If you go to see that new Hellboy movie, be sure to bring along an e-book or something to entertain yourself with.

I spent today working on DD, lifting iron, and cooking steaks. It was a highly enjoyable day, although the weather was so hot and humid that I had to shower and change clothes twice before evening finally came along to cool things off a little. I also ate many delicious slices of salted watermelon during the course of the day. (I consider anyone who eats watermelon without putting salt on it first to be both impaired and afflicted.)

I have doctor's appointments to keep in town on the next three consecutive days. How annoying!

O'Hare airport is more confusing than the Snowfly Forest!

Although I typically keep my chambers tidy enough to impress any members of royalty who might happen to stop by for a visit, I still feel the need to give everything I own a thorough annual cleaning. I spent most of yesterday dusting furniture, picture frames, cabinets, casements, lamps, lampshades, computers, stereo equipment, books, dragons, fans, and chess pieces. It was an exhausting task. By the end of the day, the skin on my hands was painfully dry and reeking of lemon oil and Windex. Still, I had enough energy remaining at sundown (you better take care) to follow through with my scheduled workout, performing dumbbell rows, see-saw presses, dips, and triceps extensions. I put in a little time with Diablo II: LoD before I retired for the night. (I have a high-level paladin who desires to collect the complete set of Orphan's Call, you see.)

On the next day, I cleaned the wood floors and carpets. First, I moved all of my furniture away from the walls so I could crawl behind each piece and scrub the baseboards clean. Then I used both a Swiffer and a vacuum to annihilate all the dust bunnies and dead bugs that I found lurking in the spaces where the furniture had been resting. In the case of all heavy articles of furniture, the dust footprint that had accumulated beneath them was thick and clearly delineated. Nasty stuff.

I had some difficulty cramming myself under my bed to clean the floor in that area. My chest measurement is 41 inches. My bed frame is made of solid oak, and the side rails rest 9.5 inches above the floor. I had to do some amazing squeezing and thrashing to force myself beneath the bed, but I was determined to clean all the dust and dandruff that had accumulated there in the past year. I managed to accomplish the task by briefly lifting the frame of the bed on my back during my entry and exit from that confined space, although it was uncomfortable for me to do so. I felt a like a giant tarrasque for a moment.

I was further hindered in my movement by the shirt I was wearing. It had an embossed silhouette of a white rhinoceros on the front, made of whatever rubbery material the manufacturers of cheap garments use to produce such images on their clothing. As I squirmed around on my belly, the rubber grabbed at the wood floor beneath me, making it difficult for me to move or slide. Fortunately, there was a bit more clearance room for me under the mattress and slats than there was at the side rails.

After mopping the entire floor with a conditioner recommended for finished wood, and vacuuming all three of the wool carpets in my rooms, I moved all of my furniture back into place. It was a tedious process that consumed a lot of time. All of my knickknacks had to be returned to their proper spaces, cords and wires needed to be untangled and reconnected to their appropriate devices, and great care had to be taken to prevent any of the pieces on my chessboard from being displaced from their appropriate squares. (They are arranged for Pandolfini's Challenge #95, something that is easily replicated, and not a game in progress. Still, I feel disturbed when my chessboard gets thrown into disarray. People have their quirks. If I knock my chessmen over, I will become angry at myself, and since one of my directives states that I cannot punch myself, I would have to go out into my backyard and punch a raccoon instead.)

I finished with all my cleaning by early afternoon. I rewarded myself with a tin of sardines, and then I spent 50 minutes jogging and belching up tiny little fish skeletons. A good day!

In the week ahead, I will go on a quixotic search for Reblochon at the French market in Niles, make a trip to Chicago to familiarize myself with the layout of O'Hare airport, and spend some time filling out my stock of polymer clay craft supplies at Hobby Lobby and Michael's.

Best wishes to Cédric and Gaëlle on this day! I hope that 21 June will mark the beginning to many years of blissful companionship!

An incredible story about an astoundingly bad roommate.

Learn the Bristol Stool Scale!

I know I can't be the only person who enjoys bellowing, "Fore!" out the window of a car when driving past an active golf course.

Today, I thought about potatoes.

My life is good, and it contains just the right amount of excitement.

Rummaging through the scented candles at Hobby Lobby in search of the old ones that are marked $2.49 instead of $3.99 is a grand adventure!

The spiders in the Dismal Oubliette have become bold. They spin their webs profusely and with reckless abandon. They perch in plain sight upon furniture and fix me with their complexly defiant stares. I believe they may be planning a coup. One has even strung its home between the wing spurs of my colossal red dragon statuette!

