The moon is full tonight and very nice lookin’!
We will also be able to see the International Space Station with the naked eye between now and mid-August. Neat.

Oh, the humanity… bear-lynching… there ought to be a law, I say!

From Yahoo! News:

Blind German psychic Ulf Buck feels the buttocks of a client during a session in his study room in the northern German village of Meldorf near Hamburg July 15, 2002. Clairvoyant Buck claims that people’s backsides display lines like those on the palm of the hand, which can be read to reveal much about their character and destiny.

No. Really. There’s a picture and everything. I’m surprised it’s not in the “most viewed” yet, but it will be. It is number one in most emailed.

Q: How much is pirate corn?
A: A buccaneer.

Pirate cardiac arrest: “Arrrr! Me hearty!”

Nighty night, dear journal


It isn’t her cup size or complexion, though she is ample and lily-white. Oh, she is quite pretty. She is visually stunning, in fact. Seeing her in a flowing skirt and a Indian-fabric blouse is surely a wonder. Her hair is a delightful tangle of red cascading down her neck and shoulders, a strand of silver here and there, if not hidden by the salon. Her mouth is wide, the lips full, her dark eyes clear and intense. Her face is washed by sorrow and joy, like a stone made smooth by water. Compassion, it says. There is her beauty. The way she holds herself, the way her eyes move, effortlessly, without a trace of affectation or cruelty, everything about her won me. Hers is the secret face I put myself to sleep by.

Hmm… reading James Ellroy’s “LA Quartet” Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, L.A. Confidential, and White Jazz… so far, it’s certainly his best work. (Reading Nowhere now… I’m glad that I took Robin’s Recommendation… I initially didn’t want to read them, because his later books are really kinetic, written in a telegraphic style that can go for paragraphs, pages, without a complete sentence. (“12:45. Buzz McCall on the Simmons roust. Goose egg on McKibben. Nothing yet from that lazy fat fuck in Ballistics. Hit the street and out to the Valley to brace the shine at his fuck pad.” Etc… I’ve seen people’s journals here written on the same level. bleh.)

Occasionally I got the giggles when reading in that format, which I don’t think is what he had in mind. That said, Dudley Smith is one scary guy. I’d cross the street if I knew he was coming, not that it would help.

Other things I’m currently stumbling over…Pennsylvania Dutch Hex signs.

Thinking about a Clockwork Distelfink. Can you dig it, Scotto? Noir fiction in Pennsylvania Dutch country? Maybe.