This is by my bestest buddy, it’s excellent, and I’m in it. (And not just the intro — I was there, so I’m in it.) And it’s all true! We survived it all. Barely.

Set your bat-watches, March 15th, one month from now, my memoir will be launched. Am I freaked, um a bit. But mostly I’m proud. –Josh Stallings

In honor of all the crazy people we’ve dated in our lives (I was just thinking of this after comment-trading with Rook R.M. McNamara) and in some cases married (for me, my first marriage, for my wife, her current one) and because it’s now officially Valentine’s Day…

“Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man” – Till The Clouds Roll By (HD Print)

“Hey we just met you, and this is crazy, but you like short folks, so call us maybe…”

I love all of God’s children (and I’m even fond of my own) but I never friend anyone on recommendation. On the other hand, I friend everyone who requests it. Until they piss me off. Then I still love them, but from farther away.

“You’d think the red cape, the big red “S” on my chest, and the ability to fly would have given me some kind of clue, but no! I’ve got nothing!”

The Dorner case reminds me very much of the Mark Essex tragedy in 1973, another young black man who had been part of the system until he felt that the system had singled him out for abuse. In his case it also resulted in a grudge against cops and had similarly dreadful, murderous results.

I have no doubts that there is vast corruption and racism in the LA police department. That’s been established for years, and has been true for decades and decades. To me, although that helps me understand the frustration of a Dorner, and even to sympathize in some small way, as I would sympathize with any abused child who grows up to be a serial killer, it still does not excuse the act. Because law, however faulty, is the only thing that saves us from the open rule of might-makes-right.

Everybody’s truth is slightly different. If we allow everyone to violently enforce their truth on others, we have no civilization. Can we get better at policing others? Oh, hell yes. And need to. But I can’t condone Dorner’s actions.

And this is your brain on dogs — or rather, this is a dog on your brain. Okay, on the outside. Like me, this gentleman has opted for the no-hair look to give his chihuahuas a comfortable perch. I’ve lost track of which of my friends sent me this picture, so don’t hesitate to identify.

Apparently, Facebook has noticed that I went to Add Your College. A very august institution, and the thing that more than anything else, molded me into the man you see today. Ah, good old AYCU. (We got accredited as a university in my fifth or sixth year there.) Our colors were vermilion and cerise, and I remember those Saturday afternoons as though they were yesterday. Oh, roll on, you grand old Fighting Taxidermists!

I am having trouble getting any work done today. It could be the intrusive presence of Real Life. Bitch, go home!

If the Phantom of the Opera had known Voldemort, they could have hung out together and probably would have been much nicer people because of it. They could have started the No-Nose Club and kept everyone else out of it. Well, they probably would have let Michael Jackson in. But otherwise, forget the rest of you. Bulbous bigots.

I don’t even make sense to me any more. Which is okay, I guess, because I actually stopped listening a long time ago.

Since I’m using Mighty Mouse in my profile pic today, I want to know who among you can remember MM’s primary nemesis? No Googling ‘lowed — this is for actual old people or trivia freaks.

Mark Twain said, “Explaining a joke is like dissecting a frog; nothing is learned and a frog is dead.” The kids picked this up from me. I asked my son to explain some gaming-related joke he’d made the other night and afterward he said, “Thanks for making me kill a frog.”

Hamlet: “I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

Hamlet twenty seconds later. “Hey, the wind changed. And why is there a handsaw screeching and flapping its wings and trying to claw my face?”

Thank God for, as I posted earlier, the glow of work accomplished. Because a few seconds later, someone on the internet mentioned pie. I don’t blame them. It’s a good subject. But pie was mentioned and I remembered there was strawberry-rhubarb pie in the refrigerator. So I went there. And pie there was none. I suspect the teenaged boy has inhaled it. And now I cling to life and hope as best I can, because my world is dark and pieless.

A good day’s work, which makes everything a little better. I’ve reached about the 100 page mark on SLEEPING LATE. That wouldn’t matter much if it was just page-count, but since it feels like it’s swinging along, I’m happy. It’s so funny to me that I’m deeply involved wrapping up this trio of connected novels while most people haven’t even seen the second book, but that’s how it is in my business.

It’s also interesting trying to write a character who has to kick a lot of ass, much of it supernatural and crazy-dangerous, but who also has to remain vulnerable, not just emotionally but physically, too, and yet convincingly survive. Okay, it’s genre fiction — semi-convincingly.

Last Bobby D. thought: Some people have commented that the main character is very much like me. I’m sure there are similarities, just because I’m writing in the first person and he comes to me very naturally. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have survived a twentieth of what he goes through in the first book, let alone in Hell in the second, so I think I’d rather be me, thanks.

Jeez, I’m thinking about that and I realize telling everyone that the main character is like me at all is pretty much like saying “Don’t buy my book unless you think you’ll enjoy me yammering at you for hours on end.” I might as well just take out ads saying my books will give you lice.

But I wrote a bunch of pages today. So who cares? Until tomorrow, life is good.

What a day. Stayed up very late last night trying to paint a picture of Asterix on a large piece of cardboard. (Don’t ask.) Drove over the hill to play basketball today, literally ran down the court once and something disturbing happened with the back of my leg, so all that way for twenty-two seconds, plus I’m walking like John Cleese, except he gets paid for it. Then moved furniture. Yes, with a bad leg. (Again, don’t ask.) Then hustled off to see eldest child exhibit the thespic arts, then sat in a coffee shop until about eleven-something while he hung out with his peers post-show. Finally home. Thrashed both children into bed, the fun part of my day begins. Except now I’m too tired to do anything except stare at the screen, and even that feels like work.

Forget it, Tad — it’s Fridaytown.

Cab, his orchestra, and Harold and Fayard Nicholas ripping it up. If this doesn’t make you happy, man, I don’t get you.

Jumpin Jive – Cab Calloway and the Nicholas Brothers

I just received an email advertising Senior Dating. Carbon 14? Or do they just cut off a limb and count the rings?

The cat wants to get onto my lap, which will result in claws and then flying cat. I tried to explain this to him, and urged him to learn from Santayana’s famous dictum on learning from History, but he (the cat, not Santyana) just gave me the old fish-eye and said “Wurrl.” Which I’m pretty sure did not mean, “I’ll certainly strive to remember that, person who feeds me.”

Well what the hell am I supposed to do with Ethelred the Unready? He’s getting a bit gamey.