Mitch Wagner

From my journal, this day in 2014:

A group of teenagers rang the doorbell last night. I went down the stairs to answer. The leader, a girl about 15, explained they were a group from the Baptist church down the street. They were playing a kind of scavenger hunt. The object was to go door-to-door looking to trade an object for another object. Did we have anything better than a keychain?

I thought about it. Nothing came to mind. Hold on I’ll check, I said. I went back up the stairs.

I looked in the basket by the front door. A tube of suntan lotion? No, Julie said that was some kind of boutique suntan lotion. A reflector armband that did not actually reflect? No.

I looked on the coffee table. There was a mini-USB cable from a recent electronics purchase, still neatly bundled. I have a million of those from various gadgets. They’re nearly worthless. To me. Maybe a non-geek wouldn’t think so?

I went out the front door and called down the front stairs. “Is a mini-USB cable better than a keychain?”

“Yes!” said the girl. I went down the stairs and made the trade.

I asked them if they’d heard about the guy who played a similar game and ended up eventually trading from a paperclip to a house. The girl said no. I asked how I would find out how everything came out. The girl said, well, if I heard shrieks of delight coming from the church I’d know they won.

I never did find out how it came out.

I’m in the process of relearning how to read books, particularly novels. I’ve gotten so accustomed to reading articles and essays online that my skill at reading books has atrophied.

Yesterday I found myself effortlessly reading a novel for a few hours, and it was a breakthrough. That’s how I would often spend a day as a teenager, but I’ve lost the knack for it.

The novel, by the way, was “Concrete Blonde,” the third Bosch novel, by Michael Connelly. I loved the TV series and hear the actors' voices in my head when I’m reading.

I saw this car.

Young woman at the supermarket checkout a packet of flowers, a bottle of wine, and nothing else. Seems like there was a story there. None of my business so I didn’t say anything.

Part of being optimistic is keeping one’s head pointed toward the sun, one’s feet moving forward. There were many dark moments when my faith in humanity was sorely tested, but I would not and could not give myself up to despair. That way lays defeat and death

— Nelson Mandela

We watched the first episode of the new series “Poker Face.” Big “Columbo” vibe.

I finished reading “Black Ice,” the second Harry Bosch novel, by Michael Connelly. Good at the beginning and end, drags a bit in the middle. I did not find the action set-piece at the climax compelling, though the attack on the helicopter was cool. The characters and dialogue are well done, as are the LA locations.

I would have liked the book more if I’d cared about the murder victims. But I didn’t, and neither did any of the characters. I find that essential in a crime story—do I actually care whether the murderer is caught? Are there any emotional stakes?

In the first Bosch novel, Connelly seems to be finding the character, but now Harry Bosch is fully formed, and very much like the character in the tv show, which we love.

Read another? Sure, why not? Connelly has written 37 crime novels, all in the same universe, so that will keep me busy a little while.

We only have 37 more episodes of Yellowstone to watch, plus eight episodes of 1923, plus ten episodes of 1883.

I’m not seeing much interest in my linkposts here, so I’m just going to post them on Tumblr (atomicrobot.live), Mastodon (@mitchw@mastodon.social) and the Atomic Robot Live group on Facebook).

After watching the first season of “Yellowstone,” I have concluded we need a helicopter.