I had a dream last night:
Jack Lemmon was trying to get into a movie theater (not, I don't think, to see one of his own movies). He was wearing a grey, pinstripe suit. Outside, there was a gang of young toughs, most of whom looked about 15. They moved so he couldn't get in. He plead with them but I couldn't understand what he was saying. They were clearly not going to let him in. They seemed to make a demand. He looked pensive and then reached into his coat and withdrew a pack of cigarettes from which he took roughly foot-long cigarettes and handed them out to the kids. They looked delighted, and accepted them as one might accept a puppy.

As I sat in a small White room:

The walls are plaster and thin. On one side they contain blocks of concrete to keep out the rest of the world. On three sides, if I am quiet, I can almost make out interactions of other people. In front of me, when I press my ear against the wall, I hear a quiet moaning. He (she? One cannot tell) moans and giggles and calls out for people, sometimes by name, sometimes by title: BOB! uuuuhhhhhh MIRIAM! uuuuuhhhheeheehee FIREmanFIREmanFIREman uuuuuuuhhhhhh.
Behind me a woman is speaking a language I have never heard before. It has too many consonants, and sounds like a person trying to speak with a mouthful of pudding, ramming his fist in and out of it while trying to form sounds: Mmmm(shlorp)ng-k-tch!(shlorp)gHRKgHRKgHRK ahhh ngaaauuu(shlorp).
It's the man to my left who scares me. He just keeps whispering "Not that anybody noticed," louder and softer, over and over again, up and down like a sine wave. Sometimes I can't hear him at all; sometimes his voice echoes in my ears and I feel the need to cry out, but I don't. I'm afraid he'll hear.

Guessing they haven't Finished Layout

In one of those surreal masterstrokes, DK, publisher of fine childrens' and reference books (according to their fall catalog) have released a book entitled "Crime Detection with Batman," which includes pictures of Batman and crime detection equipment, along with the text of a book about Greek Gods.
There's a wonderful picture of two gas masks, a bullet-proof suit and military-issue boots, along with the text "The Sandals of Hermes allowed the user to," (it cuts off there) and labled "The Sandals."
It's a beautiful dream.

Paid attention reflected
sparkles on water
blinding flashes black depths
the look of love-hate-love.

To which he replied, "You, sir, are a MotherFucker."
I was momentarily stunned, then punched him in the nose, and stomped away.

I am horrible, horribly inclined to agree.

There are just days when it's hard not to say Man, we're a collective dumbass.

Yay! Midwinter Birthday Party for Me! Huzzah!
(It's July 5th, this year.)

Why is "It's None of My Business" such an easy thing to say and such a hard thing to know?

Timing may be everything, but it still is hard without a watch.

Writing sucks. Mine, anyway.
Does it move along? Perhaps.
Does it flow? Nyet.
Does it exist? For the most part, not at all.
Ahem.
Moving on.

Toshi's going to do a redesign on this page and hers, so they should be changing any time now. A-a-a-ny time now. Yup. Any old time. Uh-huh. Yup.

Trying something different. Let 'em all go to hell, except cave 76, right?