I am at a loss about how I might discourage these arachnids. Does anyone know of a few musical compositions that spiders cannot bear? I have heard that the ghost of Mary Pickford can be repulsed by the playing of certain reggae tunes which favor the low end of the sonic spectrum, but I cannot for the life of me guess what variety of music might discourage a group of spiders.

From the weekly blog of James Randi, at the JREF:

"...when I was a teen in Toronto, living apart from my family, I rented a room in a suburban home owned by a young couple who had chosen to give birth to a hydrocephalic baby. An x-ray – ultrasound imaging was still in the future – had shown the head of the fetus to be abnormal, but the couple had strong religious beliefs that made them resist a proffered abortion. The child had been born with very little hope of any improvement beyond its vegetative condition; it was – literally – a monster, screaming continually, showing no signs of interaction with any outside elements, and a huge burden on the desperate parents. I returned to my lodging one night to find police and an ambulance waiting; the child had somehow fallen downstairs and died. Since I knew it was not self-mobile, and could not even crawl, I also knew what had actually happened. I stayed on there for another month so as not to attract any attention to the parents, then quietly moved away."

Anecdotes like this put a song in my heart and a spring in my step! (But I am always careful about how I step when I'm ascending or descending a staircase.)

I won't listen to music radio until stations start playing the theme from The Rockford Files again.

I went to see that Armor Man movie the other day. Toby Stork sure was an annoying jerk.

I wish to know something. What is the first song that you creatures can recall hearing?

The first song that I remember listening to is either Stevie Wonder's "Superstition" (heard while riding in a 1972 Chevy C10 pickup named "Dirty Red", driven by my father [Dirty Red was a loyal machine who died far too young from a sundered timing chain {and whose memory was the inspiration behind the naming of DD, the Dirty Dragon; the legend lives on from the Chippewa on down}] or "Feelin' Stronger Every Day" by Chicago (The Windy City AKA The City That Works AKA The City of Broad Shoulders), which I listened to on a mono GE tape deck the size of a cinder block (with control buttons like toothbrush handles, colored black for all functions except "RECORD", which was painted red and inlaid with a circular silver medallion of brushed steel [I recorded over the end of the cassette, which was the property of my uncle Andrew, who insisted upon being called Charles, because his father {my grandfather} Andrew Hafron was a crazy {but highly entertaining} drunkard who trained his dog Patrick {Cairn Terrier} to piss upon the living room carpet on command {and "Chuck" wished to distance himself from being identified with Andy by altering his name}]). I used cellotape over the detents in the top of the cassette to defeat the protection that would have prevented me from recording over the tape. I was a smart (and devious) kid.

Anyway, what was the first song you heard?

Maintenance:

- A heavy workout. Deadlifts and squats. Can't beat them. Compound exercises (Sidney) or the bush (the bush).
- One long bubble bath (Mandarin Lime, extra moisturizing).
- A plate of over-ripened strawberries and half a wedge of Blue Stilton (the mold gives it texture), consumed while indulging in the aforementioned bath.
- A bottle of Louis Jadot Red Burgundy, 2006 (I'm a cheap bastard), 30% of which was consumed in the bath, the remaining 70% of which was polished off during the watching of...
- Three hours of House M.D. (Turdyworm! You got me addicted to this show! Will you pay for my rehabilitation therapy?)
- Donning of the lucky boxer shorts (they have dragons on them; I like dragons) and purple silk dressing gown.
- 30 minutes of Iron Maiden (+ air guitar [Number of the Beast {how could anyone resist playing air guitar to such an incredible song?}]).

I feel rejuvenated!

This has been a drunk post. (Did I close all my parenthesis and spell everything correctly? [vérifier l'orthographe {it's damn hard to enter an accented character on a laptop's keyboard when you're drunk: Fn+Ins Num Lk, Alt+0233, Fn+Ins Num Lk}] If so, hooray for me.)

Slogan observed printed upon the reverse side of a fifty-pound bag of Anderson Seed Company premium black oil sunflower seed:

SUPPORT AMERICAN COMPANYS

BUY AMERICAN PRODUCTS

Dang, I wish the pope would fire up his rocket hat and blast off to the moon.

Yesterday, I snacked on sardines and watched the movies Rashomon and Jacob's Ladder. What a wonderful way to spend an evening! The movies were entertaining and the sardines were delicious.

I think that tonight shall be a Dr. House and smoked oysters night.

A strong hairy man. He is surrounded by pansies.

