Here we are again, at the start of another chapter in my life. Dad's 65, the clock is running, and I wonder what sort of world I'm walking into. While things are stable for me, everything outside this pocket of calm has turned into a badly-written potboiler. I don't really want to talk about that further as it seems to invite disaster or cause flame wars.

Wednesday. I turn 28. Then the alarm goes off, I eat breakfast, and drive out to the old Lakeshore site to help the folks from Central Lab take thermographic images of the SVC while the control center issues special switching commands. It's better than another eight hours of awful Muzak.

Zinogre is...well, I'm making my fifth attempt on the arm sometime this weekend. Patterning foam is rough. If I can just get the kinks worked out of this, Big Week (I'm taking Memorial Day Week off) will be a hot, sweaty cakewalk that smells of toluene. At least I'll have a good idea for the go/no-go on G-Fest soon.

Let's look back at the spring of 1989 for a bit, shall we. Not so much for the Indians, but for the lack of Key Tower, less-worn city buildings, and the still-operating Hullet Iron Ore Unloaders in the City of Light and Magic...

https://youtu.be/qDJKpnqTsgk