outdoors and inside. It’s an hour travel each way to get out there, counting subway and foot time. Not pleasant when you get there.

I had a taste of another unspeakable and sweltering dwelling the other day (Wednesday) when I was assigned to this 60yo nog named Wade. Acute renal failure with 3x weekly dialysis visits. Incontinence. Wears disposable pull-ups. I actually had to change him, just before I left in the evening. No worse than cleaning up after a sick horse, I suppose. But there is no way I am going back there. I left a note with Anchor that this person needs something close to round-the-clock care or should be in hospice. In any event should have A/C or at the very least a fan. One window, facing out on 23rd, opens, but only about six inches. That’s your ventilation. Mainly I sat by the window and wrote in a little Moleskin diary. The big flatscreen kept playing 1970s-80s sitcoms: Three’s Company, Alice, the Michael J. Fox thing. The apartment is in a new building, a rather utilitarian public-housing for elderly and invalid storage. There is a friend, a noggess a few floors below, who has been taking care of him, perhaps without pay, for some months. She stopped in to check on him about four times during my 2-7 shift.

Stifling. This is the place.

This Jennifer coming up on Sunday better not be a nog.

Looking in the refrigerator at West 23rd I saw a box with a prescription label for morphine. I opened the box and found packets of 5mg tablet, for sublingual use. I stole a sleeve, maybe five or six, and took a tablet. No noticeable buzz. Yesterday I crushed a few and snorted them from one of my Muji folding mirrors. A little more effect. This put me in mind of 2016 when I was snorting Moki’s unused Ritalin (because Danny Antinora told me that was a good idea) through much of the summer, the summer when I was not boozing. I’d been thinking back on this on Wednesday, sitting in that stifling apartment, making notes about William Rusher and William Buckley. I hazarded to guess that Buckley’s polemical style fell off in middle age because he was on Ritalin. He gave some to Chris and Chris gave some to me. But it’s basically speed and can make you go off on tangents when you write (much like what I’ve done earlier this year as I worked my way through Grimm’s boo), or else write and rewrite the same sentence or paragraph over and over.

Bought germicidal Clorox yesterday at the hardware on 9th Avenue. Wanted to wash and bleach the 2014-vintage nruns hat. Also again bleached the white flats with the Kennedy tops. What do you call them? Named after a Nike guy. Jeffrey or Jason something. What do they call them? J-street? J-stop? I only saw them sold on eBay. Samples, I suppose. I had three pairs, still have two.

(An hour or two later:)

It took a while and my mind wandered off, checking letsrun.org and AI bots and making notes in Stuff I Forget. The shoe name was Jarowe and the Nike person (later of NB and Tracksmith) was Josh Rowe. I found him on LinkedIn and shot him a note. I feel much better now. There are no Jarowes for sale at eBay anymore. They were a rare issue even back in the mid-00s.

One of the things I wandered off to was Facebook, where I explain to Paul Wood that my ChatGPT illustration was of Pap and Huck. Then I went on to say that the best illustrations were by Donald McKay in a 1940s edition.

I’ve been seeking a Thomas Hart Benton look for my recent ChatGPT pictures. I remark for the first time that the McKay color plates had a lot of Benton style in them. This may be one that gave Leslie Fiedler ideas:

The Huck-in-drag subplot seems purely gratuitous. He is disguising himself so he can ask some new yokels if there is any news of himself and Pap. But he could call himself George Jackson and do the same thing. The attraction here is costume: it is plausible that no one would ever recognize him in a sunbonnet and a dress, even if an old woman (Mrs. Loftus) guesses that he is a boy.

I was looking for the “Pap Finn Tonight!” piece I wrote a couple of years back. It was at Podsnap’s Own, but I did not pay for domain renewal, so the site was down. I got a free registration from DreamHost, but as of a few minutes ago the domain was still down. Is it now?

Yes it is. So is gallerynews.art, which I did not pay for. Also down is freshkill.net.

I rather look forward to the Gov Is work tomorrow morning. It’s an easy mix of driving and drop-off and marshaling. This Firecracker is a 10k so there will be people still straggling in after 90 minutes. After that, I should have a simple hour gathering up equipment.