I wandered inside a Sephora a while ago, simply because it seemed like a place where my presence would not be desired. I had a look at the wide spectrum of ridiculous cosmetics and perfumes that vain people use to tart themselves up with. It amazes me that an entire shop can be filled with such things.

While I was there, a little red box with the Cartier imprint caught my eye. It was labeled, "LE BAISER DU DRAGON," and I initially thought the words on the box were saying something lewd. Intrigued by the name of the perfume, I grabbed a blotter and took a sample.

A leaking lantern battery fornicates with a bottle of fabric softener in a bed of gardenia that stands like a yellow island in a sea of hot black asphalt. An old woman suddenly appears, shimmering into existence like a heat mirage. In her left hand, she carries a bulging plastic bag filled with used cat litter. In her right hand is an iced cappuccino containing two long shots of amaretto. She sees the battery and the fabric softener having intercourse. A frown eclipses her head. She drops her bag of cat litter and it splits open like a rotten persimmon. Granules of dirty grey clay seep out onto the pavement with a whispering sigh. Overwhelmed with anger and disgust, the old woman raises her right arm and launches her drink at the copulating pair. A shitting condor soars overhead.

This is the experience of "LE BAISER DU DRAGON".

First, I dreamt that I was under attack by an angry mob. A ring of hostile people had me surrounded, and they were attempting to make a violent end of me. As I was beginning to fight, I noticed that one of the females in the group that was arraying itself against me had a small child in tow. A toddler, perhaps two or three years old. I snatched the child up by its legs and wielded it as a weapon against the crowd, swiftly and systematically smashing people to the ground using the body of the young boy. The toddler proved itself to be a remarkably effective weapon, although it gradually came apart in my hands as it was subjected to repeated impacts, and I used it until what remained of the child was too insignificant in mass to serve as an effective bludgeon. I then employed my hands and feet to brutally dispatch the few injured and demoralized people who were left standing.

An exhilarating dream! I feel it was inspired by my having watched the highly enjoyable movie Equilibrium a few days prior.

Second, I had the dream that I was watching a snuff film involving the characters from the cartoon series Scooby-Doo. During the course of the film, all of the characters were killed for the purpose of sexual gratification, including Velma's illegitimate eighteen month old daughter. The film was accompanied by a dramatic yet uplifting orchestral score.

How strange. The music was wonderful, however, and comparable to something Jean Sibelius might have produced during his prime creative years.

I've almost finished with my spring cleaning, and the Dismal Oubliette is now immaculate enough to pass a white-glove inspection. The only task that remains to be done is the washing of my blankets and the airing of my pillows, but that chore will have to be delayed for an unknown number of days. The weather here is wretchedly wet and cold, and if any articles of laundry were to be hung on the clothesline outside, they would never dry.

The weather prognosticators have said that tomorrow shall bring forth a strange and menacing atmosphere. Temperatures will first spike upwards and then descend precipitously as two fronts of opposing internal pressures wrestle for supremacy in the heavens. Perhaps an exceptionally savage storm will be born. I'm hoping that lightning will hit my neighbor's house and set it on fire, and then a tornado will come along and fling it into a lake.

I need to meet with one of my lame-ass psychiatrists again today, and then I have to drive up to Michigan City to pay my attorney. What a hassle! I better find some free power tools in the road again, or I'll be in a pissed-off mood when I get home!

(Note to the Turdyworm: The first time I saw Argilla speaking in her demon form during a cut scene, I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants!)

( An excerpt from an MSN conversation is hiding behind this cut. )

Exciting things happen when I journey into South Bend. A few weeks ago, I picked up a huge chainsaw that I found on the side of a road. Tonight, I saw somebody crash their car into a furniture store across from the Super Target on University Drive.

I'd just finished shopping for movies at the Super Target. Hearing of a good sale had attracted me to the store, and I'd managed to pick up a handful of interesting movies for less than it would have cost me to see each of them in a theater. The night was cold and crisp, with a moderate wind, but I'd parked DD far away from the doors of the store so I could enjoy a brisk walk. As I reached my car and started to unlock my door, I heard the sound of tires screeching on asphalt coming from behind me.

I turned around just in time to see a green Pontiac Grand Am swerve through the parking lot of the Norfolk furniture store, about fifty yards away from where I was standing. The car braked hard and went airborne over a curb. I was unable to see anything that happened after that moment, because the building that housed the furniture store blocked my view. I heard a loud roar that lasted for half a second, as the muffler was torn out from beneath the flying vehicle, and then I heard something that sounded like a hard tackle from a game of American football.

A little cloud of tan dust rose up from the side of the furniture store. I watched it spread into the air, but I couldn't believe what I had just seen. What kind of idiot is incompetent enough to crash their car into a building?

A pair of college kids, a boy and a girl, had just disembarked from a black Sunbird that was parked next to me. I turned towards them, wondering if they'd seen what I'd just seen. The boy looked at me and shook his head in disbelief. His girlfriend was walking in the direction of the Super Target, unaware that anything had happened, but he called her back. I jumped in DD and headed over to the scene of the crash, with the kids in the black Sunbird following behind me.

I arrived at the wrecked car about thirty seconds after it had crashed. I didn't know what to expect. Maybe I would find a dying old man who had suffered a heart attack, or a middle-aged alcoholic bleeding to death with pieces of a shattered vodka bottle rammed into his groin.

The car was filled with powder from an airbag that had deployed. The dome light was on, but I could only see that there was movement inside the vehicle. No details were visible to me at first, because of the thick cloud of powder floating in the passenger compartment.

I could see that the front of the car was damaged but not seriously crumpled. The nose of the vehicle had penetrated about eighteen inches into the side of the building, which was covered by a facade of something like square fiberglass panels that had been designed to look like stucco. Behind the panels, thick bats of pink insulation were visible. A tall but spindly decorative tree that had been planted next to the building was laying flat on the ground about six feet behind the vehicle, having been sheared off in the crash.

As I was peering through the passenger side window of the wrecked car, the kid from the Target parking lot appeared beside me. "Do you have a cell phone?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he replied, "I mean, my girlfriend is calling this in now."

"Good, good." I replied. The dust inside the car was settling rapidly, and I was able to see the driver. He was a young man of about twenty years of age, dressed up in a gray and white hoodie printed with a tessellated pattern of skulls and crossbones. An oversized Chicago White Sox cap was perched on his head at a sassy angle. The guy looked like Eminem. He was groping around inside his vehicle, reaching for something alongside of his seat. I kept my eyes on his hands.

"Hey!" I shouted to the driver. "Do you know you just hit a building?"

I'm an asshole.

The man replied in a weak voice. "I...I've called my dad. And a tow truck is coming. It's okay. It'll be okay."

"Are you hurt?" I shouted.

"It's okay!" the man said. "I'm not hurt."

"You sure?" I said. I watched attentively as the man stopped searching for whatever he'd been groping for next to his seat. He leaned over towards me and reached for the passenger side door handle of his car. I saw a small, dark object in his right hand and immediately recognized it as a cell phone. The man fumbled for the door latch, but he was unable to open it.

"You should stay still," I told the man.

"And turn off your engine!" the college kid added. He was standing next to me, observing with fascination the way that the wrecked car had penetrated into the side of the furniture store.

The young man in the Grand Am kept fumbling with the door latch. "You want this door open?" I asked. "I'll open it for you, just shut your car off and keep still!" I grabbed the exterior door handle and gave it a mighty pull, expecting it be jammed, but the door opened easily. The man slumped back in his seat. I watched as a purple crescent appeared on his forehead, points down with the apex arcing toward the bill of his baseball cap. He began to babble something about his parents and medications. At the same time, a tall woman in a denim outfit walked up behind me and identified herself as an off-duty police officer.

"Are you hurt?" she asked the man behind the wheel. He replied that he was fine. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Michael," the man said.

"Where you coming from, Michael?"

I retreated from the crashed vehicle, content to let a police officer talk with the dazed driver, and I took a moment to speak with the college kid who had followed me from Target.

"Guy's fucked up," he said.

"You sure?" I replied. "Buildings are hard to see. I'm surprised there aren't hella people crashing into buildings every day."

"Yeah!" the boy replied. "We need warning lights on buildings or something."

Standing next to the green Pontiac, I could still hear the driver stammering out a story about medication. First he said that he'd taken too much of his medicine. Then he said that his parents had given him their own medicine to take. Finally, he started feigning indignation and asked the woman he was speaking with to call the police and have them administer a breathalyzer test. Obviously, the guy had been taking illegal drugs and didn't want to admit to having done so all at once. Instead, he was admitting to it gradually, in stages of increasing self-incrimination.

Then the police came. I wrote my name, telephone number, address, and a brief description of what I'd seen on a little rectangular piece of plain white note paper the responding officer provided to me, and then I drove over to Burger King and wolfed down a pair of Whoppers.