Made chili today. No beans. 2 lbs ground beef, Carroll Shelby mix with onions and green onions. Absolutely delicious. Made chicken-carrot-rice soup yesterday from a carcase. More like chicken-rice stew.

Pint of Platinum last night and night before. Something of a spike for me these days. But a good long sleep both nights. We are now into the Home Health Aide part of life, and I have two “shifts” today, 9-12, and 2-7. If I were to do 25 hours per week with Anchor, plus the occasional nruns race, that would be perhaps $2500 for this month. Not great but managing. And write again: just a few hundred.

I don’t know the SS status; have they recomputed? Am I getting my $30k in back benefits? Monthly payment goes in tonight.

I keep listening to the Buckley book over and over (Sam Tanenhaus) and my mind goes back to Bill Rusher. Met him, sort of, at a reception by the Tory Party or POR in 1971 or early 1972. The question came up about the fake Pentagon Papers. Little Bill said, “Well if you know Bill Buckley, you know he wants to play advisor to Presidents and policymakers three days a week, and be Peck’s Bad Boy the rest of the time.” As the publisher of NR, Rusher found the “ex nihilo” forgery of DoD papers the previous summer to be an embarrassment. The problem was that they were too good, too credible, and although hundreds of people were informed it was all a prank to expose the gullibility (or something) of the New York Times in printing the Sheehan/Ellsberg “Pentagon Papers”, no one spilled the beans, and the little prank seemed in bad taste when WFB admitted it.

Tanenhaus “outs” Rusher as being gay someplace in the book. I remember when he retired from NR, it must have been in the late 80s, someone snidely wrote in the letters page of Instauration that it’s noteworthy that Rusher is retiring to San Francisco, as that’s where the swishes go.

I was thinking yesterday (and scribbling notes, while waiting for my 3 hours with Lourdes Vasquez in the old YWCA at 50th and 8th to end) of how WFB’s polemical insight seemed to drop off in the early 70s, and how this may have been due to boredom, increased drinking and other distractions, and mainly the Ritalin. By the mid-70s he was on Ritalin. “For low blood pressure,” Christopher told me. It’s essentially a form of speed and inclines one to go off on wild tangents when one writes, or to write the same tangled sentence over and over, stuffing it with additional ideas without making it more intelligible. “Do you think he’s become more parliamentarian?” Chris asked me once. He somehow thought I was a fan of his father and followed his career closely. I couldn’t really answer because I didn’t know what he meant. Parliamentarian to me meant following Robert’s Rules of Order.

What dos the online dictionary say? Nothing helpful, just what I thought. Following the rules, or else siding against the King in the 1640s.

Paid $255 to ConEd yesterday because they have sent me another termination notice. Back in March or April I agreed to another installment plan, $97 a month, for arrears, but although I’ve paid hundreds since, they say I broke the agreement.

Two weeks back I had that strange “Lousy T-Shirt” 5k in Prospect Park, working amenities under Tom Joyce. This coming Saturday, July 5, I’m riding the blue van from the warehouse and setting up clocks on Gov Is for the 10k Firecracker, then marshaling. I ran a 5k Firecracker there once, ten years ago. Did not do well. One of my very last races as a participant. The following year I quite seriously thought I was in fair shape and about to do the Mini 10k, but of course I didn’t. That was during the AA period, when Lorna Kelly died, I was on the wagon for a full 100 days, and for a while snorted crushed Ritalin off a mirror (because Daniel Antinora suggested it). The following weekend there’s a 5k in Flushing Meadows, the Queens Ice Cream Social.

We got an email from Jen telling us that after the Queens race there would be another “dusk” for the organization, to give all the full-timers and part-timers another break. I don’t recall anything like this last year, and we just had a long break a month or so ago. I suspect the org is overleveraged, spending at least as much in operations as it takes in. These little races with 1000 participants, every couple of weeks, can’t keep the lights on when you have two dozen full-time employees.

I’d half-hoped I could get a full-time job with nruns but now that looks unlikely. I’ll hold my breath with this awful Anchor HHA business until a real job comes along. I hope by summer’s end.

I was interested in Ed Dutton’s latest Substack and podcast last night, but now forget why.

Lourdes again at 9 (it is just after 8 now), then someone called Wade at 2.