I felt a little disappointed by the event I'd witnessed. When I had first approached the crashed car, I'd been hoping to see something exciting, like an impalement or a crushed skull oozing brains. Still, it isn't every day that a person gets to witness an impaired wigger crashing their car into the side of a building.

( And now for the truly important part of this journal entry, which is the list of movies I purchased while I was at Target. )

Trees + Knitting = ?????

(Just in case you missed this interesting news story, Ms. Pulse.)

I had an early meeting with my psychiatrist this morning. He's been trying to teach me ways of interacting with people that do not involve my punching them or staging impromptu Dadaist performances for them.

I feel that the fellow is failing at his job. He became upset with me when I interrupted him during a long and tedious speech he was making about the nature of happiness and the need for each person to carry within their minds a private area that they can use as a "healing temple".

"Stop being so goddamned Alan Watts about everything," I said. "And turn off that glowing fish thing behind you. It's distracting me." The psychiatrist had a silly little electronic device running on the table next to him. A gray plastic frame, about the size of a shoebox that has been tipped onto its side and bisected lengthwise, inside of which a looped sheet of mylar printed with images of brightly colored tropical fish scrolled endlessly in front of a picture of a coral reef. A number of LEDs hidden within the frame provided illumination for this underwater scene.

The psychiatrist huffed and complied with my request, first switching his faux aquarium off and then moving his chair in front of it so I could no longer see the device. For a moment, his body language made me think he was going to react in the same bad way that one of his colleagues did when I blew my nose in a prescription for Elavil she'd just written me. I'd accept a prescription for laudanum, anabolic steroids, or even lysergic acid diethylamide, but there's no way in Hell I'd ever accept one for an anti-depressant.

After a short pause, the session continued normally and without disruption. I concentrated on staring at the psychiatrist's eyes until his entire head seemed as if it were shimmering and deforming in shape. This illusion amused me so greatly that I went through the remainder of the session blissfully unaware of anything the guy said. I made sure to nod my head repeatedly, like a drinking bird toy, so the old fellow would think I was paying close attention to his words.

Nothing else worth mentioning happened during today's session. I have another appointment scheduled in two weeks. It will be useless and boring, but it is a good excuse for me to get out to South Bend and have myself a nice breakfast at Panera.

I stopped at Borders on the way back from the psychiatrist. I picked up an interesting book by Ethan Nichtern, One City, and a CD-ROM of French crossword puzzles.

When I arrived back at the Dismal Oubliette, I discovered that a package from Amazon was waiting for me. It contained my copy of Geheimins der Wüste, by Maria Reiche.

Signed by the author in Nazca, 1978.

Now it is time for me to turn off the internet and go get some exercise. I have iron that demands to be hefted, and today is chest and shoulders day. I love chest and shoulders day!

Manterns: Candles for Men

Thank you, but when I am choosing a candle, I prefer to take one that is either a calming lavender or a crisp cucumber and melon scent. However, a candle that is scented to resemble the distinctive odor of a new electronic device freshly removed from its original packaging would not be unwelcome.

Miss Monster has posted two new t-shirt designs at Design By Humans. I enjoy her Mega Foo Dog design. You can take a look at it here and vote for it if you wish. I hope that her new shirt design garners enough attention to have it printed. I own an older foo dog shirt of hers that is now almost too small to comfortably cover my gross fat belly astoundingly muscular torso, and I would be pleased if I could buy a replacement large enough to fit my dumpy old carcass magnificent body.

( Cut for a lengthy essay on the high and low points of the turbulent third season of the NBC network television masterpiece known as 'Punky Brewster'. Warning: adult concepts are discussed! )

I went to see the movie Cloverfield today. It was an enjoyable experience, although the first twenty minutes of the film consisted of horrifying scenes where people were shown attending a party and socializing. I was barely able to stomach this portion of the movie.

Thankfully, the terrifying celebration came to an abrupt end when a beast of colossal proportions decided to rise from the waters of New York Harbor and get stroppy with Manhattan. From that point on, the movie was wonderful. It had me laughing and cheering, and I was delighted to have encountered an uplifting film capable of making me feel joy and excitement. The creature in Cloverfield was a handsome and majestic young being, and I was thrilled to witness its dramatic struggle to secure a new home territory.

(Good suggestion, Ms. Xmas! You are now 3 for 3 on movie recommendations.)

Apples and Assburgers (Skip past the awkward and dreary letter of complaint to enjoy the comment thread.)

"There is NO way the comments could be construed in any fashion other than to be 'derogatory' to the customer, not necessarily to his condition but to the perceived fellatios nature of his repair request."

Jeepers.